Near Death Experience

Of a character. On a TV show. That I find infuriating.

Oh, I'm sorry, did you think this was going to be about me? Of course not. I do, in fact, have an announcement to make, but things have been crazy and busy and stressful, and I want to have the time to really sit down and write it out the way I want it. Now is not that time. Now is the time I'm typing this in the smallest window possible so my coworkers don't see that I'm not actually doing work.

Anyway. Spoiler Alert, obviously.

Can we talk for a moment about Grey's Anatomy? Or The Anatomy, as I prefer to call it. Specifically, I want to talk about Meredith and how much I want to watch her die.

I get it. The show has been on for quite some time. You can only really rework a character's storyline so many times. But the fact is, this shit is getting ridiculous. How many near-death experiences can one fictional character have before the show has to acknowledge the fucking absurdity of it and ACTUALLY kill her off? It's like watching fucking Final Destination. I can't even tell you how much I was rooting for her to really die this time.

Do you understand the lengths of absurdity and obnoxiousness this show had to go to, to get me rooting for the TITLE CHARACTER's death? KILL THAT BITCH NOW. I can't even anymore with her. She's not even likeable to begin with, and I'm really sick of the fact that she has the fucking grim reaper on her back at every single season finale.

I mean, I suppose, if they did decide to try to stretch it across a few more seasons, they could find a few more ways for her to almost-die. Maybe in the series finale, the world will end with a Day After Tomorrow-style flood and ice age.  But I fucking swear the last scene would be her doing voice-over about death, and you would see her hand reach out from under a mountain of snow and then they would just cut to black.

Is Meredith Grey the devil? Is she, at the very least, some kind of witch?  Because, bitch, please die already. Nobody even likes you.

Getting Divorced. Also? Laid.

Last Friday I took off of work to go to the courthouse and file my divorce papers. Finally. It's funny now, to think of my mom and others I know, who stayed married for YEARS after they had actually separated, despite there being absolutely no chance of reconciliation.

I couldn't do that. I needed to get back all of me. My dignity, and my independence, and my last name, and my motherfucking mojo. As of now, the only one I'm still waiting on is the last name. Everything else has come back to me, and it feels fucking awesome.

And so I took a day to go about reconciling that last name thing and filing my paperwork and getting this shitstorm over with. My marriage has already lasted far longer than it ever should have anyway. Bad choices, like White Castle hamburgers (is that redundant?), tend to stick around way longer than you ever intended them to.

I was so nervous about filing my paperwork. I don't know why. It seemed like this insurmountable task that I would never get right. I guess though, that feeling of not being able to do anything right when it came to my marriage was sort of an effect of my actual marriage. In reality, I googled and researched and asked my divorced friends and family, and filled out that paperwork like a goddamn champion. And then, despite allotting an entire day to "court things and stuff in case I'm missing something", I was in and out in 15 minutes. And then I got to spend the rest of that day with the guy.

Yeah. So, I started dating this guy. It's been a few months now since we started seeing each other, but I've been hesitant to mention it. Probably, again, residual screwedupness from my marriage. Because I don't want to jinx it. Because I'm afraid if I get too excited or comfortable or happy, something with inevitably screw it up. But you know what? I'm healing from all that bullshit, and this guy is fucking awesome and so I wanted to finally say it. I like a boy and he likes me. And he's great with my kid. And seriously fantastic in bed. So I'm going to say all that shit out loud and not be afraid to ruin it anymore, because everything I say with him isn't wrong or stupid or cause for a fight. I'm pretty fucking happy right now, actually.

After years of being with someone who was so wrong for me, it's a little strange to find someone who feels so right. We clicked immediately. I don't have to be any version of myself with him and that feels so good, I can't even explain it. I'm sure it feels extra good because the last 8 years of my life were spent walking on eggshells or in a screaming match with someone who supposedly loved me, despite seemingly not actually liking anything about me. But this dude? He likes me and he gets me and I can be myself with him.

So there it is. Filing for divorce and gushing about my new boyfriend-type dude in the same post. There you have it. My life is a series of contradictions.

The Indignities of Being a Toddler

I think one of the really interesting things about having a kid is that sometimes I find myself having mini-flashbacks to my own childhood. It's always something small that does it. Caitlyn will do something ridiculous and I'll find myself remembering when I would do that as a child. And wondering why children are so utterly fucking spastic.

There are a few things I've noticed recently that cause Caitlyn great pain. These are things that I do as an adult too, simple, everyday things. Things that I do not fear. That are not even remotely painful. And yet, somehow, my toddler finds them absolutely traumatic to the point of running away when I even suggest that they may happen.

At first I couldn't understand it, but when I really thought about it, I can remember these exact things being horrible as a kid. Daily things I had to survive, despite the pain and indignity of the tasks. And when I think of them now, I can't help but realize that maybe my childhood wasn't quite as hard as I imagined it to be.

Are you ready for this? The list of the things Caitlyn finds to be physically and emotionally torturous? Let's get into it then:

Pooping: Do you remember when pooping was difficult? When it hurt to push out your poops? I guess as an adult my butthole is regulation sized now, so I can't understand it anymore. But for Caitlyn? She hates to poop. She whines and complains that her butt hurts. I regularly find her hiding in a corner, crapping her pants, because pooping on the toilet is simply an indignity she refuses to suffer.

Shampoo Eyes: You guys? Why the fuck won't she just close her eyes when I rinse shampoo out of her hair? I've tried to explain it to her so many times- your eyes WON'T FUCKING HURT IF YOU JUST CLOSE THEM, but she seems rather convinced that if she does close her eyes, I'm just going to splash her face with acid or something. I mean, that's basically the equivalent of rinsing shampoo out of her hair anyway, right?

Getting Stuck in Shirts: Every time I put a shirt on Caitlyn, she freaks out for 10 seconds while I try to thread her giant lightbulb head through the neck hole. I can't help but remember the panic I would go into as a kid when my head would get stuck in a shirt. I was always pretty sure I was about to suffocate at any moment, even though I was never stuck for more than 5 seconds. Also, it occurs to me that this many not be a thing that normal people deal with. The giant head thing runs in my family.

Hair Brushing: There is no indignity Caitlyn is less inclined to suffer through than having her hair brushed. There is running away, and crying, and repeated declarations that she doesn't want to brush her hair. And that's just when she SEES the brush. Once I actually sit her down and try to do it? Sobbing, squirming, and begging me to stop. So fucking dramatic about the hair brushing. Just as I was as a kid.

In summation, kids are fucking weirdos, and extremely dramatic. God, that is a shitty closing sentence.

Shit My Dad Says- Hobo Bill Strikes Again

My dad has officially worn out his welcome with every single member of my family except for me. I mean, he's worn it out with me too, but I'm too nice to show it as blatantly as everyone else does.

In particular, my sister April recently decided that she couldn't deal with him anymore, told him off in spectacular fashion, and ignores him like 90% of the time now. That being said, when she was invited to come visit by our uncle that my dad is currently living with, she decided to make the 2 hour trip to visit our extended family. My dad told me that April would be visiting, and asked if I would come too.

I really didn't want to go. And so, I layered a little bit of truth and a little bit of exaggeration on him. I told him I couldn't really afford the gas and tolls to make the trip. And I couldn't, really. I'm a recently single mother, thank you very much. Sometimes I'm broke.

It got weird when my dad called me a few days later, and then again another couple of days after that, asking about my money situation. If I was okay. If I needed any money. I responded with the verbal equivalent of shrugging my shoulders. "Eh, you know. I'm always broke". The thing about my dad is that he's like Willy Goddamned Wonka in the Chocolate Factory when he has money. And by "has money" I mean, "is currently collecting unemployment even though he hasn't had a real, on-the-books job in like at least 5 fucking years, wait, excuse me? Why the fuck do you get to collect unemployment, because you just almost turned me into a Republican when you said that?". He gets all manic and jolly, but with a certain uneasiness where you know the facade could slip away at any moment. But hey, he's there, and he's smiling and he's got lickable wallpaper so I guess it's better than the LSD boat rides he likes to take you on when he's depressed.

Anyway. This past Wednesday he came to visit me after work. He shuffled in and I noticed he was carrying a plastic jar.

Ok. Side bar on the plastic jar. When I say plastic jar, what are you imagining, exactly? Maybe an old water jug, or some sort of Tupperware container? I mean, sure, I didn't give you a hell of a lot of context on "plastic jar", but I feel like those are the sorts of things that are going to pop into your head. What isn't going to pop into your head? THIS:

Yeah. That is a one gallon drum, previously filled with the blue cheese dressing of his former employer. Are you wondering what it's filled with now? Change. Specifically, it contained $142 in an assortment of quarters, dimes, nickels, pennies, and- AND- most importantly, half dollar and dollar coins.

Let me explain. This is not a normal change jar. Even if you put aside the fact that he chose a vat of dressing as his piggy bank, this is not an accumulation of $142 worth of the everyday loose change from his pockets over the course of a few months. No.

You know how if you offer a young child a choice between a $1 bill and 4 quarters, they will almost always pick the quarters? Because even though the value is the same, the quarters SEEM like more money to them? That is how my dad is. Except that he is turning 60 this year and he's still eternally fascinated by change. He will take his real, grown-ass man paper bills (that he seriously needs to pay his real, grown-ass man neverending debts), and go to the bank and trade them in for change. He will specifically ask for half dollar and dollar coins, because he thinks they are OMGSOCOOLOMG. He will say to the bank teller "Give me as many as you have! I collect coins!" You know the problem with "collecting" coins when you are too poor to live? You run out of money and then you are the fucking weirdo at the Walmart paying for deodorant in change out of a gallon sized jar of salad dressing.

When he started telling me the exact value of each denomination of coins in his jar ("I didn't have anything to do this morning so I counted them"), I started giggling like a maniac at his utter lunacy. Then he showed me his "collection" of $2 bills. In his wallet (where else would he keep a collection of MONEY? Der.). $14 dollars worth of $2 bills. You guys? Math, ok. That is SEVEN $2 bills. That + $50 in quarters = money aficionado right there. He even had another $2 bill at home. I mean, he could have totally just been bragging, but I believe him. People like him don't need to lie about their accomplishments. He even gave one of the $2 bills to Caitlyn, and, I mean, if he was lying about that extra one at home, that would mean he only possessed $12 in $2 bills, and really, what the fuck is THAT? Nothing, peasants. $14 is the minimum to gain notoriety as a collector.

It came to a point where I had to ask (again), "Why, dad. Why do you insist on cashing in your money for change?". Naturally, he had infallible logic on his side, once again:

Dad: You know, those coins can be worth a lot of money

Me: ...

Dad: No really, there's a 1964 blah-blah-donkey-fuck quarter that's worth $2! (I may have paraphrased).

Me: Oh yeah. $1.75 profit. Big money. How many of those do you have, by the way.

Dad: Oh, well, I checked all these quarters and there weren't any.

Me: So none then, collector?

Dad: The $2 bill I have at home is worth $10.

Me: ...

Dad: Some of the half dollars are worth $2 too.

Me: We just discussed this.

Dad: And you know, those silver dollars... you put 10 of those in a sock and carry it around with you. Anyone tries to mess with you, you can smack them in the face with it (you guys. This is not embellishment for the sake of the story. He literally said these words and did not understand for even a moment why they were insane).

Me: Oh dear sweet baby Jesus, save me.

Then he proceeded to dump out his entire jar of change and count it in front of me. When I wouldn't stop mocking his salad dressing jar, he told me his big plan for Christmas. Yes. In fact, his "big plan for Christmas" involves 1 gallon salad dressing jars (JARS- plural). And change. Naturally. He has 4 of them in his car, you see. And he's going to fill them all up with change and wrap them up in paper and a bow, and each of his GROWN ADULT OFFSPRING, WITH JOBS AND GODDAMN BANK ACCOUNTS AND A MODICUM OF NORMALCY DESPITE HIS VERY EXISTENCE, WILL RECEIVE A STINKY JAR FULL OF CHANGE FOR CHRISTMAS. I mean, isn't that the "spirit of the season" everyone always talks about at Christmas? Being broke enough to pay for things in change and then dousing your stress in high fat foods? Yup. Nailed it, dad. Fucking nailed it.

Anyway. Then he told me, since he knows I'm super broke, that I could keep his $142 in change. And you know what? I absolutely fucking kept it.

To Be A "Kid Person"

There are two kinds of people in this world: Kid People and Normal People.

You see, I kind of object to the idea that anyone would say that they just across-the-board LOVE kids. The self-identifiers. The people who say things like "every child is a precious miracle from God". I mean, really,  you like every kid? Have you never met an asshole kid? Because I have. And I definitely don't like them at all.

I mean, some people are more naturally inclined to caring for children. My mom is one of those people. If you asked her, I think she would absolutely say she's a kid person. And she's the one exception that I will make here. Because as much as my mom has a fantastic nature towards kids and the fact that every single child she encounters loves her immediately, I've also heard her express her distaste for certain children. She won't hesitate to call out an ugly baby (I mean, not to the parents, obviously) or an asshole toddler, or a rude 8 year old. She's not absolutely indiscriminate. And she sure as shit doesn't call every little troll-kid a "miracle". My mom understands that some kids are just not going to mesh with her personality, even if MOST of them do.

I guess the thing that bothers me most about the self-identifiers though, is the pressure it puts on people who don't feel the need to try to superbond with every single kid who crosses their path. When you find yourself in the company of that person who tries so hard to be every kid's favorite, proclaiming their love indiscriminately to every slimy, slobbering little stink beast, I suppose you can't help but wonder if there is some fundamental flaw in your genes, some lack of maternal instinct on your part that is stopping you from wanting to hold every child in your arms and tell them they're special.

Here's the thing about maternal instinct though: it's meant for YOUR kid, not someone else's. Not giving any fucks about other people's kids does not mean you don't have it in you to love your own.

Sometimes though, as a non-self-identifier, you will find that you do bond with someone else's kid. You will find that despite all your notions that you probably don't even like kids that much, you actually enjoy spending time with one of them. And it's not just that you like them. Inexplicably, they like you too! They ask to go to your house. They play play-doh with you and laugh at your jokes and think the sun shines out your ass. They think you are awesome even if you can't seem to figure out why.

My point is that sometimes you need the unfiltered view of a two year old to make you see how awesome you are and that you are more than capable of being a good mom some day.

Middle-Aged Retail Employees LOVE It When You Talk To Them About Your Vagina

Sometimes, when you haven't been laid in a while (or when you are only having sex because omg fine, just shut the fuck up about it already), you let some of your grooming habits slide. Eventually though, you get to a point where you realize that your pubes are like 6 inches long and maybe you should do something about that. I had that realization a few weeks ago.

Usually I just shave the lady parts, but I decided I wanted to buy a trimmer. I work in NYC and there are at least 6 drugstores in a 4 block radius, so I expected to find exactly what I wanted rather easily. That was not the case. Apparently, the ladies of this great city prefer their pubic hair trimmers to be fancy, expensive, and much larger than is absolutely necessary (insert dick joke here).

This was clearly not something I needed immediately, so I didn't think much of it. I figured I'd find what I wanted in Jersey one day. Then yesterday I was taking a walk on my lunch break and went outside of my usual 5 block perimeter and came across a CVS I hadn't checked out before. I figured I would see if they had what I wanted.

To my surprise, they did have it. And at just $12, I knew I had finally filled my bush-removing needs. I went to grab it off the hook and realized that I couldn't get it off. The hook had a lock on the end of it.  Have you seen this? I mean, at Walmart in the electronics department, sure. I can understand why they might lock up expensive electronics items. But in CVS? For a $12 pube trimmer? Really?

At that moment, I had to make a choice. I could be embarrassed and refuse to ask for help and walk out. Or I could put on my big girl panties and ask someone to unlock it for me. Because it WAS a CVS, I told myself I would make one loop around the store. In the unlikely event that I found someone who actually worked there, I would ask for help. Right as I completed my loop, as I made my way back to the aisle I started in, an employee appeared before me. In fact, he was in the aisle unlocking a mustache trimmer for some other customer.

I marched up to this middle-aged man and told him I needed him to get something for me. He cheerfully asked "ok, what did you need?". I gestured toward the end of the aisle with the lady products and he followed me there. "This one", I told him. "And thanks for locking up the pube trimmers so I had to ask for help".

He laughed, so I probably only made him a little uncomfortable. On the upside, my pubes aren't 6 inches long anymore.

What the Fuck is Wrong With People?

As I'm sure you have heard, there was a shooting at an elementary school in Connecticut today. Since it just happened a few hours ago, I don't have a lot of the details. Even if I did, I certainly wouldn't want to rehash them here. The truth of the matter is, I want nothing more than to stick my fingers in my ears and repeat "LA-LA-LA-LA I CAN'T HEAR YOU!" any time someone at work (or on my Facebook feed) brings it up.

I'm not trying to minimize the tragedy. I'm not saying I don't care. It's just that this is the sort of thing I can't even being to think about without completely breaking down. My stomach ties itself in knots just reading the headlines for these kinds of stories, let alone the gory details.

The thing is, I lost a child. Obviously I did not lose a Kindergartener who had been the biggest part of my life for years. My loss was much earlier than that, so I won't claim to know how the parents of those children must feel. The thought of their babies, terrified and crying for them in a place they are supposed to be safe... it makes me shake in horror. It makes me want to puke. I can't even imagine how it must make their parents feel, knowing their children lost their lives in such a gruesome, violent manner.

My point is just that things like this hit me differently than they do a lot of other mothers, I think. My Facebook feed is filled with friends, family, and aquaintances talking about how they can't wait to get home and hug their kids. How terrifying it is to think that, even in elementary school, you can't ever be sure that they are safe. The difference for me is that is how I feel all the time.

I feel like it would be absolutely disrespectful to compare my stillborn baby to the children who were tragically gunned down this morning, so I want to be careful to say that I'm really not trying to do that. My point is more the reaction from other parents.

When I lost Nicholas, every drop of "that could never happen to me" left my body. I don't ever doubt how quickly and unexpectedly a tragedy could cross my path. Or Caitlyn's. For the most part, absent of a current, relatable tragedy such as the one that happened today, I think most people fall on the other side of the fence. Most people want to believe statistics. They want to believe that if there is a 98% chance something will never happen, that of course they wouldn't be part of the 2% with the terrible luck.

During my pregnancy with Caitlyn, I had an overlap with both of my sister's pregnancies as well. April was near the end of her pregnancy when I got pregnant, and Samantha had just found out she was a few weeks before I did. My loss was certainly on everyone's mind, because it was just 6 months prior. In fact, April was already a few months pregnant when I lost Nicholas. They never talked to me about their fears for their own children, but my mom told me not too long ago that they were both terrified. "That will never happen to me" just hit a little too close to home.

I wonder though, if now, years after the fact, they still have the same fears I do. I mean, every parent worries for the safety of their child, but i think I do to an excessive degree. I never feel 100% sure that I'll see Caitlyn again. Every time I strap her into her carseat, I kiss her goodbye. Just in case we are in a terrible car accident and she doesn't make it, I want her to know she is loved. Even when she is being difficult and crying and fighting me while I try to strap her in, I give her a kiss and tell her I love her. About half the time in the mornings, I wake up and think to myself "she's sleeping too soundly. Did she suffocate in her sleep?". On the rare occasions when I make plans without her, I always find myself fearing that something will happen to her before I return, and I'll have squandered my last precious hours that could have been spent with her doing selfish, unimportant shit.

Sometimes I have to tell myself that I'm being obsessive, or that she will almost definitely be fine. I have to remind myself that my sanity and my ability to be a good mother to her depends on occasionally giving myself a break. But I never, ever tell myself that something could never happen. Unfortunately, the older she gets, the more there are outside influences in play. I'm surprisingly not a crazy overprotective mom, but I mostly attribute that to the fact that my own mom never stopped me from doing things I wanted to do and always trusted and encouraged me. I know when it comes to decision-making, she will be trusted and trustworthy. It's all the stuff outside of both of our control that utterly terrifies me.

Ironically, Caitlyn had her first taste of preschool today. Our babysitter's son celebrated his 4th birthday today and his preschool allowed Caitlyn to stick around and join in the festivities. It was very nice of them, and I got a bunch of very cute, very big girl schmoozing with the other big kids pictures sent to my phone. It made me a little excited to see her so very ready for the next step that will eventually come, but also a little sad to see her embracing such a big step without me. And then all hell broke loose and I had to breathe and type and try not to cry at my computer.