To Say Or Not To Say

Welcome to a Secret Subject Swap. This week 7 brave bloggers picked a secret subject for someone else and were assigned a secret subject to interpret in their own style. Today we are all simultaneously divulging our topics and submitting our posts.

My subject is: Tell us about a recent time you said something then wished you could take those words back. Were you able to make it right?

It was submitted by: https://Bakinginatornado.com

This is a long rant, and it's something I have discussed on Facebook at certain points, so it may be repeat info, but it's something I needed to get down like this.

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Back in May I had a call from a Florida number I didn't recognize, so of course I let it go to voicemail. My entire generation thrives on screening calls and texting, so why would I ever answer the phone for a random? Imagine my surprise when I checked the message left to hear it was family and children services wanting to ask me questions about how my ex husband's wife parents in her home. Just let that sink in. Not how my ex parents. How his wife parents. And why were they calling exactly? What kind of question is that?

I didn't even know why I would be a person for children's services to call. I've never set one foot inside their home and never intended to. The most I'd seen of her parenting was at birthday parties and the few occasions they all came in when it was time to pick up my kid for his every other weekend visits. That's certainly not enough to formulate any kind of real opinion on the matter. I knew how she treated my child, but that's a good bit differently than she treats her own on a daily basis unfortunately, so any opinion I did have wouldn't have been a good one. Why would these people have given children's services MY number as a reference? The whole thing was ludicrous.

So I did what any reasonable person would do I'm that situation or what I would assume is reasonable. I asked my child's father.

I shouldn't have.

I got my answer. That part was fine. Apparently his wife's daughter, my son's stepsister, told her teacher her mom punched her in the stomach. It wasn't the first time she had said such a thing. The last couple times it turned out to be a lie, though, and she had to get state mandated therapy. Her parents opted not to continue it, but apparently she should have because here we were again. Last time she lied she tried to involve my son, and until her therapy was over I didn't let him go to their house. I had hoped this was all over even though I worried every time he was down there that she would end up telling the kind of lie that could ruin his life. It was her thing when she got angry.

So I get the story from my ex, and I also let him know that recently she logged into my son's PlayStation account and told all his friends he is a lazy, gay douchebag. He saw the messages when he logged on, and I wanted to make sure it was addressed. That kind of thing should never happen. None of this should have happened.

That was my second mistake.

The stepmom told my son he was the liar and started aggressively questioning him, and even when his dad proved her wrong, she refused to apologize and dug her heels in. Her kid lied supposedly to children's services about abuse because she was mad at her mom, but it's my son who is the problem? He wasn't happy with the whole situation and how his stepmom talked to him and told his dad he wouldn't be coming down to his house for visits until something changed. His dad said he understood.

He did not.

For 3 months, his dad saw him 3 times for about an hour each time. That's not the limit anyone put on him. That's all the time he would give. It's not surprising. He's barely been an every other weekend father for a few years, and for most of the time we have been separated/divorced, he was barely around at all much less giving financial support until he absolutely had to. Every single time he saw his son during this 3 month period, he fussed at him about making things right (I didn't know this until later). He put all the responsibility of repairing a long damaged relationship between all of them on a 13 year old and yelled at him in restaurants about it. Is it the child who didn't lie who should really be fixing things here?

But then I said another thing.

His dad text me a couple months ago letting me know the child support payment would be late and I would need to have some patience for once.

For once.

I had put up with all this going on for months without saying much, but I couldn't anymore. The child support didn't come at all for years and years, and now that he has to, now that it finally does, it is ALWAYS LATE. Not 2 days late or 4...2 to 3 weeks late every single month without fail, and I never say a word besides asking at the 3 week mark when he will be able to pay because I have to wait on that money to pay my mortgage on a house I didn't want, in a place I didn't want to live, that I got left with in the dissolution of our marriage. I'm never rude. Never demand it. I simply ask what day so I can fill out a promise to pay for the mortgage company, and that doesn't happen every month--only if it was 3 weeks late already with no word from him.

So for 3 months a couple of adults who should be examples in his life who needed to apologize--his stepmom for calling him a liar and belittling him and his dad for not standing up for him and just saying he didn't want to get into it with her--failed him. They failed to apologize. Failed to work it out. Failed to be good parents. Again. They failed his siblings by yet again putting them ahead of him and making that kind of example. They failed in every way imaginable. And it wasn't just those three months. It had been years of it. Years of my kid being treated like a burden. Years of his dad not showing up, not coming through with promises, and not being an actual father. Years of my child being called names like "princess" and his sexuality questioned BECAUSE OF HIS HAIR and then when he did come out even more months of name-calling and added gay jokes. "I thought I had my straight son back for a minute" is NEVER something your child should hear you say. This kid didn't even have a toothbrush of his own at his dad's. No clothes, no shoes, no offer to help pay for clothes, no toys of his own, no space of his own, no privacy, and no respect. For literally nearly a decade during their entire relationship the wife ruled their time together which isn't to say his dad would have put him first on his own either. There has never been a single instance I can recall where he did something with his own kid after our divorce because that's what his kid wanted to do instead of dragging his kid along to things HE wanted to do and calling it quality time. Listen, no kid wants to go on your motorcycle that you repeatedly promised you wouldn't take him on in the fucking freezing ass cold early in the morning to do a poker run you promised your friends you would do without regard to when he would be there. No 3 year old wants to see gory horror movies with you because you don't want to have to watch a baby movie. It's always been awful.

And I get a text asking me to have patience for once.

For once.

So I said no. I said I have our kid full time now and have never had any help outside child support that was always late anyway and no I would not "be patient for once" because I am always patient and I am finally, FINALLY, not going to be anymore. And that he could pay it or we could go to court. I was done with him putting the kid and his needs last.

And then--of course I did--I got a sob story.

"I wish I could see him more."

"What do you mean? You could have seen him anytime you wanted his whole life. And for the last 3 months the only thing he wanted was an apology which he expressed to you multiple times--that he was going to stand his ground and wasn't coming until things changed and yall apologize."

This was my biggest mistake. Because me saying it so clearly and not saying the nice, placating things this man wanted to hear gave him the one opportunity he needed (wanted) to be able to twist this into me wanting to cause drama and not his son having legitimate concerns. All he could say to any of it was "can't we talk this out like adults" which is exactly what I was doing. His definition just doesn't include anything that might make him feel bad. It if isn't praise, it's drama. If it isn't awarding him Dad of the Year or World's Best Dad then it's not being an adult. If it is any kind of criticism at all whatsoever in any shape or form, it's me being "a crazy bitch." And I knew that. I knew that when I said it. I lived with that for 5 years of my life before I couldn't do it anymore. I knew what was coming, and I was just too fucking exhausted to stop myself.

So here we are another couple months later, and he has told his kid he's done with him more than once because all the things his kid said to them about being treated differently was how he felt and not something I made up.

When he pops in to say "haven't heard from you" even though he ended the last conversation with "I'm done with you," nothing has changed. When he pops in to say Happy Birthday, nothing has changed. It wasn't "drama" that can be swept under the rug. And he can't accept that's how his kid feels, and when that is expressed, he's gone again with another tantrum and "I'm done."

So no I can't fix it. There's never going to be a time when I know if it's right to let my 13--now 14--year old stand up for himself with his dad or get involved, but every time I do it makes things worse. Does he need me to back him up? He's in pain over it all. Doesn't he need one parent always in his corner? If I hadn't I don't think the end result would be different. I know his dad. But does he wonder if it would be different? Does he wonder if I made it worse or does he feel proud that I stood up for him?

He doesn't want to talk about his dad just yet.

I can't make his dad be a good parent, and I guess that's the thing. Whether I say anything or not, I still can't ever fix this. I made a bad choice in a partner that I thought would grow with me but never did, and I can't take it back. I wouldn't want to if it meant not having my son. But I wish there was something, anything, I can do to make it right even if it means keeping my mouth shut even when I feel like doing so will make me explode.

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Here are links to all the sites now featuring Secret Subject Swap posts.  Sit back, grab a cup, and check them all out. See you there:

Baking In A Tornado https://www.bakinginatornado.com/2019/11/luck-and-winning-secret-subject-swap.html

Wandering Web Designer https://wanderingwebdesigner.com/blog

Spatulas on Parade https://spatulasonparade.blogspot.com/2019/11/scarecrow-door-decor-and-sss.html

Our Prime Years https://ourprimeyears.com/2019/11/08/secretsubjectswap-apocalypse/

Sarah Nolan https://www.writersarahnolan.blogspot.com/

Part-time Working Hockey Mom https://thethreegerbers.blogspot.com/2019/11/secret-subject-swap-who-are-your.html

Geek Parenting

“Ugh! I lost again,” the boy says and tosses the controller to the ground in frustration.

She glances up at him from her computer where she is furiously typing. She has a letter, an email, and the beginning of a blog to write before she sleeps, but it looks like she’s about to have to take a break for a little conversation.

“I can’t do it! Every single time I try, I die. Can you help me get past this part??”

“No, I cannot.”

He groans in frustration and rolls his eyes.

“If you keep up with that attitude, you can take yourself right on back to your room and go to bed. I don’t have time for this tonight.”

His eyes widen at the sternness in her voice, but he cuts the go-to-hell look that had positioned itself on his face. It was almost like flipping a switch. Attitude ON, Attitude OFF.

“Come up here and sit with me for a minute. Sounds like you need a break anyway.”

“okaaaaay….”

“Well, act like it’s torture to come up and sit with your mom for a minute why don’t ya…jeez. Now go get my waterboarding kit.”

“What’s waterboarding?”

“uh….I’ll explain it to you when you’re older. then you’ll think back about how funny your mom is. Or disturbed. Either way.”

“what?”

“Nevermind. Let’s talk about this game.”

He goes from 0 to 60 in less than a millisecond rattling off some details about whatever game he had been playing and what he was supposed to do.

“Wait a second! Breathe. have you been taking methamphetamines?”

“MO-OM! I hate that joke.”

“Yeah, yeah. Now, listen. I didn’t mean we needed to talk about what you’re doing on the game. We need to talk about you shouting at it and throwing a far-too-expensive-to-be-tossed-around controller.”

“oh.”

“yeah, oh. How many times have we talked about this already?”

He shrugs, the way children do when they know any answer they give is not going to help their case.

“More than once?”

“Yeah.”

“Then that’s once too many. So look, you know the drill. When you get pissed off, it is absolutely not okay to throw things that you will regret breaking later. That’s how people get hurt. if you don’t learn to control that temper now, then one day it could be a person you love that you hit instead of a toy. It could be someone special you throw around and break or lose instead of a controller. Do you get that?”

He nods his head, but she is unconvinced that he understands the entire lesson, so she goes on.

“Here’s the thing… life is kind of like a video game. We all have obstacles to face. We all have to complete our missions which are our lives and making the most of them. We have plenty of enemies that can kill us even if we do everything the way we think we should. We have to proceed carefully sometimes and run full blast without looking others—the trick is knowing when to do one or the other. We have to fight battles with bosses like cancer or losing our loved ones or depression. It’s very much like a video game for each and every person. The only difference is you only have once to get it right with real life, you get me? We are here but once. When we have these talks, I’m trying to make sure you do get it right and complete the mission to make the most of the shot you have. And really we have these talks so I can make sure *I* make the most of the one life I have—because helping you be the best man you can be is part of my mission. Understood?”

He nods his head and gives her a hug. “I like it when you talk video games, Mom.”

She hugs him back, full of love for the geek she is raising. “I know.”

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Sunday Confessions! The prompt was lost which, of course, made the gamer in me think of lost lives and this conversation with the kid. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for reading. And be sure to check out the other submissions on More Than Cheese and Beer

Quiet Thoughts and Neverending Yammer

I am an introverted mother parenting the most extroverted child.

There are times when I feel like I am completely out of my league on this. To say I get "overwhelmed" would be like saying I only roll my eyes on occasion during football season on Facebook... With those statements we're getting out of understatement territory and into outright, bold-faced lying.

[sigh.]

Anyone who really knows me knows that I love my son immensely, and most of my world is him. But, until I became a mother I didn't know that a person could actually physically talk this much without passing out from lack of oxygen. His mouth never stops. On the toilet, in the shower, in his sleep, while he's watching television, playing a game, and while he does his schoolwork....it never, ever ends. He has never figured out that some things can be thought without being said aloud, and sometimes I'm pretty sure he'll never figure it out. This is simply who he is.

To add to that, he hates being in his bedroom or anywhere that doesn't involve being around another person. At times, a pet will substitute, but there always HAS to be someone in the room or with him to listen to his nonstop chatter. I bought a desk for him to do his schoolwork (we homeschool) and every single day I have to remind him that schoolwork should be done at his desk. He will bring his workbook into the kitchen where I'm washing dishes and even though he's too short to do so comfortably, he will damn sure try to complete the work on the counter. Out loud. Even as I start wiping the counter off that he's working on...  After his work is done and has been graded and I have requested some "adult time" to peacefully write letters or work on my own school work while he does his own thing, he would literally rather sit in the living room on the laptop wearing headphones and turn a chair around to face the wall (if I decide to watch something he can't) than deal with being in his bedroom alone. This was actually worse when he was in public school. You'd think that being around children all day would give him his social fix, but he was forced to be quiet and sit still most of the day with no exceptions which honestly wreaked havoc on his brain. It was the ultimate torture. Every single day is spent with him essentially all up in my personal bubble filling it with all the words.

Here's where a lot of people might think that I should have thought about all this before I had a child, but see, that's the thing. You can't predict personality. All children aren't the same, and at 25, when I had him, I didn't really understand the depths of my own introversion either. It's not shyness. It's not a thing I can get over. It's part of WHO I am. Being social and being around others especially in crowds is exhausting to me. It's not that I never want to socialize--I do enjoy it. On my own terms. But, when I do, it wipes me out even if I only visit with a couple friends for a few hours. I prefer my own company most of the time. I loathe small talk and can be kind of intense when I really get into the depths of my conversations. I have a constant inner dialogue, avoid interaction with strangers when possible as much as possible, and I really start to get stressed when I've been active or overstimulated for too long without down time. And that's the key thing right there...It is physically and mentally painful for me to be too overstimulated. I reach a point where enough is more than enough.

My kiddo on the other hand GAINS all his energy from being active and from socializing...and, man, does his energy fucking build just by being in the same room as me. I have come to terms with the fact that just being within inches of my body means he actually absorbs all my energy through osmosis like some sort of life-essence sponge. He can talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere, about anything. He thinks aloud, plans aloud, dissects problems out loud. That's the way he works best. His ideas aren't even fully formed yet, and they're already spilling from his mouth in a sort of word salad...and often it's like the kind of salad a drunk college kid would make when he comes home from a night of binge drinking and throws together whatever he can find in his dorm--cheerios, vienna sausages, powdered donuts, and spaghetti-o's. Oh, and some ramen for texture. That's how his ideas form though... He's not talking to me so much as at me...that's something I had to learn. He surely talks TO me way beyond my comfort zone, but there are just as many times that the conversation is taking place all within the air between us with him having no desire for a response.

The fact that I don't really have to talk back half the time doesn't mean that the constant drone and chatter doesn't wear me down eventually. By the time I sit down to write or work on a class assignment, I'm actually begging for peace and quiet. No exaggeration. He doesn't understand that I could actually want to be alone. With myself. In my own world. His brain doesn't work that way and he can't possibly comprehend why I don't work the way he does.

It's a constant struggle. I reach my limits, ask for peace, he tries to be quiet, reaches his, and we're back to square 1. I don't know the quick fix right now... I don't know how to make it work better than it is. We're working on it, and we'll figure it out eventually. But, I think the important thing is to highlight that struggle because I'd be willing to bet that someone reading this knows someone who goes through the same thing who is constantly being told her (or his) child will grow out of it or that it will get better or that she should have thought about all that before having kids...basically, she's not getting to vent, she's getting no support, and her very real issues are being largely ignored by people who very likely treat her like she has a disorder instead of understanding that it's just part of WHO she is... So to you, dear readers, don't be that dickhead who doesn't try to understand. Capeesh?

And when you see a mother, maybe even a mother like me covered in tattoos with short hair and a long-haired, endlessly chattering boy in tow, don't judge her for not responding to every little thing that boy says. I've seen the looks when I'm in Target trying to get things done and some other mom rolls her eyes and sighs like I'm the worst fucking human being on the face of the planet for not responding to every little thing. I can assure you that I've talked to that kid more than you possibly could imagine in the time leading up to our shopping trip, and I can also assure you that he's not going to shrivel up and die because he's not getting my undivided attention so that we may get what the fuck we need to get done and get out so he can talk some more. There's always more to the story, obviously, than what you can gather in passing a person in the pet food section...


This has been another Sunday Confession with More than Cheese and Beer. Please, please, please go check out the other contributions on the MTCAB page and the anonymous confessions on the Facebook page. Also, check out the Halloween Giveaway (pee-wee scream) that I'm taking part in with this blog and several others. Details here, on Facebook, and on the MTCAB page :)

Remember That Time...?

It never fails, and I always sort of dread it--my mom will be sitting at the table with us during a family dinner

me...in that other life

or holiday or special occasion and she’ll tell a story from my childhood or maybe my brother’s back from times before my parents were divorced. There’s never that look of familiarity or recognition on my face during these stories and she’ll ask me if I remember what she’s talking about perhaps because she sees my blank look or perhaps out of habit.

I never do.

My parents separated when I was in 7th grade in my 13th year of life. Their relationship was tumultuous at best plagued with problems from the start. My mom was young when they met and from a problem home where she’d suffered abuse of every sort and had already been through so much shit in her life that maybe my dad didn't seem all that bad. He was, though… Drug and drink-addicted, mean, sexist, violent, and a bit of a criminal—growing and selling the substances he loved most, making ‘shine, and really not giving a shit about the law in any sense. The world was his oyster, and rules were for assholes.

this was his nickname for a reason

It’s not surprising, I suppose, that he didn’t exactly make for a stable childhood.

I don’t have many memories from that time in my life before age 13. I have stories shared with me by my mom and my brother. I have clips and hazy images of fights, of heartache, pain, and suffering. I have residual feelings of fear, of not knowing what it was going to be like when my father walked through the door likely already drunk from sticking around after his welding jobs were done on the farms where he worked and having a few while he talked shit in his way with the “guys.” There are fading voices in my head that echo the names I was called when I was younger. And I have memories of what it was like when I lived with him for a year and a half before I turned 16 during which time I was beaten, raped and blamed, turned onto drugs and alcohol, and saw him beaten, high, drunk, arrested, in jail, and so fucked up on cocaine that his nose would bleed and he couldn’t move...not to mention the various women that were in and out of his life who were inevitably even more fucked up than he was.

I still flinch when someone raises a hand in my vicinity even for something so benign as a high five.

There have been so many times in movies and on tv that you see someone suddenly remember what they have forgotten with a little help. They unlock repressed memories and suddenly recall all the horrible things that happened to them that were buried deep within the recesses of their minds. It’s not like that for me though. In high stress environments, storing memories is low priority for a child’s brain and eventually affects their ability to remember things for the rest of their lives. It’s not that anything is locked away to be forgotten until some day in the future when the key to the box magically presented itself; there was simply nothing there to forget. There's no box, no key to unlock it. I cannot forget what I never stored in the first place...it's just part of having that kind of life as a kid.

As a mother, I strive so hard to make sure my son will be filled to the brim with memories. We haven’t

always had the easiest life. There have surely been struggles for us, but no matter what we have made the best of our time together. I like to imagine the two of us sitting at a dinner table surrounded by family with me asking him if he remembers the time we turned boxes into miniature cars for a night at the “drive-in” or the time he peed in the cat’s bowl or when he got his first vinyl record. I imagine he'll smile and share my laugh at old times without the blank looks, the questions, the empty files where memories should be stored. I imagine that he feels secure and warm instead of so alienating, so abnormal and weird. I want that for him...those nostalgic laughs that light up our eyes when we relive those shared moments over a cup of coffee while the grandkids play in the living room making memories of their own.

My hope is that his life is so filled with warmth and laughs that there’s too much for him to possibly remember it all.

The prompt this Sunday for Sunday Confessions with More than Cheese and Beer was Forget. I hope you'll check out all the other linkups on her blog and the anonymous confessions on Facebook!

Revenge Is Golden

I awoke that morning to the sound of little feet running through the house. I bolted up in bed. See, that wasn't the normal wake-up routine. Typically, when my son woke up, he would come straight to my room and stand over me on my side of the bed mouth-breathing heavily, eyes creepily wide, and half toddler-whisper/half pant a "Good morning, Mama...."

It looked a little something like this:

But, on that particular morning there was no toddler creepshow. There was only the sound of feet running which could have meant complete and total destruction would await me when I stepped into the living room. In those first half-asleep moments, I imagined a horrorfest of overturned trash cans, a kitchen full of spilled milk and condiments, and a floor full of legos I would have to cross like hot burning coals in order to stop the little maniac from demolishing the place to the ground. 

When I walked out the bedroom door, however, things were eerily quiet and, at first glance, there was not a single thing out of place nor a child to in sight. 

What. The. Actual. Fuck. is all a mother can think in times like these. When you know how hellbent on destruction your child can be yet he suddenly plays the role of the perfect angel, you have to be skeptical. Giving him the benefit of the doubt has proven you wrong so many times before...

I started looking around the house inspecting everything for any signs of jelly hand prints, chocolate milk spills, hair cut with scissors I certainly don't think I left out but who knows, the candy hidden away in the pantry, poop...something was afoot, and I was determined to track it down. 

It didn't take long. 

After inspecting most of the living room and kitchen, I rounded the corner to check out the pantry and found a huge yellow puddle in  and around the cat's bowl. 

I called to the kid, my wise-cracking 3 year old, and asked what that mess could possibly be. 

Him: Looks like pee. The cat must've done it. 

Me: That's an awful lot of pee. 

Him: He drinks a lot. 

Me: I don't think he could have possibly drank enough to fill up that bowl and get it all over the floor. He's not that big. At that point, I raised my eyebrows and gave him the look. The mom look that says I know some shit just went down that I'm not going to be happy about, and it would be best if he would just tell the truth and get it over with. That look. It almost always worked when he was that age. 

Him: Well, he did it in my bathtub first!

My 3 year old revenge-peed in the cat's bowl. 

This story was part of a link up with Indecisively Blogging! You can find her post and others' here: