Thieves & Heartbreakers &/or I Cried Like A Jackass in Johnny Rockets

Today I found out that someone I know spent $140,000 to get pregnant through In-Vitro Fertilization.

I told my husband about it and he said,

“To each his own.” 

What a stupid fucking thing to say.  I mean, yes, to each his own.

But isn’t that kind of a conversation stopper?

There are so many pieces of this subject we could discuss, ad nauseum.  Instead, he seems to think conversation is unnecessary, perhaps hedonistic.

How did I marry a man so adverse to communication when it’s so necessary for my mental health?

If you read my comments, though, you know that Soapbox Diva thinks I should stay here so the kids will visit on Thanksgiving!

Fuck that, fuck me, fuck everything.

Where do I even begin regarding my thoughts on that subject?

My 14-year old daughter is being such a complete shit that I’m not sure I’d pay $140 to get pregnant if I had to do it all over again.

Now I’m not saying I’m a gift to motherhood.  I’m a complete pain in the ass, especially when I burst into tears like eight times in three days, twice in different restaurants.

Abandonment, loss, grief . . . those are the buttons being pushed.  I know it’s selfish and I’m a professional victim.

As my daughter will tell you, I analyze the FUCK out of everything.  Similar in attitude to my brother, who told me the last time I saw him, ”If you’re going to ANALYZE everything, leave me out of it.”

An un-analyzed life seems so pointless to me and yet I’m surrounded by people who think otherwise.  I just don’t get it.  I want to know everything, I need to know everything, it’s the only way I can understand people.

To know all is to forgive all.

The girl was 2 when the boy hit 14 and she watched from from a front row seat.  He was so lucky to escape while I had another chick in the nest.

Nothing about my expectations were reasonable.  She fed into the insanity by telling me she would never act like a teenager and she said it with a tone of voice that almost made me believe it.

I love you, Mommy!


Now she just rolls her eyes and acts disgusted.  Disgusted by me.

I handle this about as well as a psychotic serial killer.

Me: Yes, I hear my own mental illness.

Alter Ego: Individuation, that’s the name of the game! 

Me: Fuck individuation.

I’m so goddam immature, she’s far more advanced in so many ways.

I refuse to look at her sometimes hours later as my passive payback, as if she cares!  I don’t want to talk to her even when she’s happy to talk to me, usually at bizarre times of the day about inane things.

Walk carefully when my feelings are hurt, I’m a grouchy injured hyena.

If I don’t think about how she used to be I’m fine for the most part.  But when I do allow myself to remember her looking at me like I was the smartest, funniest, prettiest woman who ever lived,

the sobbing is just gross.

I said I’m over it, that I don’t care if my kids spend much time with me at all as adults, and that’s true to some extent.  But it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the adorable little people they used to be.

So, surprisingly, it turns out I’m ridiculously good at creating children with fantastic self-esteem, kids who are independent and ready to take on the world.

I just didn’t realize what that meant.

All this time I think I believed if I simply loved my children, unlike my own mom, they would adore me to an unreasonable degree.

It never occurred to me they would never know the difference, that love would be their norm.

Really such a lovely outcome when properly analyzed.

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