Mike and I officially started dating on my 18th birthday, we were still in college and still very much in lust. Our relationship grew fast and within months we were engaged. Not even a couple weeks after our engagement, Mike was finished his final year of college and off to work. On the other side of the country. But, we were dedicated to each other and we made it work. We made the best of late evening phone calls lasting well into the wee morning hours. We made the best of accepting that this was short term and trusting that, no matter the distance, we were faithful to each other.

One night, just shy of last call at the local bars, there was a knock at my front door. Home alone, on the phone with Mike, I made my way downstairs to find Andy; waiting patiently on my door step.

Andy. He was a gorgeous, down home, laid back beautiful East Coaster with a slight drawl. Muscles. Oh, the muscles. Tanned, taught and pretty much perfection. He and I had dated shortly and in spurts. Okay, so they were booty calls. But they were great booty calls. Prior to him even noticing me, I had spent many of my afternoons admiring him from afar in our campus pub. His bohemian style suited him to a tee; his wildly flowing shoulder length hair tucked beneath a ball cap, Birkenstock sandals and a patchwork Grateful Dead fleece jacket.

When we first met, I was smitten. Over the moon in lust. He was absolutely stunning, and better yet, wanted me as badly as I wanted him. Or so it seemed, because after a few nights I found out just how much he was still in love with his ex-girlfriend. Like so madly in love with her, his room was still plastered with pictures of them, portraits of her and a lifetime of memories. It was evident I was the rebound, and as much as it hurt, it took just as long to fall out of lust as it did to fall in.

Summer break came; I professed to anyone who would listen that I was over Andy. Out of sight out of mind is a magical, magical thing. Mike and I began dating and before long That Night arrived. That night, the first day he was back in town from his summer back down east, Andy showed up on my doorstep.

More shocked than anything, I quickly told Mike I had to go and that Andy was there. Probably a bad move on my part seeing as Mike knew our history and I just informed him that my ‘fling’ had shown up in the middle of the night while he was on the other side of the country.

We sat and talked for what seemed like hours. Sitting perpendicular to each other, he look my hand and guided me to his lap where I sat as he asked about my summer; we talked about his and then he slowly took my face in his hands and tried to kiss me. I willed myself to back away. I fought so hard to remain faithful to Mike and not let Andy get to me. God, I wanted to. I wanted to be with him again so badly, but his valiant effort would not sway me. Not this time. He took heed as I stood up and offered him a ride home.

As we pulled up to his house, he apologized for treating me the way he had before leaving to go back home. He said he felt horrible for leading me to believe that he was over his past relationship, but he was now and wanted another chance. I remember wondering if I could get away with being with him one last time. After all, I was engaged to Mike, making him likely, the last man I would be with. Surely he would understand that I needed that one last opportunity of freedom…..

I quickly said good night and reminded Andy that he had his chance – WE had our chance and it just didn’t work out.

After that night there were no more attempts. There was little effort to even make conversation, and eventually got to the point where we no longer spoke at all.

I still wonder sometimes what would have happened had I gave in. I doubt things would have ever gone past those remaining few months of college before we went our separate ways anyway. Everything I have now would probably have vanished into thin air had I let Andy kiss me. Sometimes? I get lost in the daydreams of what could have been, but, good day or not, I really can’t begin to fathom my life any other way.

:::

This post is part of the Silicon Valley Moms Blog Book Club. January’s second book was Coco Chanel and Igor Stravinsky by Chris Greenhalgh. Igor, a married man and father of four, finds himself in a precarious situation as he takes up Coco’s offer of her summer house. His family, as well as Coco, live in this home for a few months and while his wife falls ill, Igor find himself tempted by Coco Chanel.

Since leaving high school and attending post-secondary school at the age of 18, I have, more often than not, been the youngest person in my close knit group of friends. Sometimes by gaps of four years or more. It’s really not been something I spend too much time on until it’s brought up; for example, in conversation or I’m outright asked and the resulting reaction is something along the lines of: Holy shit, you’re only (insert age here)?! But in all honesty, I really don’t care if you’re 2, 5, 8, or 50 years older than me (or younger for that matter. But 50 years younger? That may be a little um, weird) if you’re a friend to me, I am a friend to you.

When I’m feeling overly sensitive (sometimes) and utterly emo (always) I wonder if maybe people think because I am younger my opinions don’t matter or they feel I have nothing to offer to a conversation because my life experiences are assumed to be less than comparable to theirs. I, the completely irrational person I am,  don’t realize that: a) many are likely oblivious to my age and just assume I am older. (Yes, I obviously have an issue with self-esteem. I know this.) or b) they really don’t give a shit about me or my age in the first place. But they should care! Why don’t they care!? No one likes me! WAAAAAAAH! Also? See item a), parentheses 1.

So I’m a little lot self conscious and care far too much what people think of me. I’m working on it. As I have been my entire life.

And as self conscious as I get for being the youngest in the group, I also think, Wait a minute, why are you so shocked that I’m “only” 28? Do I look older? OMG, I LOOK OLD!

It’s really a vicious circle.

Then last week? That circle? It came to a crashing, back breaking halt. Straight into a brick wall of OLD.

In my defense, I spent majority of the week sleeping off some stomach bug I got from the kids. I showered and went to work on the Friday but with little make-up and my hair pinned back: low maintenance. I had to go to our sister company to pick up some project related paper work and while I was there I was chatting with a few of of my former co-workers, one of the guys, whom I used to joke around with a lot, commented, “Holy Sam! Look at you! You look… like a MOM.”

I LOOK LIKE A MOM!?

A MOM?!

Does Mom equal OLD?!

Because I’M NOT OLD!!

One of the ladies turned to face him and informed him “that wasn’t very nice” , while I, in my true colourful form told him he was “such a douchebag.” I wasn’t offended per say, I don’t really offend all that easy, but as I thought about it over the weekend I couldn’t quite pin point what about that comment irked me so much. It’s not like it was a lie, I am a mom. A mom to two beautiful, wonderful little boys. I am a parent. I love having children.

The thought of looking like a mom has me visualizing Mom Jeans, plaid shirts and Keds. I think of women losing their (our) self image and conforming to this uniform and lifestyle that strictly revolves around the children. I think of unkempt hair swept back in pony tails, no make-up and stained clothes. Immediately I felt shame wash over me. Have I fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I give the indication I no longer care about my outward appearance? OMG, I’M A MOM!!!

Yet, I’ve worn that uniform, and I know that’s not a mom. I KNOW. It just happens to be easy and comfortable and realistic most of the time, but it’s not a mom. No outfit, be it from a discount chain store or a high end boutique, makes a mom. A mom is that woman who plays; gets down on the floor with trucks, barbies or what have you.  She takes them to playdates, swimming lessons, doctors appointments and soccer games. A mom makes lunches, dinners, draws a bath a scrubs the dirt and grim from their little fingers. A mom comforts and soothes, loves and adores. Being a mom is NOTHING to be ashamed of, no matter if she works outside the home or in it.

I? Am a mom.

I? Am not ashamed.

I? Am, however, updating my wardrobe.

I crave to write. I think about it constantly.

I dream of a finished office space, white furniture with wall-to-wall white shelving filled with my books and my magazines. I dream of pristine walls with a slight hint of turquoise. I dream of a wide open window with lightweight sheers and a white orchid sitting on the sill. I see myself sitting at a glass top desk, lightly tapping out my mediocrity for all of the Internet.

In my head, that space will make it all better. That space will bring me back to the spot where I want to write again. In that space I will work, providing others with their lovely writing spaces while I will begin to remember what it was like when I would write something I was proud of. Something. Anything.

But that space won’t relieve my mental block. That space won’t be a reality for a long, long while – if ever. That space, this space, seems to have met it’s end. Or at least it feels that way.

It’s been months since I’ve been able to write something that others can connect with. The more I read, the more I realize that the need to be really good at what you do is ever more prevalent. As parent blogging changes and morphs rapidly into blogging for marketing and sponsorship, those whom used to write personally are converting and only the strong remain unwavering.

I am wavering. I have no desire to chase sponsorships no matter how much I’d love to be at the next *it* conference. Yet like others, I want to be noticed, adored and READ. (If you’re a blogger and say you don’t care about those things, you’re lying to us and worst of all – yourself. No one puts themselves out on a public stage just because.) But I have long since passed the stage of promoting this site. There is no more clicking around traffic building sites or adding my site to all the “communities”. I don’t work on improving my SEO (search engine optimization), nor do I care how you found my blog.

This blog is now dying. Actually, I believe it’s been dead for a while.

I am no longer – what I believe to have been – a member of the blogging community. There is very little community. It’s a shark tank full of people looking to make a quick buck and get stuff and if you happen to step on some toes to do it? So be it. There are some great people whom I’ve kept in contact with, but for the most part, my blog reader and twitter feed has transcended into white noise. There are fewer voices with a message; there are even less with ones I want to hear. That’s not to say that your writing is falling on deaf ears, rather that it’s just getting hard to discern the heartfelt writing. With FTC regulations, disclosure statements and disclaimers on satirical writing, it just seems so contrived and fake, even though the intention is quite the opposite.

Transparency is a fickle bitch.

As much as we’re transparent about what we’re writing and saying online, it’s behind the scenes where we are the most clouded,  contrary and unethical. Talking about people, their actions, their writing, their reviews, their “free gifts”, their sell-out attitudes. I see no disclaimers on the hateful statements spewed back and forth, no transparency in the relationships we are pretending to have.

I am no different.

I’ve sat back and watched for months as I fought my own internal battle of facing the truth. I’ve sat back and debated whether or not I owe you, readers and friends, a statement regarding things that have happened behind the scenes. You know, in the name of transparency. Am I being dishonest with you by not speaking out? Am I making myself appear guilty by allowing those who have spoken out – albeit inaccurately – on my behalf? Because every. single. fucking. time. I take to this keyboard, I stall. I am paralyzed by thoughts of people thinking that everything I write from here on out is a fucking lie because of something they’ve heard elsewhere. I think about the links and the emails flying back and forth saying, Did you see what she wrote now? I can’t believe she said that. What a fuckin’ liar. She is dead to me. After all this and she has the nerve.. Why does she even bother?

Dearest friends have said to let it go. My wonderful and loyal friends have said it nothing to worry about and that I acted out of good faith and love. My good friends, the people THAT KNOW ME are right.

But what about the others? The ones that I concern myself with when they really have shown they deserve little of my time. Why? Why do I give even an iota of shit for what they think?

Because I am human.

I am just like you: I want acceptance, I want love, I want people to care about me too. I want forgiveness, friendship and relationships. Because I am human.

Without transparency I feel I am stifling myself. I can write here over and over that I don’t care what you think and that it’s time to move on, but the truth is I do care, and I can’t move on – because EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. I open this computer I think about the people who have (may have) heard something and are taking it verbatim. I think about the fact that no one has even ASKED my side. People I thought were friends have taken what they’ve heard as gospel and haven’t even given me a chance. It angers me, it hurts me and it’s not fair.

But it’s not only about me and my perceived conflicts. There are people who I KNOW have been talking shit about some people I care deeply for and then they are playing nice to their faces and telling them they have their backs when they definitely do not. I know they say they are friends and “would do anything for them”  and then have been calling them hurtful and hateful things behind their backs. You forget, my friends, the internet is very much like high school. Things are said and they DO get back to the people you’re talking about; even if you’re calling someone a “crazy bitch” in jest, it may not be perceived that way in some conversations.

I think we owe it to ourselves – as compassionate, responsible and caring adults to just cut the shit. If you don’t like someone or something they’ve said, so be it. Deal with it. Move on. But the name calling? The hurtful and evil comments about people you *think* you know are really getting us nowhere. Because at the end of the day, has it made your life *that* much better by saying such evil things about someone else? No. Does letting someone know “for their benefit” that a friend of theirs has wronged someone else? No. Because no matter what you say, they will continue to make their own decisions in life and your hurtful words of “concern” and “support” are only going to make you look like that fickle bitch, Transparency.

It was bound to happen sooner or later. Since returning to work, back in May, I’ve been running myself ragged. For the past 8 months I’ve been trying to manage two full time jobs, a family and non-existent social life to the point where my body has finally said, Listen lady. This is bullshit. I need rest.

And it rested.

After a grueling week of 5 am – 12am days, a weekend of two sick children, and transferring to websites to new hosting and installing another, my body crashed.

For 37 hours of sleep.

One thing is blatantly obvious. I need some balance in my life. Where to find it is another question.

:::

Mike started working with a new company back in September. This one feels, to him, like it’s The One. More of a career than a job, which is fantastic. I am elated that he no longer comes home each day bitching about how much he hates his work.

That is, of course, when he’s working.

This company purposefully takes a month off at Christmas time; they hand out pink slips and a bottle of booze for a Christmas gift, I shit you not. From mid- December to end of January the guys are home. And if they’re like my husband and don’t see a reason to file for unemployment because they’re only going to be home for a month, they’re making no money. Brilliant if you ask me. Why? Because well, THE BILLS DON’T STOP COMING IN JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE NOT WORKING.

Ahem.

Also? Mike is the bread winner. Even though I am working the equivalent of two full time jobs, his salary still far exceeds what I can bring home. Yet we’re trying to manage on mine because HE DIDN’T SEE THE NEED TO FILE FOR UNEMPLOYMENT.

I’ve been too busy to notice that this month is flying by and we’re likely going to hit financial rock bottom before he gets back to work. I haven’t been on top of our finances until yesterday when I had to move money from overdraft to make sure our mortgage payment didn’t bounce. I took that opportunity to show Mike the bright red numbers staring back from the stark white screen and only then did he realize the severity of our financial woes.

What did he do this morning? Filed for unemployment. Guess it’s better late than never, right?

So now, I am fighting every urge to keep my mouth shut, because all I really want to say is, I TOLD YOU SO!

But that never ends well.

It’s not often that I cook. Everyone who knows me well knows my cooking typically consists of quick and easy items: macaroni and cheese (Velveeta, not that Kraft powder shit), spaghetti, sandwiches, zoodles, sometimes boxed preservative laden meats even.

I think it’s more the waiting part that turns me off cooking rather than the actual mixing, working and creating. I am very much the type of person who needs immediate results in order to be satisfied.

Cooking does nothing for me.

Once and a while I will bake. I love making chocolate chip cookies mainly because I eat more of the batter than I do the cookies. See? Immediate results.  I’ve been known to slave over a few lemon meringue pies in my time, even some easy peasy cherry cheese cake type concoction I learned from my Gramma. Once again, all quick, all easy all requiring little to no actual baking.

Since having children I have taken a little more pride in cooking and baking. I’ve learned a few more recipes, I’ve actually made macaroni and cheese from scratch (THANK YOU PIONEER WOMAN!) and even indulged in bring baked goods to work. To feed my co-workers. To share. To proclaim to outsiders that I am indeed capable of making food stuffs save enough to eat!

Carter announced to me earlier this year that he LOVES pumpkin pie. LOVES. Because the lady at the daycare – The Cooker, The Daycare Lunch Lady, The Chef, or as I like to call her: The Procurer of Food for The Little People – makes a mean pumpkin pie.

So, for Thankgiving, I thought I’d spoil the little ankle biter and make him his own pumpkin pie. After all, what child could turn down a pumpkin pie made by their caring, doting and wonderful mother? Right?

I’ll spare you the disaster details of the actual pie making as they are irrelevant. But the kid got a pie. A pretty damn good pie if I do say so myself.

As we sat down to indulge in the delicious pumpkin-y goodness with a dollop of Cool Whip I could see, out of the corner of my eye, Carter’s little four year old face scrunch up in disgust. I played it off as nothing as I dove into the creamy goodness of my pumpkin filling.

The kids wasn’t eating anything. Not even a lick of the Cool Whip. I kinda suspected what may be coming, but I asked anyway.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” I asked.

“This pie tastes like junk,” he said matter-of-factly, “and not the good junk either.”

Seriously? Are you SERIOUS, you little jerk? After I slaved over that pie for you. I measured. I mixed. I baked. I WAITED!!!  And you call my pie JUNK!?I am NEVER. BAKING. AGAIN!!

But instead of letting him know how royally pissed I was that he dismissed my pie so coldly, I did what any parent would do in that situation.

I excused that ungrateful little shit loving and brutally honest child from the table and scarfed down his pie too.

:::

This post in brought to you by the Silicon Valley Moms Book Club. This month’s book is See Mom Run: Side-Splitting Essays from the World’s Most Harried Moms by Beth Feldman. The book is a culmination of short essays written by a number of very talented blogger who also just happen to be moms (including two short stories from one of my favourite writers, Liz Gumbinner of Mom 101). It’s witty, hilarious and ALL TRUE. Read it!

For the FTC blah-blah-CRAP: I was given this book for free and asked to write a post inspired by the book, not a review. Also? Suckit.

I hummed and hawed about writing that obligatory close out post for 2009. Frankly it was a bitch and entirely unworthy of my time. I have never so badly wanted a year to end, but here I am bidding her adieu.

So I said I wasn’t going to write about it, and I’m writing about it. Sue me.

2009 brought so much heart ache to friends and family. 2009 really had nothing all that wonderful to offer personally, professionally, for friends, for family, for the world’s economic condition for that matter. Really? I don’t give a shit, I’m just glad it’s gone.

For me, 2009 meant loss of a beloved family member, and finding others again. It meant finally meeting friends, yet losing some along the way. It made me face one of my greatest fears: trying to figure out if my child was a victim of abuse at the hands of someone we trusted to care from him daily. 2009 brought more pink slips than one would care to shake a stick at.

(Thankfully Mike has been with the same company for about four months now. Not including, of course, the ENTIRE MONTH OF JANUARY BEING A VACATION. Seriously, the company shuts down for a month around Christmas. They give out a bottle of booze and a pink slip at Christmas so the guys can collect unemployment while they get their drink on in January.)

This past year meant I returned to work from a year long maternity leave only to be thrown into a work share program (part time hours instead of laying off staff). Since returning to work I’ve also dealt with my depression rear it’s ugly head again as I struggled to manage my work and home life. It meant turning on my friends and spewing hurtful mean things across The Internets (which I won’t be linking to, sorry) as a means of deflecting the anger onto others instead of where it belonged: on the path of which my life has taken.

I have been a shitty friend.

I have unintentionally hurt people in my life – that I would otherwise have done anything for – because I would not face my own demons. I have lost some of those I thought were close to me and would understand the most. They didn’t and I was wrong to expect that they would be there after the dust settled. I was wrong to expect so much of them.

The only great thing to come of 2009 was the fact that I’ve made it through relatively unscathed. The damage has been done and, for the most part, I’ve made it out on the other side. There are still fences to mend and rebuilding to be done, but aside from that I am certain 2010 will be a better year for us all.

I’m going on another break. I’ve blogged twice in two weeks. That’s enough for another month off, no?

Seriously though? My dear friend, Issa says I take more breaks than Ross and Rachel on Friends.

She’s right you know.

There’s been stuff behind the scenes that have kept me from wanting to write. I tried forever to get passed the mental block by writing it out; by posting (more of) my dirty laundry, to clear the air – give my side of the story. But then I was uncomfortable with airing everything for the world tens of people to read. Not because I felt guilty, but because it’s painful and personal. It’s not something I want to have The Bots shredding up and sharing.

I decided against posting about it, and even though it still eats at me daily hourly, I refuse to write about it openly. Those that were involved know where my heart was (and is). Those that have made it their business to share a one-sided speculative version of what happened are free to believe what they like.

I wanna leave that shit in 2009.

Whoever wants to carry it along with them is free to do so – just stay the fuck off my lawn.

And now that we’ve got that bullshit out of the way, Happy New Year!!

Here’s to a happy and healthy 2010.

Maybe even a couple more consecutive posts under my belt again?