Single Mom Raising Kids

If you read my recent post about cheating , you know that I have good reason to hate my ex. Hate or worse. Maybe even so bad that I could poke little pins into a voodoo doll covered in facial hair. But I don't feel that way. It's amazing to me sometimes that I am able to keep such a cool calm around him even when we're talking about hard things like money, the kids, and the past. I have to have more than just a "let sleeping dogs lie" mentality. It's not enough for me to cut him slack for being the father of my children. If anything, that would give me even more fuel for the fire because he should be expected to hold up his end of the bargain. But folks, there are no bargains here. There is no way for me to expect or feel remorse for balls dropped. I just have to stay out of his back yard. I like to use the analogy that being his ex and dealing with him is like having a neighbor with a tree that hangs over your yard and always drops so many leaves. There...

Blerg, deep breath. I spent a long time wishing away the signs of cheating. I didn't want to seem jealous, or to overthink his friendships with females. Even when I found lewd pictures on his phone, I let him talk me down from thinking the worst. It's hard to say when the cheating started or continued because of this. I wrote it all down years ago in a journal, and I wouldn't even be able to ready it myself and believe it at this point. The lies and the truth weaved together so seamlessly that I jaded myself into believing it was a comforting blanket, when in fact I was being woven into a cocoon to strangle myself from the life line of the truth. The place to start here is to accept that I did know about the cheating. Deep down, before any of the hairbands, or texts, or underwear showed up, I had to know it was coming. Or did I? I remember the day midway through my experience in a 12 step program helping me overcome my addiction to my marriage, that I decided it was t...

This is me pregnant*. I am not pregnant right now. I'll admit I'm pretty meek these days, so it should come as no surprise that there is a question that bothers me. I've heard it three times in my life when it had no business being asked. Several ladies, mind you, have asked me if I was pregnant when there was no chance I was. Sometimes the question comes shortly after a birth and for that, it's understandable, but still harsh. Now the only thing I can attribute to their question is a food baby, or more precisely a med baby. Being on medication puts me in a weird position when people ask if I'm pregnant. First of all my feelings are all off. I know that in the past when this has come up I've felt shocked or horrified. Now I just feel blah and blerg. And then I feel hungry and the self deprecating cycle continues. I don't even know if exercise works to counteract the weight gain because sometimes I feel too tired to wake up after working out and that...