Perspective is everything. Change it and change it often.

Perspective is everything, and I'm not saying that because mine is perfect all the time or even half the time. But anyone who knows anything about anything and has lived longer than thirty years, (I'm biased, sorry),  understands the importance of looking from an objective eye. For instance, the other day I was sitting in church, and the lady beside me was picking off hitchhikers from a pink, wool scarf in her lap. This went on for what seemed like five minutes, but to the people behind her, this could have been longer depending on their attention span and focus level. To me, this was distracting, but I had to ask myself why. Was it because I was taught to sit still in church, be quiet, and pay attention, and she wasn't abiding by the rules that I had to abide by? Was it because I was trying to pay attention to the sermon and she was not, disrespecting me by not listening as hard as I was trying to? Or was I irritated because she was my best friend and she was not as interested in what I was interested in? Now if you take those three scenarios apart, you will notice one common denominator- the word I was present in all of them. My ideas were all self surrounded. If we think that way, we ignore the perspective of another, don't we? Instead of seeing my friend as a mom who just loved her little girl, and didn't want to see her favorite little, pink scarf torn up and ragged looking, I was seeing something totally different, and it was very singular and very one-sided. She could have been exasperated that her daughter had gotten hitchhikers all over her new scarf, and frustrated that the things that she spends her hard earned money on aren't treated nicely, the way she treated her things when she was a little girl. She could have been pulling those hitchhikers off the sweater because she knew she wouldn't have the time and energy to do it later. Whatever the reason that she found it important enough to disturb my time in church, it was not a good enough reason. But for who was it not a good enough reason? For me? Of course. Because again, I was thinking about numero uno. And we all do that. It's so sad how much we think of ourselves sometimes. We forget what life is all about.  We spend so much energy trying to make our own lives livable that we forget the golden rule. We ignore the things that matter.  We look at things from one direction and often do not even think that maybe, just maybe someone else might be going through something.
We think that when someone treats us poorly- maybe doesn't call for awhile, might not ping on Facebook, text us back, call during a crisis, send a card after one, etc., that he doesn't care enough, that he's not paying attention, not giving enough to the relationship. The reality is that he is probably going through something himself. Maybe it's not him that's the jerk- maybe it's you. Maybe you should have checked up on him. Maybe you could have gone the extra step to call a few more times, and sensed that the world doesn't revolve around you. Maybe your friend needs someone to talk to right now, and maybe he is holing inside a cold, scary place that needs you to come looking. Either way you look at it, people all hurt. We all do things differently, handle situations differently, and ultimately need each other regardless of how hard we might try to act like we don't.
I'm not really sure what prompted me to write about this tonight, but I guess I was feeling like I needed to take a step back and open my eyes. There is so much hurt out in the world that I hate to be a contributor, so I decided not to be.

Things are just things, and I want more.

I slept until 1pm today. It was just one of those days that you just wake up and know it's better for you to be sleeping. I don't have any cathartic moments to report on, no awakenings, nor any heart warming stories of how I saw someone overcome something that was sure to end in tragedy. Some days you are just lucky to be breathing, and today was one of them. Although I'm not sure if being alive on Earth is lucky.

It depends on how you look at it. Me personally? I am beginning to think more and more that being here is being cursed. Don't get me wrong, I am not depressed or ungrateful or whatever it would be that would cause someone to make that comment, but I realize more frequently that life is tough, and Heaven is not. Nothing came easy to anyone no matter how easy it might look. Nothing. Even something as simple as making a baby is not as simple as it looks. In fact, I found myself having a conversation with a friend tonight about freezing her eggs- a process that I'm pretty sure isn't as easy as it sounds. I'm no doctor, and I don't play one on tv, but it doesn't take a genius to see that childbirth is no easy feat. In fact, having anything in this life is not easy. Because then when you have things you have to worry about keeping them, you have to uphold your current state of affairs which in some weird way equates your normalcy. You have to worry about things being stolen from you, which plays tricks on your mind, which in turn can play tricks on your body. You are never without problems in this world.

People who live poor I would say are richer than those who live in the lap of luxury, because when you go without, you don't know what you are missing and if you don't feel like you are missing something, then are you really truly missing anything?

This brings me to my next point- that things are not enough. Things are simple, and people are complex. But we routinely find ourselves wanting things to fulfill ourselves, our lives. We spend so much time erecting and maintaining and buying these things, these homes, these faucets that pour fake comfort, just so we can be pleased for a short period of time that we  often ignore each other. We don't give enough, but we always want more. We don't share enough, but we always want others to offer more. We surround ourselves with these magnifiers of greed and blankets of beauty so much that we miss the point- that life is not about what you have, what you earn, what you see in front of you. It's what you give away that makes you. It's the intangibles that should be providing the comfort, and not the food and drinks and cars and activities that fill our days and steal our blessed moments. Perhaps we are missing the biggest picture-the picture of happiness that comes from just being with one another. Perhaps we are suffocating ourselves on things and not leaving room for the moments that arise from just being with one another in soberness, in shadows, outside or in. We are so selfish, and I am just as guilty as the next.

The Uncomfortable Phone Call

I had to make a particularly uncomfortable call the other day.

It started with an excited kid named Sarah bringing home an invitation in her green folder, the folder that I am instructed by Ms. Pender to open and look through on a daily basis, sign a sheet of paper saying I had reviewed it's contents, and then return to Sarah's book bag to go back to the teachers the next day of school, the same folder that I often forget to open until the car ride to school, the folder that has ended up crinkled in all the wrong places, that has been left numerous times at friends' houses. Why are children asked to keep up with important things? My guess is so that when they becomes adults they know how to do it.

The invitation is nothing fancy, as most invitations that come from a public school would not be. The paper is a little thicker than usual however, and has a pretty red font- apropo for it's date to take place of February 9. At the very top of the page it's written in swirly font, much like Sarah's favorite way to write her letters these days when she is being "fancy." Her bff, Riley has made the font popular also. Apparently, little girls like to copy each other.

The Third Annual Daddy-Daughter Dance at Elizabeth Traditional is what it reads in its cutesy swirly font in red and black. When Sarah got it out of her book bag and showed it to me, I immediately was trying to think of ways to explain that her daddy would not be going to the third annual dance with her (or probably fourth or fifth or sixth for that matter). Her father has not called her since her last birthday- May 30, 2012, when he told her he would take her shopping and buy her that DS that she's been asking for since she was tucked nicely in my womb. I was infuriated, and with right. I had been correct. He never called back, and we haven't heard from him since. To go into what a piece of shit he is would take too long, so I'll let you dig into that one on your own. It's pretty cut and dry. I'm sure you are already forming your judgement. Don't let me stop you.

"Can we call daddy and ask him to come with me," she yelled with excitement from the backseat of my Buick Park Ave adorned with stickers on the window where she sits, and complete with green stars she drew on the back of my seat, "to make it pretty." That was an ugly moment in time we won't dive into. You can only imagine the verbiage that was strangled in my throat when I opened the door to see that sight. Eyes bulging, teeth gritting. It was not pretty for Sarah Fairley that afternoon. I don't use a belt if that's what you were thinking. In fact, I don't think I even spanked her, even at my mother's seemingly constant urging. I think spanking is not effective on girls, but what do I know? I have stars drawn all over the backseat, (door and ceiling- I was being modest) of my car.

"No. Your father probably won't be able to go, honey. I'm sorry. I don't know how to get in touch with him," I reluctantly say with a huge lump in my throat. "Why not? You don't know his number?"
"No. I'm sorry. He didn't give it to me." I deflect, making sure she knows that it is not MY fault that he is not in touch with her. She has before told me that she thought it was my fault that he didn't stop by anymore. Truth be told, it was. I told him he wasn't welcome to drop by whenever the spirit moved him, or when the guilt became unbearable. I think he took that as NEVER call her anymore. Or at least, I know that he's using that as his excuse. I know that turd. That's his lie to himself to try to make himself feel better. He knows the truth deep inside, but it hurts sometimes, doesn't it? We all have occasionally sick and disturbing ways of coping with our inequities, but for some reason, many men, not all men, but many, seem to be able to blame women for theirs, and have this amazingly intense detachment gene that I for one, will never understand.

She put the invitation back in her green folder and we rode down Independence Blvd. at 6:03 in the dark, both silent, both almost hypnotized by the blaring Christian music I had turned up a few decimals to ease the pain, and erase my evil thoughts of murder and tying balls as tight as possible in a sling and letting go, catapulting 1000 feet in the air. I like Christian music stations. Some songs are cheesy, but some of the songs are really good. I never liked that type of music growing up. Songs of sex, drugs, and things that got you in trouble were way cooler. I was never exposed to that type of music by my parents, at least in the car. Thinking now, I wish I had been. I hope to God that Sarah doesn't turn out rotten like I was. It's obvious that she doesn't have all the things that I did, but it's good because I was a little bitch to my Mom. Regrettably so.

Sarah never seems to be bothered long after we have those conversations about her missing father. I'm hoping that her feelings aren't going inward, only to manifest in the teenage years. I don't think that's happening. In fact, I think Sarah is very normal considering. (Her mom is a weirdo, and her father is absent.)
I'm joking about being weird. I prefer the word eccentric. But honestly, I like to think my positive outlook rubs off on her. Things don't bother me, and they rarely bother her. I don't stew, get bitter, get revenge. She forgives quickly. I try to let things roll off- most of the time. When it comes to Sarah though, it's different.

You  DO NOT fuck with my child. And what he does to her, is the epitome of fucking with her. It bothers me to no end when I think about it, so I try not to. So when we have these two minute conversations about dillweed (what I call him), I am usually torn up for days afterward, whereas she just lets it roll off. It's like we trade places. She becomes the mom, the insightful one- unlike me, and I become the child who doesn't understand. Only, the truth is, and this is sort of scary- the truth is- she gets it.

She knows not to expect anything from him, which is the most sad for me somehow. The roles are reversed, and she knows that he won't come through, probably because she has rarely seen it happen. He's been fly by night her whole life. She doesn't set the expectation high like I do. She hasn't seen anything else, and has nothing to compare it to. Grinchlike, the thought shrinks my heart three times when I think of her situation- of her father's pathetic demise, but in reality, it's smart of her. She won't have to expect anything from him, and she won't in turn be let down when he doesn't come through.

A few weeks passed. All the while, I was banking on Uncle Brad to come through like he always does. He's the good brother- the dillweed's brother, who incidentally dislikes the dillweed as much as I do, probably more in fact. He grew up with him for 16 years. I only had 3 years for him to turn me away. Brad is the good father to his kids who are 1, 6, and 9. He's happily married, and a good role model even though he does like the Cubs. I don't hold that against him. After all, I still have a Cubs sticker on my car that dillweed stuck on the back window without my knowledge thinking he was being funny. For some reason I haven't taken it off. Guess it somehow ties me to his family, which I have adopted as my own. When we split, instead of taking the bedroom suite, I took the family. Everything was mine to begin with- the house, the cars, the debt. I just lost every shred of dignity I had somehow mustered up through the years, and that has been a slow, but steady recovery.

In a text I ask abruptly, "Brad, will you take Sarah to the Daddy Daughter dance at her school next weekend? Pretty please?" Normally, I would have had Sarah call him and ask him, but he called me out on it recently, calling my method, "being slick." I believe his exact words included "everyone is manipulative when they know they can be." I stopped dead in my tracks, although at the time I was snuggling under the blanket at their house on the new leather Laz-z-boy that Carole bought in a fit of weakness, and rarely snuggles up in herself. I was busted. I knew it was sneaky to have Sarah call. All parents know that trick, and if you don't use it, then you are a fool. There are times when you need to utilize the tools you have no matter how rusty they might be. That just happens to be mine on a Friday night and I was last minutely asked to a girls' night out on the town. I know what I'm doing, and Brad knows my sorcery, but I still do it sometimes. For this occasion, I figured I better not risk the immediate "NO!" which I rarely hear.

Last weekend Brad said he would be happy to take her, and when he did, he did something that was reminiscent of a leprechaun dance. I'm still not sure what that was. I had to ask what he was doing. He laughed. Sarah informed me previously that she did not want to go with Uncle Brad unless MacKenzie, her cousin, went along too. In my mind, the thought of MacKenzie and Brad  and Sarah at the dance was kinda shrinking of the idea of spending quality time with her uncle one on one, but as I think about it now, it seems kind of silly- especially after the call I had with Ms. Nelson today. No, she wasn't Ms. Nelson, from the famous childhood book, Ms. Nelson is Missing, which scared the heck out of me as a child. Like all other children who read it, I did not like that mean, ugly substitute teacher either. When in reality we all know that most substitute teachers are most likely 69 years old and stand about 4'11 in stature- just about as scary as your great grandmother. Well, now that I think about it, maybe that's not a good comparison. Great grandma Howell was pretty scary as I recall, always sitting in that same room in that little house that smelled like dust and with tons of machines making all kinds of weird noises around her and tubes coming from every direction like octopus legs sneaking up on an unassuming plankton.

I called Elizabeth and asked for whomever was in charge of the Daddy Daughter Dance. The answer was not what I was looking for, but it was the answer I got. I guess secretly I was looking for Mr.Slattery, the school assistant principal., who I feel I have a connection with somehow. Maybe it's because I sat in his office, maybe it's because he knows my little girl. Maybe it's because he's just a nice guy, and probably around my age. Either way, I was transferred to Miss Nelson. I was fine with that. She was a teacher, not an assistant, which for some reason made me happy, I guess it was knowing that she had more pull than an assistant. Although, I like Sarah's teacher assistant more than her lead teacher. She told me she prays for me "more than you know". We share a tear most occasions we come into contact, which is probably monthly. I feel like I've known her for years, and she always leaves me feeling warmth in my heart after I see her and we get the chance to say a few words. That's all it take sometimes.

Miss Nelson, who sounded young, I'm guessing in her twenties, was receptive in answering my call. "Hi, this is Miss Nelson." It takes some getting used to for me, calling adults by their last name. At first, I wanted to know everyone's first name. I like being on a first name basis with people. It just makes sense to me as an adult, but not in elementary school and not in college. I'm vaguely remembering now. It's a sign of respect. It doesn't mean that you aren't going to have a good relationship. It just shows that you will respect that person that you are calling Miss so-n-so or Mr. so-n-so. Still. I volunteer at Myers Park, and I still don't want the girls calling me by my last name. It just feels weird, and it'll make me feel old, which is probably true, and I like running from the truth sometimes damn it.

"Hi Miss Nelson. This is Brooke Fairley. How are you?" Typical introduction if you are a Fairley. I explained that Sarah, my youngen  (love that word), was in Kindergarten, and that she had expressed that she wanted to go to the DDD (Daddy Daughter Dance), but she was missing the first of the trifecta. I think my words were, "her father is nowhere to be found." Never been accused of being subtle. It's definitely not my strong suite, and I'm fine with it for now.

I can joke about it now, but in that moment that I was sitting on Mom's couch sounding out those words the moment was less jovial, and more uncomfortable. There was a lump, and it turned itself into a series of  high pitched sentences that barely squeezed out of my throat. I was embarrassed, but more than that, I was sad. It was actually hitting me- that I needed to explain to some foreign person that Sarah did not have a father, and moreover it was not easy for me to say, nor to admit. And the combo of recognizing and admitting it aloud was too much for the both of us. She was probably thinking to herself, "Omg, what do I say to this mom?" And I was thinking to myself, "Omg, how do I say this without crying?" No matter what came out of both of our mouths, we both knew what the story was. She had heard it before, seen it before. I had told it before, and live it everyday. My question to her, was this, "Can Sarah's cousin come with her? She wants her to go." I probably could have spinned it better, but at the time being, that's the best I could do with what I had.

Miss Nelson explained very nicely to me that almost of the girls that attend Elizabeth go to the DDD, grand totaling close to 300 little princesses, and that there is simply not enough room to allow non-students to come. That it's great fun, that there's cake involved and pictures, and group dancing- mostly girls. She said the "daddies" mostly hover around the edges of the room, looking useless, probably sending text messages, checking the scores on their Iphones, and probably drinking from a flask. That's my rendition of it anyway.

I think she misunderstood my request. I wasn't telling her that Sarah was shy, that she didn't want to go to the dance unless she had her cousin. No, that couldn't be further from the truth. She would walk into packed courtroom as the star witness, not bat an eye, waltz right past the juror box and wink at the judge. She was born with no fear, no worry. My daughter could give a class on class, and I should probably sign up for it. But the point is, she didn't want Mackenzie to go because she felt worried that she wouldn't fit in, that she wouldn't know anyone. I think she wanted her cousin there to ease the stark reality- that Uncle Brad was not her beloved daddy. She might be young, but we're never too young to be wise.

It could be that she just loves her cousin. Maybe I'm reading too deeply into it, when really there is no hidden meaning, no intrinsic story, just a kid who wants to be with her cousin. Either way, it was not an easy call to make, and if I'm correct in my assumption, there will be many more calls like that in my future, many more explanations to Sarah of why her daddy doesn't call or come for Christmas or bring her gifts on her birthday. There will be many more heartbreaks for me. She will probably not feel the pangs as hard as I will, because she doesn't know what it's like to have a daddy who does the right thing, who supports her, who loves her. She might one day, but until that happens, I will be happy to be both superstar mom and makeshift dad. If I ever have a doubt about what my gifts are, taking care of her will never be one them. It's a privilege. 

The Open House

A few days ago we, meaning Sarah and I, attended Sarah's open house for her new elementary school. Yes, my little squirt is going to be a BIG squirt now. It's official, they've allowed my daughter, Miss Sarah Lane Fairley to bestow her omnipotent presence in Ms. Pender's Kindergarten class. She doesn't even know what  she's in for, and I'm not talking about Sarah. From hence forward, when you say the word kindergarten or any derivative of the word kindergarten, you should say it passionately, like James Earl Jones would, as if he was reading directly from a script where he played a fearless lion named Mufasa that has practically become a standard staple in every child's library and on Broadway.

We rolled up in the very uncool, beat up mommy mobile, and directly into the wrong parking lot, which was designated for King's College students. I went the wrong way down one isle creating somewhat of a bear of a parking situation, when a very courteous male Nissan Pathfinder driver narrowly reversed his older model SUV out of a very tricky passageway that would offend a Mini Cooper just for little ole me. Moreover, he surprisingly did it without first throwing his hands in the air in exasperation or giving me the notorious "unbelievable" head shake. The fact that my enormous and overbearing beast of a Buick could have threatened his ride with a ding probably helped. It was either that or he thought I was 89 judging by my eyes that could barely see over the steering wheel, or the 1999 shiny silver Buick emblem gleaming from the dented hood, that had an impolite run on with a deer two years ago.  Guess who won that battle. Let's just say it wasn't a good day to be a deer on Hwy 51 that fall night.

Once I reparked in the neighboring and correct free parking lot, which was overgrown with weeds and loosely filled with gravel, we unloaded ourselves, after my normal long wait for Sarah to collect herself enough to get out of the car. I don't understand why it takes some people so long to get out of the car. My mother is the same way. I guess I can be at times, but if there is one pet peeve of mine, that's in the top ten.8 I guess it doesn't bother me too much or I would just be mad at the world.

Sarah grabbed my hand when we began our march to the front doors of the school, which were being held open by current students of Elizabeth Traditional. She doesn't hold my hand often, so when she does, I eat it up like a kid with a popsicle at the fair on the beach in July. I always tell her that I love it when she holds my hand. I'm convinced that she does things exactly opposite of what I like just to spite me. Oh my Gosh! I have become my mother. She used to say that to me all the time growing up- that I did the opposite of what she liked. It wasn't true. I just had total opposite taste of her. Now I'm scratching my head. How can genetics be so cruel? Sarah and I are blood related, and we are opposites too? How can that be? It'll be OK, but I will have to modify my level of need for control if we will coexist peacefully as she grows into the intolerable teenage years- what an awkward stage. I loathe the day that she will tell me no. When you are a child and you say no, it's not that bad. When you are a teenager, it becomes synonymous with adjectives like desolate and destructive, even disregarding.
As we walk into the school, which was swarming with sweaty bodies asking and answering questions, we looked at each other with wide eyes like we had just seen some homeless 50 year old wearing a pink high school prom T-shirt walking down the street talking to himself. I quickly spotted a hefty, older lady standing behind a cloth draped desk,  who was handing out Hershey's kisses. Naturally, I asked for "some," to which her reply was the silent type. She reached into the napkin lined painted white basket and grabbed one solo kiss and asked Sarah to hold out her little hand. She gingerly dropped it into her palm and directed a slight, almost sarcastic smirk at me. Maybe it was rude of me to assume the parents would be allowed to have a candy too. Come to think of it, it probably was. There were going to be over 500 kids there. How many bags would that be? A lot-too much for my mathematically challenged brain to correctly sum.

We made it down the corridor to Ms. Pender's room where inside there was this sound that made my skin crawl. It was the teacher's voice. Now don't get me wrong, I am no one to say that someone else is too Southern, but I am saying that the Southernness of Ms. Pender's voice is almost too Southern, too whiny, too oh...plain irritating. OK, so I said it anyway. She talks like she just stepped off the set of Steel Magnolias Gone Bad, and she was just about to turn a trick down behind Ruby's new hair salon down on the west side. I don't know if hearing that drawl makes my skin crawl because it brings me back to eighth grade, hearing the sound of Lindsay's voice saying something pleasant, but my eyes reading her lips saying "Fuck you, bitch. I could care less, what you think, so just shut your trap." In my eighth grade mind, everyone was a fake. I wonder why I thought that way. Maybe it was because girls are so mean. I was a victim of bullying, and there were times when I just wanted to lock myself in my room and play John Lennon's Imagine tape over and over, especially the song Strawberry Fields. It somehow was fitting at my most desperate moments. Irregardless of my weird turn offs, I smiled politely, like most plain white middle class moms would normally do, and introduced myself with a handshake. Hers was wimpy as I recall, which produced an almost instant sigh deep inside my soul. A person with a weak handshake strikes me as weak in general. I don't know if that's a valid argument, but I'll maintain my theory usually until I'm proven wrong. In this case, the determining factor will be Sarah's report cards and behavior check-ups. I hope to be dead wrong, but then again, none of Sarah's other teachers have had any behavioural concerns expressed to me. None of them have been in our house though either at 6pm as we ramble through the door, Sarah whining about having to "carry too much, " and me complaining right back that she "never carries enough." Shoes are always an issue in the car. She instantly takes them off when the door slams shut. Incidentally, I do too, so she comes by it naturally. I like my feet to feel free. So does she. But, I carry mine in, whereas she like to Amelda Marcusize the car with her stragglers.

There was another family who was meeting Ms. Pender at the moment, so I made it over to Ms. Reagan, her assistant, who looked to be nearing retirement age, and was obviously very humbled in her years. I liked her instantly, and I felt relieved that there was someone who was over the age of 30 taking the reigns with 23 new students, who may or may not have been privied to pre-school. I'm imagining that most of the students at Elizabeth Traditional have been to pre-school, which is a lottery school in CMS. The Brooke version of lottery in CMS essentially means your name is drawn out of a bingo type machine that spins names and numbers around until someone quickly and somewhat ineffectively crams their arm in the breezy spinning machine and fights to catch a slippery piece of thin paper. In reality, I doubt that's the way it happens at all. I would safely assume that there are lines drawn across the county, and each name from each section of the county in these unclear to the public lines, are then mashed together, and spawn from certain geographic areas of the county, there are a certain amount of names drawn from each section, making sure to sprinkle enough blacks with whites with Hispanics and the "others" which usually make up for about 5% of the population. That would explain why both me and Marsha got our girls in Elizabeth. We live in the same neighborhood, and incidentally, are both single moms, both homeowners, both hard workers, and both complete bitches. That's probably why we understand each other, why when we have arguments we just don't ever speak of them again- probably because we both think in our own minds that the other is wrong, but deep down, we both know we could have done something different, but it might very well kill us to admit we were wrong. So we just pretend like nothing ever happened.

With all of the commotion, I felt somewhat overwhelmed by it all. So I did what most people do when they feel uneasy, what everyone tells you to do when you are about to find out some bad news. I plopped it right down at the desk that was intended for a 5 year old, maybe 8, but that's pushing it. With my legs crammed underneath the shrouded desk with a name tag taped to the top of it, I began filling out forms. Oh Lord. The forms. You might as well buy a stamp that has your name, address and phone number on it because that's all you are filling out on these forms that probably wiped out an entire rain forest in Brazil. Who is allowed to pick up Sarah from after school? What are their phone numbers? What is Sarah allergic to? Nothing yet, but I'm picturing a severe ongoing, almost immediate allergic reaction to homework starting in the second grade and lasting throughout college. What is the father's name? I put Immaculate Conception right there in the name slot.  You think I'm joking? I'm serious. I bet they will make me fill that out again. I think I made a disparaging comment on that line at Briar Creek Preschool when I first signed her up there, to which one of the ultra-Christian teachers, did not find amusing. I thought it was pretty funny. I think I put low life scumbag in the name line. She asked me to rewrite that page. I did begrudgingly, and I believe I just left the name part blank. I can't recall. I think at that point, Paul may have been more prevalent in Sarah's life. But even then, that meant seeing her once every couple months for a few hours. Now, he goes six months to a year without seeing her. It breaks my heart. But therapy will probably help one day, when I decide to take the plunge and delve into all of my twisted thoughts with someone who can dissect each one of them, shrinking my mind to the point of near breakdown.The thought is repulsive.

As I am sitting there, all scwunched up, back hunched over, and madly scribbling names and addresses and filling in blanks with checks and flipping pages, I realized that I am the only single parent in the room, and for a moment, I felt empty inside. Pouring inside the large doorway were moms and dads, with other children, pushing strollers, introducing themselves as Addie's mom, or Mile's dad. I suddenly felt alone, insecure, shrunken down, and small enough to fit at the very desk that I was uncomfortable cramming my legs under. It was as if I was the elephant in the room, and everyone was wondering where my husband was. Where is Sarah's dad their minds wondered. Who is Sarah's dad? Does she even know who Sarah's dad is? I'm sure those thoughts were probably not roaming the minds of these new kindergarten parents to be. They were concerned with book bag sizes and whether or not a gummy snack was considered a fruit or not. They wanted to know where the drop off line began, and what time lunch would be so they could make sure that they left their offices in time to make it to the lunchroom to sit with their now big kindergarten kid. Of course, no one was thinking about me and Sarah. But I was thinking about it. I couldn't help but feel slightly sorry for myself for a fleeting moment. After all, even Riley's dad was there with Marsha, and she can't stand the sight of him. She doesn't hate him enough to put him in her phone as "Can't Standhim" like I did in replacement for his actual name which is Paul, which is what Sarah calls him when he does grace her with his ever alcohol wreaking  presence. I couldn't help but think how nice it would be to have a husband who cares about us, who wants to be there at school functions and actually owns a camera for taking pictures, instead of from his cell phone, which will eventually get lost or broken, never having printed out any actual paper copies- memories left just as naked as the word. Those are such trivial things in the grand scheme of it all, but the trivial things, I've found, are what make life grand. And we are guilty of ignoring them. We are guilty of not being thankful enough, of not recognizing each other for the happiness that we arrive from knowing and loving one another. I was guilty of being jealous. Sarah was just happy to find her cubby and hug her friends, Riley and Maddie, whom I'm sure she will somehow pick a fight with on the reg.

All in all, the open house went well. It met my expectations, and we left holding hands just as we had when we walked in.

quick, to the point- me and Sarah

I should start by saying that I am not your typical, woe is me, I'm all alone doing this child rearing thing, oh God, What do I have to live for kinda pathetic excuse for a woman, Mom. I am independent, self-motivated, happily setting the standard for middle class, and exuberant to be on this journey of motherhood alone. In fact, I'm not alone. I have Sarah, my brilliant co-pilot. She's funny, somewhat sneaky, yet adorable and only a whopping 4 yrs old. My mini-me. The mascot of all mascots, the Princess, the Biscuit. I'm the queen. We are a dynamic duo, not to be reckoned with. I'll expand more later...