Category Archives: family

The End of 2012…Thank God.

This year has been a tough one.  A really tough one.

I could sit here and rehash it all, but I am not going to.  There’s been a lot of loss this year, both in the physical and emotional sense.  It’s been a tough one, I’m not going to lie.  It seems to happen every other year or so, which still makes me more fortunate than most, but definitely not as good as others.

But yes, this was a hard one.  I could barely catch my breath from one tragedy before there was another.  It just seemed to run, non stop, in waves.  My stress and frustration levels were at all time highs for most of this year, especially the latter portion, from July forward til now.

Things aren’t perfect.  They never will be, nor do I expect them to be.  I just want it to slow down some. Allow me to breathe a bit.  Throw the curve balls a bit more slowly this year.  Give me a chance to recover from one thing before you hit me with the next.  I am only human and while my shoulders are broad and my back is strong, there is only so much pain one person can take at a time. 

Yet, I always feel that the new year should not necessarily be a time to reflect back. I am a firm believe that old acquaintance SHOULD be forgotten and never brought to mind.  It’s the past.  There’s nothing you can do about it save to learn from it and move forward.  I am not the same woman I was five years ago, five months ago or even five minutes ago.  We are all works in progress, constantly evolving, growing and changing. 

I was trying to think of what my key word for 2013 would be; the word that I would think to when trying to plan my life course for this year.  Last year, it was “promise”.  I made some promises to myself and for the most part, I kept them.  These are not the same as resolutions, which I feel are silly contracts we make with ourselves and usually, they are preordained to fail.  My key word is just a reminder to hold certain things dear to me.  The promise of happiness.  The promise of extracting the negativity from my life path.  The promise to remember that tomorrow is another day and all the disasters of one day don’t necessarily carry over into the next. 

This years word is “transform”.  There are a few things that I would like to transform about myself, but I would not be so bold as to make myself promises I don’t intend to keep in the form of those horrible resolutions.  The root word of resolution is resolve and let’s face it, sometimes the resolve just isn’t there.  We are stronger some days than others.  It is widely believed that if you make a resolution and then, fall prey to the opposite of whatever it is you resolved to do, you have failed.

I, for one, am not about to set myself up for failure. 

So, transform for me, will be a slow process of change.  Changing the things that I CAN change while knowing that certain things will always be out of my control.  I can transform how I choose to react to things and not feel as though I have failed if my transformation does not immediately become a learned behavior.  I am going to take it easier on myself this year.  I am not going to cause myself hurt, pain or anxiety.  I have had quite enough of those self destructive passages in previous years.  I have extracted most of the people who cause my mind agony from my life.  While a few still litter the wall of my Facebook page, they are not there in copious amounts any longer…and the “delete” button remains a close few inches away from my fingertips should I need it.

What I won’t transform, however, are the things that others may perceive as my flaws. I will NOT transform my personality.  I am brash, crude, sometimes obnoxious, definitely crass…but it walks hand in hand with something else that I am and that is well intentioned.  I don’t mean harm.  And, when I cause it, I am also versed in the art of apology.  I have discovered long ago that a weak person does not apologize.  An even weaker person will not accept them.  This is not to mean that if I accept your apology, that I still choose to associate with you or keep you in my life.  I have only chosen to forgive your transgression.  Be grateful.

In the days of old, most transgressions of others would have landed you with a five knuckled greeting to your jawbone.  I have “evolved”, which I believe was my word of 2008 or so.  Maybe 2009.

In closing, new year, but not necessarily new me.  Just some “transforming” to do.  A little housecleaning in the spiritual sense.   Some adjustments to make as I get closer and closer to the person that I want to be.  Baby steps have gotten me through the first 46 years of my life, so I don’t suppose I will be making any giant leaps any time soon.  Change should come slowly…not like a huge 20 foot wave crashing in on you, but rather, a little trickling of water through the rocks and stones of a constantly running stream.  It should come slowly, gently, softly.  Resolutions, to me, are those 20 foot crashing waves.  Some survive them.  Some don’t. 

I’m not willing to find out the hard way.

Happy New Year to all of you.  May lucky number 2013 bring you all the joy and peace that you could possibly handle…and then some.

And, in keeping with tradition of blog posts gone by, I leave you with this:

Tradition started the first year I blogged, December 2005.  Why stop now?

Peace.

Focus 52: "May Flowers"

No.  Really.  No “May Flowers.” 

Did you all truly think I was kidding last week?

Here’s your “May Flower.”  Deal with it. 

I am too delirious right now to comprise a post.   Do you want suckage…or would you rather have me back, fully rested and raring to go? 

Yes, that’s what I thought.  So um, in the meantime…hope all you Momsicles out there had a Happy Mother’s Day.  I personally got $100 in DSW gift certificates which is the retail equivalent of 5 orgasms.  So, happy shoe shopping for me.  Got PJ’s.  Got jewelry.  Got candles.  Got flowers. (yes, I could have taken a photo of those for “May Flowers” and been perfectly safe in doing so.  So what?  I just thought of that just now…and NOW, I am pressed for time.  Fuck it.)  Got Glee CD’s and DVD’s.  Got gift certificates for Ross.  Got a big damn fat assed cake. 

Most of all, I got laid.  Awesomely, supremely laid.  The Hotband busted out some moves, circa us…1999.  Threw down the PIPE, dudes.  Rocked it out.  Word!  And that is what got me into this whole “Mother’s Day” mess in the first place…so I suppose there is some poetic justice in that. 

Just would have been nice to have had some new shoes up on his shoulders.

Ah well, that’s what next weekend is for.

Overall, a nice weekend that included my baby boy, my big girl, my son in law, and my grandbabies.  Truthfully, what more could a girl want?

Well, shoes…but again, that’s what next weekend is for.  Oh, and another Israeli missile lodged in my bunker of love.  And THAT, is what right now is for…which is why you got this lame ass post.

I do have priorities you know.

Peace, Bitches.  xoxo

Focus 52: "Aged"

The sultry redheaded, Raquel Welch lookalike you see in that yellow car next to the little girl…is my mother.  Well, it is my mother circa 1975.  The chubby kid with the stringy hair flying all over the place?  That’s me.

This photograph was taken at Disney World in 1975 by some guy who was dating my mother at the time.  I know he who was, I just don’t care to talk about him.  Any way, the reason for this photo is to remind myself that, once upon a time, my mother was a very vibrant and alive person.  She used to have fun.  She used to allow herself to let her hair down and enjoy herself. 

It was very difficult being her daughter once upon a time.  She was a traffic stopping beauty.  Literally.  Men would get out of their cars in Midtown Manhattan just to watch her walk by.  And of course there would be chubby me, braces, glasses, stringy hair and the occasional zit huffing and puffing alongside her, trying to keep up with her long-legged stride.  I remember distinctly the catcalls.  Men would hoot and holler at her as she would walk by.  She would just toss a playful glance over her shoulder, wave in a coy fashion and then, look down at me. 

“Men are very silly creatures, CP,” she would say.  “You will find out just how ridiculous they can be, once your boobs fill in.”

Then, she would laugh which in turn, would make me laugh.  I was always in awe of her though.  She was incredibly beautiful, very smart, a savvy businesswoman and never lacking for a boyfriend who would wine her and dine her.   She always made them pay for a babysitter.  (“If he wants to take you out, CP…you make sure he takes care of your kids, too.  If he wants to see you that badly, he will have no issue with that.”)  She would make them pick up a pizza or some Burger King for me and my brother. (“If I am going to go out with you tonight, I don’t have time to cook for my kids.  Bring them over some take out.”)  And, very rarely did she let these guys into our apartment after they would drop her off from a date. (“Don’t give away the milk, CP.  Always let them buy the cow.”) 

I never really got what that last one meant, because she said it all ass backwards all the time.

Anyway, watching her grow up as a single woman in the 70’s helped me to grow up somewhat cool, confident and self assured.  My mother was far from the best mom on the planet.  She had her issues, for sure.  But, what she did do was give me little life lessons all the way through, reminding me that while I may not look a certain way now, at 9 years old, I would have the rest of my life to grow into the woman I want to be.  Don’t rush it.  Don’t push it.  Stay a kid as long as you can…because you get to be a woman for the rest of your life.

She made me a very confident woman.  While my friends were struggling with their self-esteem, mine was large enough to require me to sleep in a double bed just to accommodate my ego.  While my girlfriends were always worried about being too fat, too thin, too short, too tall…those things never entered my universe.  I was always very confident, very self assured and well, perhaps a little full of myself.  I think my personality came from trying to emulate that woman that I would walk alongside in Midtown Manhattan.  She always looked like she was on stage, performing for the masses.  She walked like a supermodel–chin lifted, eyes up, that red mane of her blowing in the breeze.  She would toss her hair around now and then, raise her face up to the sun and smile.  She was brimming with self assurance and I was dying to play that role. 

I played it so well…that I became it. And now, it is who I am.  Self assured, confident, loving myself, my body and my life despite its flaws. 

So, why this picture for the Focus 52: “Aged” prompt? 

Because, I am now the age my mother was then.  I have aged.  She has aged.  The memory has aged.  This photograph has aged. 

This past weekend, we were all on a cruise ship together.  She scarcely wanted to do anything or go anywhere.  She was so tired all the time.  Worn out.  Her confident strut turned into a little more than a limp and a shuffle when she walked.  During the trip, she took notice of my 5 inch high heels and shook her head.  She said to me, “You are so funny, the way you strut instead of walk.  You look like a supermodel when you walk…like you are running the show.”

And I couldn’t help but laugh to myself…and wonder, if she only knew that my training in life came from running with short little legs alongside my beautiful red haired mother on the hard concrete streets of Midtown Manhattan, all those years ago. 

Barely out of Tuesday…

 

Sometimes, I find a song that touches me in a pretty profound way.  There are days that I listen to it and think “this is a great song” and then, the same song on another day takes on a completely different meaning. Today on Facebook, Adam Duritz of Counting Crows posted up his song “Barely Out of Tuesday”.  This particular song is not new to diehard Crows fans.  It’s a song that never made it onto any of their albums which is a damn shame.  Yesterday, I was under an enormous amount of stress and seeing as it is about 4am right now…and I am barely out of tuesday myself, I thought I would share it. 

Relative to nothing I have said thus far, I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew this semester.  I am taking an algebra course, an intermediate algebra course.  I have managed to get through many years of college and test out of having to take math courses.  This time, I was not so lucky.  As a pre-requisite to getting into the Bachelor’s program I am looking to get into this fall, statistics is required.  I’m not concerned about that because statistics really have very little to do with actual numbers.  However, this algebra course is required to be able to get into the stats class.  So, my suave manipulations of the system will not get me out of this one this time.  I suppose the luck had to run out eventually.  I probably did myself a grave disservice by not taking the intermediate course directly after taking the “pre” and “elementary” courses that preceded it.  Now it is eight years post degree and I have very little recollection of the “order of operations” or “distributive properties”, “associative properties” or “inverse/reciprocal properties”.   I did a lot of research on “Rate My Professor” type websites before settling on this particular teacher.  I knew I was going to need my hand held on this one and by all accounts, she is just that type of professor.  She allows scientific calculators in class.  She allows you to do your homework over and over again online until you max out your score with a perfect grade.  She even allows you to bring a “crib sheet” with notes into her exams.  One page only, handwritten notes.  “You write small enough, you can probably fit everything I teach you onto your study guide,” as she calls it.  “Write too big though and too bad.  You lose.”  Okay.  Fair enough.  Actually, well beyond fair and with a six point font type of handwriting, I can really make this work in my favor. 

However, she did stress that you, the student, will only get out of the class what you put into it.  “Don’t bother to open a book until test day and your grade will reflect that,” she said. “Study for at least one hour every day and you will do just fine.”

By nature, I am a procrastinator.  I am also one of those really cocky students that truly believes she works best under pressure and at the last minute.  Math, I think, will be the end to this notion and probably the end to my perfect GPA as well.  On Thursday, after class, I told the Hotband that I am going to just “relax” for the night and give myself Friday off as well.  Since it’s a long weekend, I will have Saturday, Sunday and Monday to do homework. 

Best. Laid. Plans. 

I do nothing on Friday.  Nothing. Don’t even crack open a book to do some reading in Applied Ethics or my humanities course.  Why bother? I have this nice long three day weekend.  I have all the time in the world.  I have more than an ample window in which to get all my work done.  I have…

food poisoning. 

Friday night, my hubs ordered in from our favorite italian place.  Normally, I just have some pasta and meatballs.  This time I thought it would be nice to try their eggplant.  As I was eating it, I thought it tasted peculiar to me.  My husband tasted it.  He said it didn’t taste strange to him, so I just assumed it was me and continued to eat it.  Halfway through the dish, I decided that I really was not enjoying this meal at all.  It still tasted odd and a bit sour even.  About five hours later…I was vomiting my guts up.  At one point, I vomited so hard that the content of my bladder erupted.  Seeing as my face was occupying the bowl, I could barely swing my fat ass around in time to find the hole on which to set it upon.  My husband walks in to find me covered in puke from trying to twist around in time to pee in the bowl…and sitting in a puddle of my own urine.  I was shivering, felt like my body was ice cold while simultaneously sweating from every pore.  My husband helped me get up, clean myself up, change into fresh pajamas and sent me to bed.  Bed…where I proceeded to stay for the next 32 hours, completely obliterating Saturday as an option for homework and studying. 

I finally awoke on Sunday around 2pm, feeling like utter shit…like I had been hit by a bus.  I had a throbbing headache.  So, the hubs being the angel baby that he is, set me up in style.  A bunch of pillows, fresh t shirt and undies and some warm socks.  A nice cold glass of water on the nightstand.  Remote in my right hand, cellphone in my left.  My laptop plugged in so I could blog, facebook and tweet during the Jets game, the Golden Globes and of course, The Real Housewives of Atlanta.  I was in social networking heaven.  He also bought me a slew of gorgeous gourmet cupcakes for me to devour once I was feeling better.

Hello, lovers…nom nom nom.
 
Friday, Saturday, Sunday.  All gone.  No studying done.  Monday arrives.  I feel like ass, but able to get out of bed finally.  When I do, I am greeted by my son who apparently arrived at my house at some point over the weekend.  I was so sick, I scarcely knew he was there.  He was all like “Hey Mom, how are you feeling?  Good?  Great.  Remember you said you would dye my hair for me this weekend?  Remember?  Remember that?  Well, it’s Monday already and…and…and…”
 
“And you would like me to color your hair now.”
 
“Yeah.  Can you?”
 
“Yes.  What do you want done?”
 
“I want my hair blue.”
 
“Blue hair,” I reply.  “All of it blue or just certain spot blue or a blue streak?  What are we talking about here?”
 
“All of it.  Blue!”  
 
I sigh.  But, it is his hair. He is fifteen. If he wants to look like a smurf, who am I to stop that?  I schlep myself out of the house to do some errands I had thought could be done at any time over the weekend, you know, because it was a LONG weekend after all and I had all the time in the world, right?  So, I go to where my daughter works and buy some boobie car covers (also known as bras).  Hey, buy two get two free?  Bras in my size run about $40 a pop, so buying two to get two free is a deal that I would get out of bed for.  Then, of course, since Ross is right next door and they do their shoe/purse restocking on Mondays…well, I can’t let a perfectly good “get out of bed when you’re sick” errand run go to waste right?  Cute Jessica Simpson pumps.  Adorable Guess slingbacks.  Mine.  Productive.  Next.  Over to Office Depot because I need graph paper, a scientific calculator, some pencils and some folders.  All of this for my math class which equates to, in my mind, doing something productive in math for the weekend. There we go.  Guilt of doing nothing, alleviated with one quick trip to Office Depot.  Salvation in the form of a Texas Instrument calculator…oh, and the purchase of a really cute pink stapler.  Because, every princess should have a pink stapler on her desk, right?
 
Final stop? CVS.  After mulling over all the possibilities… we decided on a nice electric blue which, best case scenario, will look like deep blue highlights over his black/brown hair.  Worst case scenario?  The boy will look like Cookie Monster.  
 I know you have some cupcakes too, bitch! I saw them. Now where are they???
 
Well, long story made real short (I’ll make the long story longer in a separate blog post that includes pictures), I ended up stripping my sons hair of its natural color, leaving him with bright. orange. streaks.  all over his pretty, mop top of curls.  Yeah.  There’s a reason I never became a professional hair dresser.  He takes a look at it. He stares at it.  I assure him that when I add the blue, it will cover up all that bright, light orange and…
 
“I LOVE IT!  IT LOOKS SO AWESOME!!!!”
 
“Seriously,” I ask incredulously.
 
“Holy crap, it’s AWESOME,” he exclaims again.  “Forget the blue stuff.  I’m keeping it like this.”
 
“Nick, honey,” I say, “It looks like I dropped a bucket of Clorox on your head from a really high place or something.  It’s just a big…splat…all over your head.”
 
“Dude, it is SO cool.  Thank you, Mommy!”  He gives me a big hug and dashes out of the bathroom, presumably to jump right on Facebook and let the world know that he know looks like a damn tiger.
 
So, how does this all relate to my earlier complaint about not getting to do any of my math homework this entire weekend?  Well, simply…it doesn’t.  While I didn’t enjoy being sick and definitely did not enjoy the uncomfortable feeling that accompanied not being fully prepared for my algebra class this evening, the full out, painful belly laughs that I shared with my son and husband Monday night were entirely worth it.  
 
Here I now sit, a mere 4 hours and 40 minutes into Wednesday or, as the song says, barely out of tuesday.  And I think I am willing to forgive myself this for the lack of drive or effort in completing my schoolwork.  If nothing else, this past Monday night showed me what most of us have known all along.  Family first and foremost, always.  If it means getting one little goose egg for a grade due to lack of homework preparation, so be it.  The moments that I spend with the kid and the hubs made that zero worth while…
 
and if you do the math, Happy Family – Algebra Homework + Digital Camera = Lifetime Memories.
 
I think I made the grade.   
 
 

I have to vent…

Okay, so Xmas is over. Finally. I have to admit that I absolutely hate this holiday. I think it is so commercialized and total bullshit. And, before anyone says it, it has nothing to do with being a Jew. I hate Channukah equally as much. Actually, I hate any holiday that demands you send cards, flowers, candy, presents and is lead by retail corporations and card companies. This includes Valentines Day as well. Garbage. You shouldn’t have one day a year to tell the person that you love how you feel about them. Just the same way that I hate the entire “Jesus is the reason for the season” crapola. Jesus is not the reason for the season. If you knew anything about Jesus at all, you would probably know that he would be positively appalled by all the gift giving and all the excessive purchasing that we do for our families. The man was rooted in the theory of “good works” as opposed to things. You want to celebrate Christmas? DO something. Feed the homeless. Clothe a child who has nothing. Adopt a child from another country through a Unicef type program and spend the damn twenty bucks to take care of them all month long. $240 a year will keep a child who is in a poverty stricken situation in clothes, in school, well fed and vaccinated against simple diseases that no child should ever die from. Volunteer. Go to a nursing home and read to the elderly. My kids know I have a die hard policy about donating their things to kids who are less fortunate before I buy you one single thing. I don’t exchange xmas presents with my husband for just that reason. We simply don’t believe in it. I bought my grandkids 3 toys each and two outfits. That’s it. Nothing crazy or excessive. Hubs and I spend our gift money on one another donating to St. Jude’s children’s hospital, the pediatric AIDS foundation, the American Cancer Society, etc. I’m not being holier than thou…I just believe that good works trumps good presents every time. I think that Xmas/Channukah should be about the kids, so I don’t really do the whole gift giving thing for the adults in my family. None of my siblings, parents, in laws, etc got presents from me. They know better than to expect it. I will sooner make donations to charity organizations in their names then send them a gift. My two exceptions this year were sending a gift basket of chocolatey yum yum red velvet cupcakes to friends who have been very supportive of the hotband and I this year. The other was to buy my bestie a dress that was absolutely screaming her name. I knew she would look beautiful in it and I wanted her to have it. She is always there for me and while I know damn well I don’t have to buy her anything to let her know how loved she is, I wanted her to have this particular item. It wasn’t expensive…but I knew she would be beautiful in it and she deserves that.

Okay, end that rant. So not what I wanted to vent about.

What I wanted to get out of my system is how seething mad I am at my sister in law. Ever since coming home from Israel, she has treated me like utter shit or rather, worse than usual. You would think that after 11 years of being with her brother, I have more than proven myself to be a good and loving wife to him. She should be happy about that, but no. Always an attitude. Well, in the past 3 months, she has managed to A) Not show up to my granddaughter’s birthday party because she went to a baby shower of a friend of a friend, B) Completely ignored my sons birthday and now, C) opted out of spending Christmas dinner with us because she went to her friends house instead.

Mind you, this is the same woman who used to torture my husband for all the time he was spending with me when he and I were first dating. She used to harass him about how I was consuming his whole life and how he was blowing off his “real family” to be with me and my kids. Well, good morning…but it’s 11 years later. I think we have pretty well established that I wasn’t some fling he was just blowing off his “real family” for. When her marriage collapsed, my hubs and I were there for her completely. Absolutely supportive of her and her endeavors. Whenever she needs someone to watch her son, we are there for her. We invite her and whoever she may be dating that particular month to anything we have. She is never excluded. Yet, she manages to keep herself at bay when it comes to me and my kids.

Admittedly, I used to blame my husband for this. I told him, why on earth would she think YOUR kids are important to you if you allow her to continue this behavior of not acknowledging them at all? But now, it’s gotten to the point where HE is upset by it. I used to tell him how shitty I thought it was that his family doesn’t acknowledge my kids. Hotband has raised Nick and Sam since they were 4 and 12 years old respectively. They are now 15 and 23, for God’s sake. I think it is pretty well established that he loves those kids as if they were conceived from his own loins. We don’t ever not acknowledge her son. That’s my husbands nephew…and I love him just as much as if he were my very own son. When my granddaughter had her birthday party…she simply never showed up for it. No call, no text, nothing. Then, this past October, my son had a small birthday party at a Go Kart track. He invited his cousin, my sister in laws son. He showed up without so much as a card (not his fault, entirely my sister in laws fault). If my son had been a friend of my nephews from school, she wouldn’t have dared to send her son without a gift or a card. So, my husband *finally* worked up the balls to say to her…”Hey, what you did was kind of rude”. First words out of her mouth? “Did your wife put you up to this?” Yeah. My fault. *eye roll* Because my husband couldn’t possibly feel a little slighted that his family STILL doesn’t bother to acknowledge my children as OUR children. I had to laugh at that.

Another example of her shittiness? We flew all the way to Israel for her sons Bar Mitzvah. Nearly five grand in flights and food, etc. PLUS we gave him a gift of well over $200. In the Jewish tradition…the number 18 signifies long life. So, we gave him $18 for every year of his life. He was turning 13, a huge occasion in a Jewish boys life. We gave him $234 cash. Not so much as a thank you from her. Okay, whatever. But the kicker for me? My parents, who are not related to her or my nephew, sent my nephew a check for his bar mitzvah. I thought that was a really nice gesture on their part. They certainly didn’t have to do that. Does she have him call and thank them? No. Can’t be bothered. One month goes by. Two months go by. THREE months go by. Finally, one day, she asked if we could watch her son. As always, we did…and I told my husband to make sure that my nephew CALLS MY PARENTS and thanks them for the gift. It took my husband having to make that phone call for my parents to receive a thank you. I think that’s absolutely disgusting, tacky and tasteless.

Anyway, back to Christmas. My daughter invited her to Christmas dinner. It’s a big deal for Sammi. She and her husband made this big, beautiful dinner for us and the kids. She extended the invitation to her “aunt” to join us. She writes on Facebook that she didn’t know what time dinner was. So, my son in law writes back that it is between 7 and 7:30. No show. No call. No text. No FB message. Nothing. I figure, maybe she decided just to stay home and be alone. Later on FB, I see a photo of her with her on again/off again boyfriend at the home of a friend, enjoying Xmas with them. Wow. Really? She never even called her own brother to wish him a Merry Christmas/Channukah. My husband is so hurt and upset by her actions…but he for some reason, refuses to confront her. Maybe because of something she said to him a LONG time ago. She once told him that if he chose me over her, she would disown him as her brother. I think that stuck in his head and is now afraid of losing his relationship with her. I couldn’t fathom telling my brother that and my bro and I aren’t even remotely as close as my hubs and his sister are/were.

I don’t really know where this post is going. I suppose that I chose to blog this instead of writing her a very confrontational letter. I am so sick and tired of this shit. The only thing I can think of is that she is avoiding us because she owes us a pretty large sum of money. Of course, that would be utterly ridiculous. We borrowed a few grand from her a long time ago when things were lean for us so it’s not like she should be ashamed of needing the help from us. For God’s sake, we are family. Isn’t that what family is supposed to be about? Being able to lean on one another when things get hard?

Look, I don’t care if she hates me. I have tried to reach out to her in every single way possible. She’s made it blatantly obvious she doesn’t care for me as a person…but what on earth does that have to do with the kids? Moreover, what kind of human being shows such blatant disrespect for their brothers children? My kids are my husbands children. He loves them desperately. No different than if we bore them together, or if he had adopted them with me. But, I suppose since they weren’t crafted from his semen that they just don’t matter to her. My husband was in the delivery room when his grandbabies were born. He witnessed both their births. He loves those kids. I know he is hurting over this. I try to refrain from saying anything to him about it, but I know he was really hurt that she didn’t show up tonight. I want so badly to call her up and say, “look bitch, hate me all you want…but you are killing your brother’s heart.”

The whole situation is just so fucking sad. 11 years later. You would think that she would realize that my husband and I are in this for the long haul. You would think she would care more. I don’t know what else to do or say without causing some irreversible damage. I have held my tongue til it literally bled. I don’t know how much longer I can do so…but for my husbands sake, I will make the effort.

In conclusion? Family sucks.