Being vindictive & still fighting demons...

During a conversation with another single mom I know, we came upon the subject of being vindictive. This is a subject that I have fought my own demons over because I have several things that still make me feel this way.

I try to make a conscious effort not to think vindictively. I really hate the fact that certain people have done things either to me or to others that have caused me to dislike them so much that it makes me feel triumphant to “get a jab in” or see something unpleasant headed their way.

In a perfect world, people wouldn’t do things to others that would make anyone wish bad things on them. We would all be respectful of everyone’s feelings, everyone’s choices, everyone’s bodies, and everyone’s belongings. This isn’t a perfect world.

So, on the cusp of Halloween when mischief is in the air, I’d like to ask that we stop and consider whether we are about to do something that is going to make someone want to seek revenge on us later.

As some of us know, it’s really hard to get toilet paper out of trees…

Happy Halloween!!!!

My mom always said we came from the pumpkin patch...

Dude! Did you see the size of that thing?


Must. Escape.

I know I saw the perfect one over here somewhere...


Hay rides mean yelling "Hey!" at everyone else.

Of course, the required messy face picture...

It's not good if you don't get some on you...

Where the steam leaves the boiler...

That spot, white hot and glowing red, able to take your skin with it after only the briefest of touches.

That’s where I am now. I see it burning. I feel it burning.

I’ve laid my finger on it and I’m praying it doesn’t take my skin with it when it goes because for now I’m craving the burn.

Tear me wide open with your words, your touch, your smile, and the visions you see shimmering in the future like a mirage.

You’re all that I’ve been hoping for, I just pray you stay that way. Please don’t put on a show for me. I can’t stand anymore deceit.

You’re building pressure and I’m letting off steam and it all seems to fit so well together that I can’t see how it didn’t happen sooner. It’s still so new I’m afraid it’s going to take the skin and leave me raw and hurt. Burnt out on hope.

I need this. Damn, do I need this. I’m just not sure if it’s something that happens in real life. Do some dreams really come true or am I going to be soggy and red-faced, damp from the steam and left out in the cold?

Putting the nightmares in my past...

I want to write some thoughts out but the cursor is sitting here mocking me. My thoughts are a jumbled mess of sweet nothings, warm fuzzy feelings, and echoing screams from my past.

My damned past. Lessons learned the hard way. They suck and they definitely leave a lasting impression. I can still hear the sheer terror in my voice from the afternoon it all went to hell in a hand basket. I can feel the pain as fresh as the moment my wrist hit the ground. It leaves me ragged and torn when I wake in the darkness; grateful in a way that I’m waking alone but wishing in another way that there was someone there that didn’t frighten me, too.

Maybe one day.

I go back and forth between trying to let it go and move on and letting it surface again to taunt my every decision. I try to live my life the best way I know how and not let my past scare me away from every smile and kind word from anyone of the male persuasion but it isn’t always easy. I hate him for doing this to me, for planting that seed of potential evil in men.

I see the dark side of all the great qualities in men that I liked so much before. Tall men tower over me now, and not always in that tall-drink-of-water kind of way anymore either. Broad shoulders roped with muscles thrill me and terrify me all at the same time. He’s made me fear the power I see in those beautiful characteristics and I just want to punch him in the nuts for it. Lousy bastard. Why did he have to use the things that attracted me to him to begin with against me?

Well, to hell with him and all the pain he put me through.

I’m trying now. I’m trying to go on and find a better person to share my life with, someone who is worthy of all the great things I have to offer. I’m talking to a really sweet guy now who has a child of his own that lives with him.

We’re just taking it a day at a time and seeing how it goes. So far, it’s been really wonderful and terrifying and there’s been so much laughter and hand-holding (did I mention that he has these warm, callused but soft, big ol’ hands that are just…great…) and a few hugs and he smells sooooooo good and, well, let’s just say I could do this all day.

And slowly but surely, he’s bringing some light to the darkness when I wake up hurt and angry in the night. He’s giving me hope to draw my thoughts towards what’s coming instead of what’s already been.

I’m looking to the future and putting the nightmares in my past.

One night at a time.

I hate it when they grow up...

I’m fielding a barrage of questions, shot at me with rapid-fire speed, some discernable, some not. There’s a child wrapped around my leg, refusing to be loosened by my short shuffles as I try to make my way across a kitchen floor littered with small, pointy, slick toys.

He’s thirsty. I got that part. He wants a cup. Ok. I can do that. As soon as I can move from the spot where his sister has me grounded with her arm around my ankle and her head on my foot. His brother joins the chorus of pleas. He wants a cup, too, but not that one. The blue one. The one I just handed his brother.

She wants me to sit down. To stop moving for long enough for her to pin me to my seat with her weight in my lap and her head in the crook of my arm. All she wants is a few quiet moments with me where she can have her mommy moo-juice and I can push her hair out of her eyes with my finger and tuck it behind her ear. I can’t stop moving though. It is time to try to slowly start letting her grow up. I can feel it in my bones. I love the quiet moments stolen away in the middle of the night with her sweet sighs of contentment and my arms holding her secure to my breast but I hear the thunder of a thousand words in my head telling me I need sleep and I need to get up and do a million other things and I just need.

I’m feeling a little bit of pressure right now. It’s not my job. It’s not the house cleaning. It’s not the bills.

It’s age and presence and potty-training and breastfeeding and God-they-are-getting-so-big. When did they get so big? I hate it when they’re growing up.

But you should see the things they can do now.

And the running. There is running now. Lots of running. Tennis shoes that slap against the hardwood with so much force the world should tremble. But it doesn’t, it just echoes a little from the bare walls. I really need to hang those pictures. Who ever said the quote about the “pitter patter of little feet” hadn’t heard the loud clap of bigger feet yet. I’m sure of it.

I stop and catch their youth, only briefly, with the tiny camera in my cellphone. I send it to Mamaw. I show them off to my coworkers. “They are getting so big! Look at those long legs!” They age before my eyes. Tiny and cute just a moment before, now all arms and legs and limbs that were covered in baby plumpness just a few seconds ago. Where are my babies?

More running. They’ve got my heart and they’re escaping out the doorway to time untold and I can’t stop them. I can’t stop them from growing up but I want to so bad. I also want a full-night’s sleep, too. They say you can sleep when you’re dead. What if the lack of sleep is what kills me?

Spaces unseen...

It's a tug.

A quick pull.

Just a slight yank.

It's my heart.

Dammit. Don't be so hopeful.

Sunshine burns, too.

He sends me butterflies...