But – I wrote two stories today. One (Running With Scissors) that I entered into a competition (vote for me if you would be so kind!) and another that I just felt like writing because the first one had come so easily.

Funny I’m finding them quite easy. And rather satisfying. It was kind of weird because I decided a little while ago that one of my new characters would write shorts as a hobby.

I think I’m practicing for her…

It’s unsettling how the quiet of an empty labour room can seep into your psyche. The monotonous tick of the overhead clock seems so unrelated to the agony of moments before. Four sixteen, it tells me. You had your baby at four sixteen.

There’s not even enough blood left to make me feel that this particular clock is truthful. It is only the ache down there where the doctor cut me to make sure my child had no struggle in coming out which insists that something else has happened.

At seven a.m. I woke to strange pains. I bathed and stroked my seven-month-old stomach in an attempt to soothe them. And yet they did not go away.

At nine a.m. I called my mother to let her know that I thought there might be a possibility that something was wrong. She fetched me to take me “home”. At home she would keep an eye on me and be a calming presence. And yet the pains did not go away.

They chose rather to taunt me with questions of uncertainty and the difference between sanity and imagination.

At ten a.m. I discovered the show of blood. Although it looked something closer to the result of sneezing after picking open a pimple on the inside of your nose.

At 10:05 I called the doctor. At 10:06 I handed the phone to my mother because I no longer had a voice.

At 10:35 a nurse took my blood pressure and confirmed labour.

Don’t worry, said the doctor, your baby is “viable”. But they were going to try and stop the labour anyway. But it’s “ok” – I have a viable baby….

Needle after needle. Question after question. Fighting the drug-induced sleep.

And then the pain came. Never do you expect that a trip to the bathroom may result in mind-searing agony. Why only seconds before I had even smiled at the sight of Mother on waking!

A dash in a wheelchair. An arm-up onto a bed too high for people in pain. Breaking water. And the doctor nearly missed it all while his nursing staff took turns cursing the screams and encouraging the bravery. You’re such a brave girl (as if they don’t watch people do this every day).

A flash of my child, too quick for me to take in. They whisked him away. To keep him warm. To give him hope. To make him live.

So I was left alone. The bustle gone as quickly as it had arrived. And with its unbearable loneliness arrived the overpowering stench of hospital cleanliness.

As I lay there I tried to focus on the sound of the clock tick tick ticking in time to the beat of my heart, only to have it pierced by the phone in the side pouch of my handbag, nestled snugly on a corner chair far out of my reach.

I knew its message though. It was to be the first of the well wishers.

Congratulations on the birth of your baby boy.

You fucked up really well today.

My own childhood I remember clearly. Possibly every single part of it from when I was about four years old. All the emotions, the friendships, how I occupied my time, my relationship with my siblings, my teachers, my church – I remember all of it pretty damn well. Which is kind of why my kids sometimes make me go “wtf?!” – because I was so different as a kid.

As I go along I am learning things – things I would rather not know. The school systems are a wreck. Teachers seem to have adopted Ritalin as their coping mechanism and easily bully uneducated parents into drugging their children. Somewhere along the line the education system changed and kids are no longer even able to do their homework on their own. So as parents not only do we have our own jobs to do but we have to do the jobs of our children’s teachers as well. Also a bunch of ridiculously useless but costly “requirements” have popped up.  Occupational Therapy. Seriously. What the hell!! I’m not even kidding when I tell you that I’m considering home schooling my kid.

Apparently one thing has stayed the same though – assholes still reign supreme on the playground. And STILL nothing is ever done about it.

My baby girl woke up crying this morning because she misses her mom. In telling me this my fiancé admitted to me that both she and her brother are being bothered at their aftercare by the older kids. The strain is starting to show.

Now most of the time I walk around utterly confused by these kids. I don’t always know what to do with them or how to respond to particular situations and it does make me question myself as a step mom. But it’s in times like this that I really do feel like their “other mother” because my god the momma bear in me is pissed as hell today. And I could quite easily go on the rampage.

But then what? What do I do really? Because though most of the time I am happy with the “it will sort itself out as things settle down” approach (because this has proved itself true thus far in the blending of two families) in this particular situation I KNOW that is not true. Bullies don’t go away. They just get bigger and uglier and more intimidating.

So what do I do? Do I speak to teachers? The same teachers who are trying to pump my kid full of drugs? The same teachers who are quite possibly the same as MY teachers used to be and like being “in” with the cool kids? Do I speak to them? Or do I speak to the parents?  Parents who were quite likely bullies themselves as kids and are beyond the intelligence needed to see that it’s not just a case of “kids being kids”. Or do I talk to the kid himself? And risk making my child’s life even worse?

Ty has told Tom to bully his bully back. But Tom is not an asshole and that’s just not going to work. Tom is a beautiful kid and, while he has his odd moments of frustration which he sometimes takes out on his sister, for the most part he is not a jerk. He’s just a sweet people-pleasing kid. Its it fair that he has to change just so that other kids won’t harass him?

The thing is I know that the “grown-up” response to bullying is to ignore it and let the kid figure out how to deal with it on his or her own. This is supposed to “build character”. What a load of bullshit. Would you like me to tell you what it builds? It builds beautiful talented special people who have absolutely no idea what they have to offer. It builds grownups who spend years trying to pick up the pieces of shattered insecurities that should never have existed in the first place. It builds irreparable hurt and hatred and self doubt. And it builds the most crippling self loathing.

Now you tell me that running over your kid with my car is the wrong thing to do…

Last week I started a new writers club. Although that’s not quite the fair way to put it. A few conversations with some fabulous people lead to the start of this writers club – it wasn’t all me. But I did perhaps bully everyone into making it happen properly.

The thing is though for the first time in so long I kind of had giddy butterflies again. Those damn things are so fragile and they never stay for long. Life gets in the way of the things you love so easily. Family. Money. Friends. They all take up that precious time that you should be using for something for you. That sounds terrible I know – but I’m not really talking time spent with people here – I’m more talking time spent on guilt. And worry. I feel guilty that I don’t see my friends as often as I should. I feel guilty that perhaps I should be spending much better quality time with my kid. And I worry every single time I look at my damn bank balance.

And then I spend a hell of a lot of time hating myself for not writing. So – starting a writers club took that “you’re not a writer you’re not writing” nya nya nya nya nya nag out of my head. What a relief. What a pleasure. What a reason to smile.

There was one other thing though. I keep saying how I don’t like to talk about God because I am always worried that people will not understand. Sometimes I kind of think (not inaccurately I hope!) that if there is in fact godliness present people will see it anyway – even if they don’t perhaps recognize it.

But last year I was given (yes – I do believe he was given to me and I did not find him on my own) a man who somehow made up for every broken heart I have ever had. For every bad experience, every disappointment and every outright tragedy. He erased them. And even though stupid insecurities do tend to crop up with me from time-to-time, he deals with them gracefully until I can’t remember why I was afraid.

The other night I was sitting in a church meeting listening to my sister sing, and I was feeling a little bit anxious about the insanity of telling a group of people that we need to get together every Thursday night and just be writers together. And I suddenly felt like God was looking at me, with his head cocked to one side, and saying “Why are you so afraid? I gave this to you. This is your restoration for the things you have lost.”

The world can’t really know the goodness of God if good things don’t happen to his people. This is one of my good things. I will love it dearly and wear the label of “writer” ever so proudly now.

Dad reckons that the only universally acceptable language is clean language – and yes – there is no disputing that fact. You cannot offend a sailor’s tongue by not using the ever offensive “eff word” in the same way as you would offend Granny by telling her to fuck off.

Despite the fact that I accept this truth, I am, for lack of a better description, a “swearer”. Because still after all these years I find that nothing expresses rage, discontent, pure and utter agony or any sort of extreme emotion quite so much as a well-placed cuss word. Why? I’m not sure. But perhaps it has something to do with teen rebellion. I remember the first time I ever said “the eff word”. I was walking towards the farm house with my sister and there was a cow in the way. I told it to fuck off. And I remember my sister looking at me with something akin to awe. How rebellious of me. I swear. And my parents don’t know. It’s almost as awesome as buried treasure!

Now I am quite aware of the lameness of my rebellion – but even if I had wanted to be a drinker or a smoker or a hash fiend or a druggie while I was a school girl I would have had no idea how to go about any of that! Swearing I had control over. Drug connections I did not. I was certainly not cool enough for drugs anyway. I used to knit for heaven’s sake! And write cheesy poetry (although in retrospect the drugs may have helped with that).

Anyway – the point is that I still swear. Obviously I don’t swear in front of my grandmother, and only on the odd occasion do I slip up in front of the kids. I’m getting better at it. But just let me get angry and you could put me next to those sailors and not remotely be able to tell the difference. I’m a rather expressive and over-dramtically-emotional being, so I go through spells of being angry a lot – which in turn means that I do in fact swear a lot. Whether it be at the stupid bimbo psychology major at a random dinner party who has come to the conclusion that black people are genetically closer to animals than humans (true story I swear to God a woman tried to convince me of that once!) or the fact that being a creative person can be such a loathsome-cockroach of an experience at times or just that out of control feeling of hopelessness. The anger comes out in cuss words. Lots of them. And then I feel better.

But not all cussing is used in anger. If I’m not swearing because I’m pissed off, any additional swearing I do is usually in humour.  Now it’s impossible to think I’m being tongue-in-cheek when I’m angry – but apparently this is not true for the opposite. Apparently my sense of humour can be interpreted as antagonistic. Fair enough – if you consider that most of my daily communication gets done online. Online where there are no facial expressions or tones of voice. And this particular truth is what lead to this post in the first place: my first Twitter fight.

Now I’m the first to admit that it’s a miracle that it took so long for this to actually happen. I sort of had a Twitter fight once – but it wasn’t a fight so much as a rumour really.  So this one was new for me.  And it was entirely my fault – though completely unintentionally.

I do have to blame the soccer a little bit here. Now I’m all for sport – and the people who support sport. But I am not a sports person. Enter the Soccer World Cup and now we’re kind of all expected to be sport people, which is fine with me, except that apparently I’m not very good at it. My only frame of reference really is the observed interactions between Sharks and Bulls supporters. And they kind of swear at each other a bit – though I always thought it was in a kind of competitive camaraderie. Maybe not?

Anyway – Saturday night I was “supporting” the Americans in the England/USA game. Obviously, being an American myself, this was only natural. But, of course, I did quite like that almost everyone else on Twitter was cheering for England. Now I said something lame like “Oh I guess I’ll throw a spanner in the works and shout for USA then…” and when England scored their first goal against them within the first few minutes I got this response:

“stick that up your American pipe and “smoke it Uncle SAM OBAMA!

(*copied and pasted exactly – the weird use of punctuation is not my own)

He continued to go on a little bit of an anti-American tirade – but people are like that and barring the odd occasion where I actually stick up for my other country (I was born and bred here in SA but my momma bear is American and I have dual citizenship) I usually just let it slide because I’m used to people being anti-American. It is, after all, very fashionable to be so. This was one of those occasions where I just let it slide. Whatever right?

But then England didn’t win. They drew one all.

So I responded so:

“I say nothing. Except maybe fuck you. Oh. And you didn’t win.”

Now really I promise it was a completely tongue in cheek, and quite honestly a way too over-familiar response but this weirdo had been overly familiar with me from the second he started following me as far as I can tell. But I don’t mind over-familiarity so I never really paid too much attention to the guy, and in retrospect perhaps I should have. He responded to me being, well…me, with a complete sense of humour fail.

I then went offline and continued to watch TV with the man. These responses ensued and I had to do a bit of stalking to get them because by the time I went back onto Twitter he had deleted me and all his comments to me had disappeared – along with my ability to actually apologize and perhaps even defend myself. Or even get into a proper fight!!! *sulk* (again doing the copy/paste thing here – I take no credit for the grammar or punctuation)

I never swore and I’M Northern Irish ‘I Just noticed your guys anti -english ethos.catch a grip, grasp reality! #GEORGEBEST 11 !

Already lost. Unless he means that swearing and Northern Irish people go hand-in-hand and he is therefore a better being. Fair enough. But the anti-English ethos? What???  Since when does cheering for one country make you anti another one?  Catch a grip and grasp reality? Whose reality exactly do we need to grasp here?  And who the fuck is George? (Oops I did it again….)

Get a life u foul mouth!

Now this was a recurring theme. I got a message on my Facebook wall saying “foul mouth” – I can’t really argue there. But then I’ve never denied having a foul mouth. It’s kind of like telling me that I’m white. Yes. And I’m particularly pale white too. Almost transparent. Anything else?

I then got a direct message threatening me to never swear at him in public again and telling me how he was under the impression that since I was a poet I had class. Good god. I need to immediately email all my poets and tell them how they’re expected to behave as poets. I wasn’t aware of the rules. Perhaps they aren’t either!

I also then got two Facebook emails. Subject: foul. Email body: mouth.

And then I suddenly thought – ok fine. I swore at you which I shouldn’t have and now you’ve clearly misread the spirit of the entire thing and you’re on a self-righteous tirade because you clearly can’t handle any woman who doesn’t fit into your cookie-cutter idea of what a woman should be. But seriously?? Is saying fuck every now and then really worse than slating the president of someone’s country? And then using your issue with said president to mock your “friends”?  I asked him as much. And not antagonistically, for I was actually planning to smooth things over at some point. I simply said: Is swearing really worse than dissing someone’s president?”

His response?

“I never swore at anyone’s president!”

After that he blocked me and I was unable to respond. But hell. Arguing with stupid people is pointless anyway so I somehow doubt I would have bothered. Although….I may have been tempted to respond with: Neither did I. I only swore at you.

Bah!!! I think I’ve changed my mind. Swear at strangers. They fucking deserve it.

Juliet, Naked – Nick Hornby

There’s that age-old question that they apparently ask on college applications about which dead or alive person you would like to have dinner with and what questions you would ask that person. When I was younger I hated questions like this. Somehow they mean you have to know exactly who you are – and holy hell that’s a whole other kind of insane, right? Dating especially made these kinds of questions scary. I’d meet someone and then there’d be a kind of mad scramble to quickly evolve into some sort of whole and respectable being. Quickly figure out who your favourite musician is, what your favourite colour is, your favourite food. All that stuff. Not having answers somehow made you undefined. Or at least made me undefined. So every now and then I’d do a recheck – usually when there was a guy on the horizon – so that these kinds of questions could be answered confidently, if not necessarily with complete honesty. But over the years, the real answers started to emerge. Your favourite band stops being a flavour of the week and becomes the music you go back to over and over with a smile. Your favourite colour reverts back to the one you coloured with most as a kid, even though you think it might mean you’re slightly less interesting than if your favourite colour was vermillion or teal. And then one day you find yourself curled up under your duvet and thinking “this is my dinner person”, and for some reason, finally knowing that answer without a doubt is a little exciting.  Perhaps that makes me mad.

Now the irony here is this: an essential part of the book that I am now “reviewing” (though really – I’m not a reviewer – I lack the ability to be objective rather than opinionated and, truth be told, rather uninformative) deals with how one of the characters gives a knee-jerk review on the merits of a particular music album, and then later changes his mind about just how much of a spiritual experience it evokes. He then feels guilty because he feels that his rave review possibly harmed the album rather than did it a favour, and because of his quick response he had managed to inadvertently manipulate a bad response to the album in general. I seriously don’t want to do that here: but holy hell this book is awesome!!!

Nick Hornby has this way about him. You know how in school there was that one guy who for some reason was just the embodiment of cool? For some reason it didn’t matter if he wore dresses or listened to Japanese-trans-rap or one day decided that trench coats in summer were the way to go. Whatever he did was acceptable. And the grownups who thought it was funny were just completely square. Nick Hornby is nothing like that. He’s what that guy was supposed to be – but failed at miserably!

His understanding and expression of the human condition never ceases to amaze me. In fact he is arguably the only writer to EVER succeed at writing about music, and in Juliet, Naked he has simply done it again.

Before I was introduced to my first Nick Hornby novel, my favourite author was Anne Tyler. The Accidental Tourist is a book I recommend to people frequently and it played a big part in my “coming out” as a writer. I have since learnt that she is a favourite of Hornby’s too. Perhaps I am daft in feeling a slight sense of kindred-spirithood, but I do. Something about him just serves as a constant reminder of exactly the kind of writer I would like to be.

So yes, he’s my fantasy dinner guest. And not because I have a thousand questions to ask him, but because I think that an evening with nick Hornby would certainly promise to be a worthwhile experience, and one that would serve as a constant source of inspiration. Why? I don’t know the exact answer. But every time I close one of his books I find myself thinking I can do this, as opposed to holy crap what the hell ever made me think I could become a writer!

As far as the book is concerned: send the kids and the husband away, curl up in bed with the cat and a giant cup of coffee (and a box of chocolates) and allow yourself a day of consistent smiles. Yes, he is that good. He always has been

I’m quite aware that I have massively annoying opinions on just about every subject. Being too much of a passionate person can be a burden sometimes, but I am a great believer in shouting from the rooftops, if only to achieve nothing more than a sweet release from something that may be troubling my heart. Mom usually bears the brunt of these “release methods”. And my friend Candi. We have tea, and then I yell at them for a couple of hours about the ridiculousness that is whatever, thereby stripping the topic of it’s power. Mom and I will stand in the kitchen yelling to each other about the abominations of everything from the craziness of a particular storyline in our favourite TV show to just how annoying so-and-so is being. And when we’re done, we feel better. Maybe a little embarrassed at our own flair for the dramatic, but embarrassment, and a mild case of guilt, is always preferable to bottling up a series or anger that slowly rots you from the inside. Dad doesn’t get this (How many times has he moaned at us for yelling in the kitchen?). In fact I think a lot of people don’t get it, but it’s my coping mechanism. It is my way of turning the big bad wolf into a fluffy duckling.

It’s not working today though. Friday night I yelled at Ty, and he stroked my head and listened patiently. Saturday I yelled some more. Saturday night I yelled at Candi. And she did all the right things too. Sunday I cried through an entire church service. Last night in the bath I started to talk to Ty again, but he cut me off for letting a bonehead idiot get to me. I should be over it by now. But Monday is here and I feel no better…

On Friday night I was out at a friend’s place. We were having a braai to celebrate his birthday and there was a couple there who I had met out on a few occasions but had no conversational relationship with.  Now I can’t for the life of me remember what line of conversation lead to his lovely anecdote, but I’m quite sure he started telling it out of the blue. In the midst of warming myself by the fire and sipping slowly on a glass of champagne I suddenly found myself listening to this man telling the story of the man who is currently on trial for beating and setting his neighbour’s two-year-old child on fire.  He went on to say how the man had got drunk and mistaken the child for a mythological creature from Xhosa folklore called “The Tokoloshi”, and that he was using this temporary lapse in judgement as his line of defence. Throughout the whole story this man laughed like he was telling a joke – I just can’t get over it!! It was one of those moments that just seemed so incurably unreal. And then I freaked. And I freaked a lot. And I just kept thinking this can’t be happening! There can’t be people in the world who not only feel nothing for their fellow humans, but actually feel nothing for the beaten and burned body of a two year old baby. I suddenly needed to be with my child. My child who has inspired in me the most impossibly incomprehensible love and adoration! And I am not so naive as to believe that I am the only mother who knows without a doubt that no child has ever been loved quite as much as my own has. And here this vile repulsive disgusting excuse for a human being was using the death of a child just like my baby in an attempt to make a bunch of people comfortably settled around a bonfire laugh. Who does that?! Has humanity in general really become so depraved that there are few people who even care anymore? Has our inability to appreciate human differences really made us this cold? I was told “not to upset myself” and to “not compare it to my baby”. WHAT??!!!!!!! Why? Is that mother’s baby less important than mine? Would the death of my child be counted as more tragic than the excruciating death of hers? Please explain to me why? Because she is black? Because she was born into a culture that teaches people all kinds of weird things so she should be used to crap like that happening to her now? Is that why I shouldn’t compare her child to mine? Does she love her child less because she is black? Or because she has three children instead of one?

Of course this then sparked off the debate of this man’s insanity plea. The notion that this man might be feeling guilt for a choice he made in a moment of mental weakness was apparently a notion too ridiculous to conceive. Not only by the heathen who told the story but by the majority of the people standing there. The general consensus seemed to be that all humans contain microchips embedded somewhere in their psyche’s which constantly inform them of the difference between right and wrong. The idea that every single person on the planet has come to their own conclusion as to what belongs in which category was apparently a ridiculous one. Now obviously I make room for the fact that his insanity defence may very well be absolute rubbish and a clever (not so clever) ploy to get away with his crime – but are we really so naive to believe that there is absolutely no possibility that this man’s upbringing and his circumstances in life could have lead to the incident at hand. I am neither excusing the tragedy that took place nor condoning the behaviour that lead to it but I certainly don’t think I can put my privileged white girl morality onto a man who is nothing like me. I know nothing of what it is like to be cold and hungry and desperate. I don’t know what it means to be someone who grew up in a township just like I don’t know what it is to be Japanese. Shouting out “everyone knows the difference between wrong and right” is simply a cop out for racism. I barely manage to live by my own principals. None of us do. How the hell can we ever expect anyone to share our exact values? You can’t just look at the black and the white and completely deny the existence of all the different shade of grey.

It breaks my heart that out of a handful of people I truly was alone in caring. It is easier not to care. I know that. I sit here with a heavy heart, and my story teller is dreaming of his next beer. Beer is easier than raging against the things that you can’t change. But it is the complacency of the masses that contributes to the very death of change. Surely the dream for our country, and even for humanity as a whole, is for equality to exist despite differences?

I was mildly annoyed earlier that evening because after mentioning that we’d probably be walking to all the “Fan Fest” events being held at St. George’s Park, a woman there looked at me and said “Do you think there will be any white people there?” I responded by saying “I don’t know, but it’s fine because I quite like black people”. After receiving a very loud-and- clear message that apparently the setting alight of babies is a cause for comedic celebration, her moment of racism seems a bit inconsequential, like it is much less of a mountain than I thought it was before.

It simply seems now that the message to the poorest of the black people in this country is this: You don’t count. The loss of your children doesn’t count as much as the loss of mine would because you have too many children. Your moments of insanity do not count because it’s your own fault for believing the things that your parents and your society have taught you. We, the possessors of running water and houses made of brick are simply in denial of not only your humanity but your very existence. We just don’t care. It is not our job to care.

So my question is this: Where does this message fit in on the list of right and wrong?

Anyway, the topic came up on the Gareth Cliff show yesterday morning and a woman called in as irate as all hell about the porn thing and it made me wonder about my own views on it…

Her argument was pretty vague and she was a little more hysterical than she was convincing. There was something about not having this type of “depravity” accessible to children but that was completely irrelevant since I am quite sure that she didn’t get the idea of pay-per-view and the reality that you actually have to key in a pin to actually watch the porn. It’s not like your six-year-old is going to stumble upon it in an attempt to find the CBBees channel.

Now I know things like porn addictions have been responsible for breaking relationships and such – but she seemed to want to blame the porn industry for a whole array of criminal problems and I don’t quite get it. She then went on a supremely self-righteous rant about how sex within a marriage is sacred and joyous and special and not at all depraved blah blah blah (meanwhile I imagine that plenty of the type of “depravity” she is talking about is born within the framework of the marriage bed if you consider that the excitement of being with someone new has to be replaced with something new – especially for those marriages where love no longer factors at all.)

I just can’t seem to think anything other than for heaven’s sake it’s just porn! I mean really! So what? Surely enjoying a bit of porn now and then can’t be THAT bad? It seems to me that perhaps the guilt brought about by other people’s self-righteous bullshit is more dangerous than the actual porn itself. Sure it could possibly get out of hand – just like anything can – but a little indulgence now and then?

Her other argument was “you’re not a parent, Gareth, so you’ll never understand”. Somewhere in there was a speech about how he should just accept that he is wrong.

But – I’m a parent! It doesn’t bother me…

Does that make me a bad parent?

I’m not for a second saying here that I’m jumping for joy about my upcoming porn options (honestly I don’t even have DStv!) but I can’t imagine that the world is coming to an end just because there are a few people who might be…

And besides…as far as Multichoice is concerned…implementing the porn option is probably one hell of a good business move!

But this is not the part that disturbs me in any way. This is a normal thing to have psycho nervous breakdowns about. (Luckily my wonderful man was there to pick up the pieces when I keeled over last week!)

I packed up my boyfriend’s entire house. He was away – so who else was gonna do it -right?

Anyway this can be quite a nerve wracking experience. So many things to make you raise an eyebrow – from cabinets full of bizarre female medications (ok so those weren’t his) to some weird kitchen gadgets. Luckily I found nothing too bizarre. Nothing quite so stressful as going through cupboard after cupboard wondering if this will be the one that all the worms fall out of.

Thankfully I found nothing too dodgy – or so I thought. I found no porn – not even anything mild. I found no vagina-shaped vibrating gadgets. Or stashes of drugs.. Or anything worthy of running a mile… What I did find though were bags and bags and bags full of…black garbage bags (not orange ones…). Ok. That’s fine. and then…boxes and boxes of latex gloves. Erm…no comment. And then I found boxes and boxes of matches.

So…

garbage bags

latex gloves

matches

Really….am I dating a serial killer?

It’s on nights like tonight when I find it hard not to hate you. If you were no one – simply another person that I no longer love, or just someone I should never have been with – then it would be different. But you are not no one. You are the other half of my baby…

Don’t get me wrong – you leaving was the best thing that could have ever happened to me. And quite possibly to us. People like you have been doing people like me a favour by disappearing for a long time. There is nothing special or particularly tragic about your leaving. It is merely another cliché on top of the ones carried out within a relationship whose significance I can barely remember anymore. For the most part…you don’t matter…and you don’t matter a lot…

Tonight I have a headache and it’s completely killing me. And I am all alone so I can’t disappear into my room and sleep until I feel better. Luckily this doesn’t happen often. I love being a single mom. People think that you’re such a hero for doing it alone. They never stop to think that doing it alone is so much easier than co-parenting with someone who is completely toxic. At least when you’re alone – you’re alone! And you’re programmed that way, so it’s all good. When you’re with someone who doesn’t help anyway? THAT is impressive!! THOSE people should be getting medals. Not me. I’m just a mom.

But then the headaches come and for a few hours it’s not so easy anymore. The baby is crying and he’s crawling on me. It is taking all my self-control not to shout at him. It’s not his fault and I know this, but my head is pounding like a bass drum and I can barely think or see straight…

And then the questions come. And they won’t stop. Questions that I usually just ignore and avoid thinking about because how can you think about such things without your heart breaking for that tiny little person that you have brought into the world? But my head hurts. And I can’t stop thinking.

You see it would be fine if we were in this together but we are not. There’s no civility. No consideration. No logic as far as what is best for your child is concerned. Never would I ever feel like I could call you up and ask you to come over for feeding time so that I could just get a break to sleep the pain away.

And why? Because you truly don’t believe that it’s your responsibility to be my helper.

• You think that paying a measly amount of maintenance that barely covers a third of your child’s expenses somehow absolves you from your true duties as a parent.
• On the occasions when you are unable to pay this maintenance, you offer weak explanations but no apologies.
• You start off with “good intentions” but quickly slip easily into arriving late to pick up your kid and even missing out completely on days that you’re supposed to be with your child without ever suggesting make-up time. Do you think it goes unnoticed?
• Your child spends “you” time with your mom. Where are you? And since you barely see your child as it is don’t you think you should be absorbing every second you can?
• And just in case you were wondering: your child might not notice when you don’t buy Christmas presents…but I do…

So here are my questions:

• Does it ever occur to you to say thank you? Thank you for providing all the finance. Thank you for always doing the dishes. All the laundry. Thank you for making sure that the children are fed. And warm. And healthy. Thank you for going to all the PTA meetings. And the school plays. And the sports events. Thank you for loving them. Thank you for not being able to have a life free of worry. Thank you for sacrificing your freedom. Thank you for doing a good job…
• Do you think we don’t notice when our children come home smelling of cigarette smoke? And do you think we buy it when you tell us its incense?
• Do you think we don’t notice when they’ve been exposed to harder substances? Do you know that our intuition when it comes to our children is as powerful and accurate as any one of our other five senses? How do we know? We just do…
• Do you think we don’t hear about the things you get up to in an attempt to show us up in our absence? Don’t be so foolish as to assume that your friends’ loyalty goes beyond the wellbeing of your child…
• Did it ever occur to you that handing over an envelope of cash and then asking “and what do YOU contribute to OUR child” is a little bit obnoxious?
• Does it occur to you that we get tired? That we deserve a break?
• Are you not ashamed that you leave a responsibility that is essentially half yours in the hands of someone else?
• And how exactly do you justify your criticism of the job that we do….?

It could be a longer list. A boring trite cliché of a list that sadly almost every single parent understands and can relate to – those who don’t are lucky and should clearly be saluted for managing to maintain such a healthy relationship with their former partner.

But you? You I feel sorry for. Your arrogance and your bitterness and your love for playing the role of the victim will simply be your own undoing. You will hurt your child constantly with your cold selfishness but you will never be able to break him. Not on my watch.

I met someone not so recently, who has taught me the most amazing truth: everyone is replaceable when they’re not there to begin with. You don’t matter because you are not there.

I matter, simply because I am unwaveringly here. My sins after that are forgivable.

I worried for so long that my child might be scarred because of you, but I realize now that I am the antidote to all of your thoughtlessness.  It doesn’t matter that you know nothing about being a parent because I am willing to know everything.

It never occurs to me to run away, or to spend money on myself first before my child. I don’t take uninterrupted sleep or alone time or a long hot bath for granted. I know better and I am a better person for it. My kid is damn lucky to have me.

What about you?

There are some amazing “other parents” out there. I know this because every time I hear about one I have to slap myself on the wrist for being surprised.

You are not one of them.

You don’t have to be married to your child’s other parent to be a good parent.

You just have to be a parent…

“What I’ve realized is that life doesn’t count for much unless you’re willing to do your small part to leave our children — all of our children — a better world. Any fool can have a child. That doesn’t make you a father. It’s the courage to raise a child that makes you a father.” — Barack Obama