What a doubter I was.

When I last posted, we had received no inspection report, just a statement from the folks who cleaned the carpet. We were waiting patiently on the apartment complex’s confirmation that they had walked through The Egg Donor’s (ED) apartment and it looked just sparkling clean. I was frustrated with My Hubby for not taking further, more immediate action to get the report–like withholding visitation until she complied.

I think I made a statement along the lines of: We might not have this kind of opportunity again.

Silly me.

The kids did go to her lair of filth for the weekend, the very day after the carpets were cleaned. And they did come home clean.

That was about the only good part of their weekend. They were trainwrecks of epic proportions. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Velma cried and melted down that first night back more than I’ve seen her do in years. Shaggy spent the entire evening cleaning up after everyone–to the degree that he was hovering over the table, as we finished eating dinner, trying to put away the salad dressing I was still holding in my hand. Daphne was sullen and silent, then animated and shrill. It was bizarre.

After Velma’s last meltdown, which involved screaming and crying, rushing for the stairs, stomping up them, and otherwise completely freaking out–over the loading of her dinner dishes into the dishwasher–I called a family meeting.

“Let’s discuss,” I said. “I know transition is hard, but this kind of behavior from you guys is unusual, to say the least. What the heck is going on?”

My Hubby nodded beside me. “Truthfully, guys. We’re concerned. This just isn’t like you.”

Velma started first, big tears filling her eyes. She told us it had been a rotten weekend. Yes, the carpets were clean, and ED had even had the carpet company spray some sort of deodorant in the carpet that made everything smell like flowers. That was nice (not so much in my book, since the sickly sweet smell permeated everything they had). But there had been yelling… lots of it. It was their fault that the cat had to go. Their fault that the carpets had to be cleaned. Their fault that the animals weren’t already housetrained.

Irresponsible children, they were. They couldn’t even keep their bedroom doors closed. Did they think that was so much to ask? And now all of this action had to be taken… because of them. As if to make the point more indelible than it was, Velma and Daphne hadn’t even been allowed to get things out to play with. The second that anything was on their floor, even if they were on the floor with whatever it was, in the midst of playing with it, yelling would start again, followed by demands to put it all away. Irresponsible children. Dirty children. Messy children. Ridiculous.

And? The responsibility for crate-training the dogs fell squarely on their shoulders. Since they were the ones who couldn’t be bothered with keeping their doors closed, they would be in charge of taking all of the animals out each morning and each night. They would be responsible for cleaning up any messes that might occur. They would be responsible for all of it. They wanted it cleaned up? They could be in charge of getting it that way.

Nice.

Shaggy’s head bobbed in agreement as the words poured from Velma’s lips. He stared at the floor, never once looking up to meet my eyes or My Hubby’s. He swiped at his eyes a couple of times, but said nothing. When Velma was finished, My Hubby asked if Shaggy thought Velma’s rendition of events was accurate. He nodded silently.

“Anything you want to add?” My Hubby queried.

Shaggy’s head said no. Still no words.

“How about you?” I asked Daphne, hoping that she would open up.

“Can I just talk to you alone?” she answered.

We agreed, and spent some time giving big hugs to Velma and Shaggy, muttering “I’m so sorry” in their ears, and trying to reassure them as best we could. My Hubby was seething. I could see it written all over his face. I was furious, as well. How dare they, ED and her waste of a boyfriend Letch, treat these kids like that? Poor little monkeys, just trying to get through their daily lives, feeling the weight of that kind of responsibility on their shoulders. They were so confused. How could they not be?

When Velma and Shaggy looked calmer, we sent them upstairs so we could talk to Daphne.

She just burst forth with her information, like it had been welling up in her for some time.

“I know why Mom had the carpets cleaned,” she said.

“Hmmm,” said My Hubby.

“I do,” she insisted. “Letch told me this morning.”

“What did he tell you,” I wondered.

“He told me that the cops were there. That Social Services was there…”

We waited.

“I got up early and went out to the kitchen. He was standing at the sink doing something and I just told him how glad I was that the carpets were clean, that the house was clean, that he’d done ALL of my laundry. It’s NEVER been so clean before. I was excited and grateful.”

We waited some more, she wrung her hands in her lap and stared at the tabletop.

“He said in a nasty tone, ‘Yeah, well, we didn’t have much of a choice. Social Services was here and so were the cops. Thanks A LOT!’ And then he stomped off to the bedroom.”

“Wow,” I breathed. “Did you talk to your Mom about that?”

She nodded.

“Well, what did she tell you?” asked My Hubby with amazing restraint.

“She didn’t really say anything. She was just mad that he talked to me about it.”

“As well she should have been,” he said. “We weren’t planning on discussing this with you at all–because there was no need to. But it seems like you are pretty scared, and unsure of what’s going on. So let’s chat.”

He folded his hands in front of him on the table.

“Look at me,” he said.

She complied and he began to explain.

None of the other tests were conclusive either, so we agreed to wait a month and see if her thyroid levels went up.  If they did, the vet thought she could say, unequivocally, that my kitty was hyperthyroid and begin to treat her.

The month crept by.

I had her teeth cleaned, and one removed, waiting nervously the whole time, hoping that she would make it through the anesthesia alright.  The vet was nervous, too, given the heart murmur, and almost insisted on having the kitty cardiologist see her first, but relented after much pleading from me.  It ended up being just fine.  BooBoo was stable through the whole procedure, and came home a much happier cat.

It was as if the anesthesia had mellowed her.  She tolerated all of the kids in a way she never had before, even climbing up into their laps for petting, something she had never done.  I felt like a bad pet parent, and wondered if she had a bad tooth for quite some time, a tooth that caused her pain and made her grouchy.

Shortly after the cleaning, she began to act like she was cold all the time, searching out more and more sunny spots, snuggling in more closely on my lap, and using my laptop as her personal heating pad.  After more than one time of having to return my keyboard to regular settings, I bought her a heating pad of her own.  It got installed just next to the piano and she took up constant residence there. It reminded me of her kittenhood, of the months she spent as a tiny black ball of fur, curled up in her warm box.

Flashes of kittenhood also came back to me at night.  She stopped sleeping on my pillow and started sleeping on my back instead, jumping up at regular intervals during the night, almost as if she’d been shocked, and leaping from the bed to go do whatever business she had to do.  I slept fitfully, carefully, afraid that if I turned over too suddenly she might fall off.

I worried.  I looked up all of the information I could find about hyperthyroidism in cats, agonized over the thought of paying a thousand dollars to do a radioactive iodine treatment, stressed about the side effects of medication, watched her lose more weight, became concerned when I could see the outline of her ribs… I wondered every day when I got home if she would still be there waiting for me.

The sight of her, bounding around the corner to greet me, sweet face tilted up, eyes locked on mine, was what I waited for, yearned for, hoped for.  My faithful friend.  I needed her.  I couldn’t stand the thought of being without her.

When the month was finally up, I took her back to the vet for another blood draw, praying that this one would be conclusive.  I thought that if we could just get a firm diagnosis, and get started on some treatment, perhaps it would be possible to get my kitty back to normal–no more cold, no more hyperactive, no more weight loss, happy kitty.

This time her thyroid levels were higher than the last–not high enough (said the vet) to be completely conclusive, but high enough to be fairly certain, high enough to start treatment.  She prescribed methimazole–the most common treatment–to be given twice a day.  She described some of the side effects–nauseau, vomiting, anorexia–and told me what to watch for.  She stressed that if BooBoo began having trouble breathing, or scratched herself extensively around her face, I needed to bring her in immediately.

Evidently the medication was horrific.  She hated it.  I tried Pill Pockets, secreting it in treats, and placing it as far back on her tongue as I could get it.  Nothing really seemed to help.

And she vomited… a lot.

She lost more weight.

And then some more.

And then she stopped eating altogether.

I had never paid attention to her food intake before, at least not on the side of making sure she had eaten enough.  But I noticed that I wasn’t filling her food bowl.  I noticed that she seemed to get more and more lethargic.  The vet had said that these were all side effects of the meds and we “needed to power through the first couple of weeks.”

I saw no evidence of the scratching, and no evidence of an inability to breathe.  So I tried to “power through.”  I huddled with her on the couch, under the blanket so she’d be warm, and whispered in her ear.  I begged her to eat, looked deeply into her eyes as if perhaps she could understand if I communicated without words.  I cried myself to sleep and wondered if she would still be with me when I woke up in the morning.

Finally, I couldn’t take it another day.  I was afraid that she was dying in front of my eyes.

I took her in.

Ah, blogland. Back to my familiar stomping grounds. I’ll tell you, this may have been the most restful New Year’s I’ve ever had. We were in a kid-free zone for several days and My Hubby and I did a lot of resting. I’m not sure it was entirely voluntary, as my body was ready to keep itself in the prone position for long periods of time with or without my mind’s approval. Recovery from insanity apparently takes a long time.

But here I am… back and refreshed, ready to move forward again. And in doing so, I need first to take the time to address some bloggy love. My response is LONG overdue, though I can assure you that response time should in no way reflect on the level of gratitude I have.

Jeanie Rhoades did this to me.

It is an amazing honor–one I feel so undeserving of receiving. I feel giddy to have received bloggy love from her. So giddy that it’s a joy to award it to 7 other people and have them pay it forward!

But I have a serious problem. I read a whole ton of amazing blogs… and choosing just seven is a serious task! I’ll post seven here, but to all of you whose blogs I read daily, to all of you that make my life a little sunnier, to all of you that make me feel blessed to have found a sisterhood (and in some cases, a brotherhood) of amazing folks trying to do their best at being wives, mothers (and I mean that in every sense of the word), sisters, daughters, fathers, husbands, and friends–I love ALL of your blogs, even if you’re not mentioned in my tiny list of seven!

1.

Thought Collage – Jeanie, Jeanie, Jeanie–because you make me want to be more, do more, reach out more, take more chances, risk more, love more, and say it out loud more. You inspire me to greater things every time I read a post. You have an amazing family and they are absolutely the result of a life lived cultivating beauty and joy, and God-honoring laughter and love. I am blessed to know you. Truly.

2.

Mrs. H at A Stepmom’s Say – I loved posts about her inviting BM out for hot chocolate because that’s really where her heart is and I admire her efforts. I loved (just as much) her heart-wrenching honesty about weekends without her stepsons, trying to deal with insanity from BM, and the frustration she experiences when BM derails her best-laid plans. No matter what Mrs. H posts about–and the topics are varied–she does it with grace and humility. And? She has some bizarre commenters that never fail to keep the forum lively.

3.

Blue at A Secret to Blue Bamboo – I truly think she and I might have been separated at birth. We share a lot of similar interests and similar thought processes. While I have been disgusted with the things that her girls have dealt with at the hands of their BM (Mrs. Dirt), and sickened and saddened by the loss of the girls’ baby brother at the hands of Mrs. Dirt, I am impressed daily with Blue’s ability to step up, step in, and be the stabilizing factor (along with Sean, the girls’ Daddy) they so desperately need. She also has a wicked sense of humor!

4.

Lynda at Lynda’s Pix – So she’s related… sue me. She’s really my cousin, but she’s far more like the sister I never had. She’s funny, she’s wise, and she’s a master of the digital camera. Her pictures leave me breathless, they’re so beautiful. While I adore reading her blog, and she’s been my most devoted reader EVER, I’m secretly waiting for the day I can hook her up with some gallery space for her incredible pix. She’s gonna make a mint – mark my words!

5.

Shadowlands – The story of her husband’s battle with cancer is sometimes sweet, sometimes funny, and sometimes heartbreaking. I rarely read a post that doesn’t leave me in tears–happy or sad. I admire her strength of character, and of spirit. I admire her will to make his last days special and dignified and the story of her laying in his arms for the last time will be burned in my heart forever. Her grit, her unapologetic grief, her incredible descriptions of the love of her life, and her life after he left this earth make me thankful that such an extraordinary woman was blessed with such an extraordinary man, and blessed with a love that transcends the bonds of this earth.

6.

Mister-M at The Psycho Ex-Wife – Partially because his stories are so eerily familiar, but mostly because he has a great way of reaching out to a hurting community of people with wisdom and sage advice. He’s not full of any fluff or psycho-babble, just the facts and I (and I imagine anyone else going through this full-blown insanity) appreciate that. I also have learned a LOT from his take on low/no-contact. It’s been invaluable. Kudos to him for still trying to help others after all he’s been through.

7.

Minnie at Their Wicked Stepmother – She’s hilarious. Period. She pulls absolutely no punches. And the conversations she has with the BM in her life are better than any fiction I’ve ever read. I don’t think I’ve read a single post she’s written that didn’t leave me in stitches.

OK winners, there are AWARD RULES, here is what you have to do:

• Tell the winner to put the award logo on their blog. It is their prize!
• Link to the person from whom you received your award.
• You bestow the award on 7 other blogs and link to them!
• E-mail or leave a message on the bloggers you have awarded letting them know.

Keep the love going!

Some thoughts for the weekend…

If you don’t remember James Rhoades, you can refresh your memory here, here, here, here, and here.

I do remember James and think of him often.  I have not kept up on the happenings in his fight to participate in his son’s life because of the craziness of my own, but I got an e-mail from him just the other day.  I was glad to hear from him, but saddened to read about the unbelievable miscarriage of justice in the State of Kentucky.

James’ own brief summary of what’s happened since April of this year is as follows:

In April of 2008 the KY Supreme Court ruled in Ricketts v Rhoades that biological fathers have no rights to visitation or custody regarding their children if the mother is married to another man at conception. The court said, even when paternity has been proven through court ordered DNA testing, the father still can’t have his petition heard by the Family Court.

The very backward KY Supreme Ct ruling threw the fundamental rights of fathers, children, and women out the window by saying you’re a father is not a father if he has a child with a married woman, by saying a child must wait until he or she is 18 to know the truth and have a relationship with his or her biological father, and by saying women and the children they conceive are the property of their husband.

After Kentucky’s highest court handed down its absurd April 24, 2008 4 to 3 ruling, I promptly petitioned the KY Supreme Court to re-hear the case. Six months later, on October 24, 2008, the Court again decided 4 to 3, I still have no right, as a biological father, to petition to be in my son’s life.

My best hope to see my 2 1/2 year old son again, who I haven’t seen for 19 months, is at the Kentucky Legislature. A Louisville state representative, Darryl Owens from the 43rd district, pre-filed the following bill on October 8th, BR 57 http://www.lrc.ky.gov/record/09RS/HB28.htm , to be voted on in the 2009 legislative session. This bill changes the existing language to determine a father’s paternity when a child is born to a married woman and fathered by a man other than her husband. Basically, the bill seeks to move the archaic perception of “presumption of paternity” and “out of wedlock” into the 21st century. The change in the statute’s language would allow a father, who can prove he’s the father of a child born from an extra-marital affair, to petition for custody and visitation in the courts of Kentucky.

However, the only way the bill will pass is if the people contact Kentucky legislators. The KY Supreme Court has declared the truth doesn’t matter but I don’t want the lawmakers of Kentucky to do the same.

Like so many other fathers in America, I’m just a father who loves and adores his child and who desperately wants to participate in his son’s life.

So please contact the Kentucky Legislative Message Line at 1-800-372-7181 and ask that the whole KY Legislature vote YES on Bill BR57. Help encourage the legislators to give all children the same rights, i.e. the right to know and have their fathers participate in their lives, no matter how they were conceived.

Please do.

Make the call to the Kentucky Legislative Message Line at 1-800-372-7181 and ask that the whole KY Legislature vote YES on Bill BR57.

Do it for James.

Do it for his son.

Do it for fathers across Kentucky and across the nation.

Do it for the children that deserve to know them.

Hi everyone. I decided that I needed a password change… one more time.

If you have not yet received the password and you would like to continue reading (and I would love for you to do so), or if you are a reader just stopping by for the first time, please leave a comment here and I will send it to you.

And there’s more:

She says:

Mother requests modification of the current parenting responsibilities because the current parenting responsibilities clearly endangers the children’s physical health and significantly impairs the children’s emotional development.

Mother requests that she be granted sole decision-making and majority parenting time with Father being given a gradual increase of parenting time up to every other weekend but starting with supervised visits and family therapy.

Mother requests a modification in child support based on a new parenting plan pursuant to Statute XYZ.

Mother requests the appointment of legal representative for the children pursuant to Statute ABC.

Mother requests an emergency basis within seven days of the filing of this Motion because Father has increased his abuses toward the children because of the recent court actions.

Based on Father’s willful and malicious abuse, Mother requests that Father pay her attorney fees and costs.

Unbelievable…

More than just her own drivel, she sucked her mother (Crazy Grandma) into writing an affidavit in which she says:

The Egg Donor (ED) would never abuse her children. She was not raised to be in this kind of situation. Before she met MH, ED was a happy, confident person who was very giving and outgoing. She had aspirations of returning to college and becoming an attorney–aspirations that MH regularly ridiculed and made every attempt to thwart. I have watched my daughter lose all confidence because of MH’s abuse. It breaks my heart to see him intimidate and frighten my daughter at the expense of my grandchildren.

… MH continues to abuse ED through his use of the court system and through financial control. MH does not care about my grandchildren but cares about having money and power over ED — and will stop at nothing to get it…

… MH knows how to intimidate ED. He is obsessed with controlling her — constantly threatening her and continually brining false charges to the court to try to destroy her.

… During the time that ED was dating MH she came home one evening with deep purple and green bruises that covered her neck and chest…

… MH has allowed his new wife, Stephanie, to threaten ED’s family including telling me that if I talk to my grandchildren about the current situation that she and MH will not allow me to see them. Typically I would not acquiesce to such threats, but I cannot put the children in any more harm…

I believe that the therapist used by MH and Stephanie has some personal connection to them, and has a personal vendetta against ED, based on MH’s lies and allegations. It is my understanding that the rules are lax about who can claim to be a therapist, and that this woman is not sufficiently qualified to properly handle this horrible situation… The children do not like or trust her. Further, I have seen the email correspondence between the therapist and ED when ED made every attempt in writing to schedule the court-required appointments with the therapist. The therapist then lied to the court, saying the ED had not complied with the court order. I believe that this therapist is deeply harmful to the children and should never be allowed to see or speak with them again.

Despite the fact that MH constantly attempts to paint himself as the “perfect parent” the children report that they spend almost all of their time, when they are at home, in the care of MH’s wife. In my opinion Stephanie is as bad for the children as MH. Last weekend, Velma was in tears and clearly upset and anxious. She said that Stephanie had called her a “spoiled little bitch.”

… For a period of time MH punished the children for calling ED to say goodnight. For every minute that they spoke with ED they had to go to bed 15 minutes early. These kinds of abuses are constant and escalating.

There are dozens more examples of MH’s — and Stephanie’s abuses against ED and the children. I am seriously concerned for my grandchildren’s future.

 Tomorrow – Letch’s affidavit…

A few weeks back, Daphne begged and begged to get highlights done… red ones. I am the conservative of the family, for sure. My Hubby? Not so much. In high school, he had the tallest, craziest, blondest mohawk you’ve ever seen (think Flock of Seagulls). He was a wild one, with a black trenchcoat and a skateboard and black Levi button-fly jeans that fit him just right… ah, I digress.

Anyway, I was the good one. He was the bad one. Part of the attraction.

He’s not bad anymore (but he does still wear Levi’s button-fly jeans, mmmm), just a little more of free spirit than I am. So when it comes to doing crazy things with one’s hair, he’s all on board. It’s his firm belief that if we let the kiddos express themselves by doing whatever they want to with their hair or clothing (within the bounds of reason, of course), then they won’t feel the need to rebel in some of the ways he did when he was a kid. I’m not sure I agree entirely, but I’m coming around.

So Daphne wanted red highlights. She has dark, dark brown hair and nothing at all shows up in that dark brown hair. Many a Halloween has come and gone with her on the front porch spraying blue, or gold, or silver, or orange streaks in her hair that I get eye strain trying to see. She thought red just might work.

I had recently helped a friend do red highlights in her son’s hair and they came out fabulously! I really liked them, despite my initial reservations. Daphne begged… and pleaded… and wheedled… and cajoled… and then finally did that puppy-dog-eyes thing and asked if we could possibly fit it in before her birthday party.

I’m a sucker.

So I shopped (she was with The Egg Donor for that day-on, day-off ridiculousness), and stressed over the fact that I could not find red highlights. I half thought that she might have The Egg Donor (ED) just do the highlights for her, but if I was still on the hook for it, I wanted to make sure I had some to do. I found fuschia instead and My Hubby thought fuschia was much cooler. Into the cart it went, along with some blond highlights for Velma, who already has dark blond hair and thought she wanted red but wavered.

When the lot of them arrived back at our household, none had done highlights. Daphne wasn’t even sure ED would like red, but she was sold on it. And? She seemed happy with the fuschia since I couldn’t find red.

The night before her birthday party, I stayed up until 11:30pm (way past my bedtime, in case you were wondering), doing fuschia highlights. I? Am not a beautician. I’m a computer geek. So it took a long time. And I wanted to be really careful. I wanted to make sure it came out really amazing. I stressed the entire time that we were doing it that the poor child might end up wanting to wear a bag over her head or some such nonsense. I used an entire roll of tin foil (because I’m familiar with getting my own hair highlighted and that’s how I’ve seen it done), filled up some landfill somewhere, stunk the entire house up something severe, and ended up with some really cute, really chunky, fuschia that-you-could-see highlights.

Success. When she got out of the shower and dried her hair, the giant smile on her face said it all to me.

The next night, as tons and tons of 13-year-old girls poured through the front door, the oohs and aahs served to make Daphne smile wider. Even the parents loved it. It was really cute, if I do say so myself.

Velma was next. She’s not an adventurer like Daphne is. She’s a lot more conservative. Though initially she wanted red, she hesitated and hesitated, and then hesitated some more. She looked at boxes and boxes of hair color, in every single store on the planet that sells hair color, thought about dark streaks, and then finally settled on just blond. I thought it would be really cute.

So a few nights later we were over at my friend’s house (now known as Hair Color Central, since we did both of her boys’ hair–including the red). I had done the highlights on Velma’s hair that she had picked out earlier in the day. It was a cap kit, the kind you pull the hair up through with a tiny crochet hook. The results were subtle, but cute. It gave her hair a little more sparkle. Anyway, she wasn’t fully satisfied with the outcome.

It being Hair Color Central and all, we put our own festivities on hold, ran home to get a box of very blond haircolor (not highlights), previously reserved for Shaggy’s own faux-hawk, and returned to my friend’s house to commence additional coloring activities. Velma wanted an entire blond section on the underside, so when she put her hair up in a ponytail, you could distinctly see the difference. Alrighty then…

We made the requested changes, clipped her hair up in all sorts of crazy ways, made faces at each other in the mirror, and otherwise passed the time until the timer signaled that the hair coloring activity was complete. Velma showered.

And still didn’t really like it. It wasn’t quite blond enough, and we didn’t get all of the hair into the gig that she wanted. I sighed. We did it again.

By the time we were finished, I had spent well over five hours of my day doing nothing but coloring hair. My nostrils were burning, my eyes were tired, my hands were all shriveled from wearing those nasty gloves, and I reeked of ammonia.

But this time, when Velma got all done and dried her hair, she liked it.

Success again.

Stay tuned for The Weekend – Part 3, tomorrow…

I was NOT on that page.  Really.  Didn’t want to do it.  I feel like my thoughts should be able to be my thoughts regardless of the evils lurking out there to challenge me.  I feel like I shouldn’t have to go underground on the things I write about, because the things I write about are true.

I’m not slandering anyone, or publishing falsehoods, or wrongly accusing.  I’m certainly not stooping to the new lows to which The Egg Donor (ED) has stooped.  But…

I have reached a point where I feel like it’s prudent.  I don’t think she knows about this site.  I’ve been careful to give everyone an alias.  I’ve tried to keep identifying information out of the equation.  Even if I hadn’t done those things, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t even know what a blog is, and certainly can’t be torn away from her endless trips to the shopping mall to sit in front of a computer for any length of time.  So I’m not worried about it.

But I do believe that it’s time to exercise a little more care with my posts, and the content contained therein.  So I’m password protecting the posts I feel deserve a little more discretion when it comes to readership.

For those of you who have faithfully read my words fuh-evah, e-mail me at stephaniesplace at gmail dot com (or just leave a comment) and I’ll happily send you the password you can use to unlock those protected posts.  We’ll just pretend like they were never protected in the first place.

Know that this, under no circumstances, means that I’m planning to stop blogging.  I’m not.  I don’t plan to censor myself, or my thoughts, or stop sharing my story with others out there dealing with similar situations.  I’m not going anywhere.

Just keeping it a little more on the down low…  that’s all.

A new reader asked the question, “Why did you file the contempt of court if you knew she would respond wtih false allegations?”

Thanks for asking the question, Theresa. I’m sure it seems a little strange to those who haven’t walked in our shoes or been right beside us on this crazy journey. In sane, normal life, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t. It’s a little like sticking your hand down a snake’s hole and wondering why you got bitten. But since we don’t live a sane, normal life, we do things a little bit differently.

Let me break it down in two ways.

First (but not most importantly), it IS about money.

Raising three children is expensive. Here’s a general idea of what our monthly expenses are, just for the three.

Daycare $660
Groceries $400
School lunches $80
Medication $90
Allergy shots $120
Therapy visits $120
Clothing $50

The above totals $1520 per month, and does not include most of the basics of life–like mortgage, utilities, shampoo, toothpaste, haircuts, hair gel, allowance, birthday presents for friends, spending money for field trips, field trip fees, school supplies, gas, etc.

It also does not include any of their extracurricular activities, or other purchases from school, like:

Football program (fall only) $250
Dance (fall only) $150
Soccer program (spring only) $150
Dance (spring only) $150
Yearbooks $35 each

That’s almost another grand, split between fall and spring. Let’s not even touch summer – when daycare rates rise to over $1K per month and they go on field trips daily that require spending money.

While I firmly believe that she does not deserve the title of Mother, because has absolutely not acted like one, she has not surrendered her parental rights and she is responsible for paying for the children she helped to bring into this world. I don’t have an issue with picking up the slack. I love them–all of them—just like they were my own. But it’s a struggle to pay off the mountain of debt we amassed fighting her in court just to get the basics in life done for them and then to pay for all of their activities and daily needs without her assistance. That’s the entire reason that the courts set up child support in the first place. Raising kids costs money… a LOT of money. The kids need her financial help.

Second, and more importantly to me, is the fact that if their roles were reversed, My Hubby would be rotting in a jail cell by now.

If you look back over all of the posts I have written, you can see that The Egg Donor (ED) has a long history of not just failure, but refusal, to abide by Court Orders. She brought these children into the world and she has an obligation to support them. If she were male, Support Enforcement would be chasing her down with every available resource. She would already have had her driver’s license revoked, would have had her wages garnished, and would likely be in a paddy wagon, shackled and ready for her life behind bars. Given her past behavior and refusal to abide by Court Orders, resulting in three separate Contempt orders, she would have been walked right out of at least one of those hearings in handcuffs.

Clearly, we don’t have another way to make her do what she should do. We don’t have another way to remedy the situation. We did manage to staunch the blood flow of cash by asking our attorney to withdraw and doing things on our own, but her desire to continually thumb her nose at the Court puts us in a position to HAVE TO file. She’s already three full months behind on both medical and child support and she’s not showing any signs of attempting to pay.

Let me be clear. She has not paid ONE RED CENT of either. It’s not like she’s sending a couple hundred here, and a hundred there. It’s not like she’s struggling to make ends meet and trying valiantly to support her kids the best way she can. She makes a good wage for a single person who is not paying any of her children’s expenses except what it costs her to house them four days a month. It is her intention to NOT pay My Hubby, because that’s the kind of person she is. She has no interest in what’s best for her children, just what hurts My Hubby the most.

See, we’re damned if we do, and damned if we don’t. If we don’t file, she continues not to pay for them or support them in any way, all the while undermining My Hubby to them and breaking them down emotionally. If we do file, she files false allegations of abuse, continues not to pay for them or support them in any way, all the while undermining My Hubby to them and breaking them down emotionally. But we shouldn’t fail to take action against her because she might do a horrible thing. That would be akin to not prosecuting a mob boss for murder and racketeering because he might shoot some witnesses. He’ll probably shoot the witnesses anyway, right?

The bottom line – and this is what’s important – is that eventually the Court will tire of her games and do something to enforce the Orders already issued. It’s painful, for sure, to know that she’s alleging these things. But we’ll be better off, by far, in the long run, for having filed, for holding her accountable, for making her stand in front of a judge and explain her lack of action. We just have to get through the ugliness right now.

A deadbeat is a deadbeat, possession of a womb notwithstanding.

The weekend was mostly uneventful, which was a huge relief to me.

We had planned Shaggy’s birthday party–the first sleepover party for him–for Friday night and he had a bevy of other nine-year-olds coming to the house to watch movies, eat a lot of pizza, suck down as much sugar as humanly possible, and wreak havoc with my sleep schedule. Given last week’s round of filings, I had horrible visions of The Queen of Psychosis filing her false accusations with the Court and getting our parenting time suspended (by Statute, the Court has to immediately suspend parenting time, if it suspects abuse, and schedule a forthwith hearing within seven days of the filing)… just in time for his party.

That’s something she would do.

My Hubby and I discussed what we should do and decided that we really needed to talk with the kiddos. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if we knew this was happening, our parenting time got suspended, they were in limbo, and we hadn’t talked to them about it at all. I couldn’t imagine the fear they would have, the things that would race through their minds. Awful. Instead, we decided that we needed to make a preemptive strike, and fill them in on the situation, with the least impact we could manage.

So Wednesday night we had a little pow-wow. We explained to them the basics of the Motion she had filed, and the accusations she had leveled. We reviewed again what abuse is, what it means, what the system is obligated to do, and why. We talked about intention, anger, and all of the reasons that one of our household rules is “No hurtful touch.” We explained the possible outcomes of the Motion and the accusations, including the possibility that they might be removed from our care for a time, but that we would return things to normal as soon as we could. We tried to explain that we understood that The Egg Donor (ED) felt terribly about losing her time with them. We explained that we understood that she wanted to do everything that she could do to see them more, but that this was dirty pool, that lying was never acceptable, and that lying about someone in a way that could destroy their lives or land them in jail was just not ok.

Then we gave them some time to ask questions.

There really weren’t many. There were mostly tears, welling up in their eyes, wide with fear, and running down their cheeks. I thought they would be thoroughly disgusted with her behavior. But they weren’t disgusted. They were terrified. Velma asked, through choking sobs whether her mother would end up going to jail for lying. In one of my worst parenting moments, I responded angrily that I was far less concerned about her mother going to jail for lying than I was that her Dad might go to jail because of her mother’s lies. She sobbed more loudly, and even when I wrapped my arms around her shaking shoulders, she didn’t stop… or relax.

Daphne was teary, as well, but not sobbing. Shaggy looked shell-shocked and shut down. No words. No tears. Just a strong desire to leave the room and immerse himself in a video game, or some other distraction. Freddy–not her biological child, but mine–sobbed, too. His eyes bespoke the terror that was in his heart as he grabbed my hand and asked, “Will YOU go to jail?”

I reassured him that neither of us would go to jail, then kicked myself for not choosing my words more carefully. I explained that her accusations were serious, and that she had leveled them against both My Hubby and I by stating that they were exposed to “gross abuse” while in our household, rather than singling out one of us or the other. I explained that sometimes people do end up going to jail for abusing children, that real abusers should go to jail, that sometimes people went to jail for things they didn’t do (which was why it was so awful of her to make those kinds of allegations), but that I was confident that neither My Hubby nor I would ever go to jail.

I ran through the list of people we would call to tell the judge that we simply didn’t do those things. I listed off their teachers, Ms. Therapist, Sunday School teachers, friends, grandparents and, last but not least, his father–my ex-husband–who has never had a single concern about his welfare or safety in our household.

That seemed to reach him. It reached Velma as well. I apologized for raising my voice, for not being more understanding. After a few more minutes of hugging and nose-blowing, more questions from Freddy about losing his brother and sisters (which broke my heart), and more reassurances, they went upstairs to play and My Hubby and I sat across the table from each other. His eyes were focused on his hands, folded tightly on the tabletop so that his knuckles were white. I couldn’t really tell what he was thinking, but the sheer fact that we were forced to have this conversation made my blood boil again.

What kind of a mother cares so little about her children that she can’t see beyond the destruction of their father to the minutest bit of their welfare? She is indeed the person who will cut off her nose to spite her face. And her little motion just served to reinforce my understanding of how very selfish and hate-filled she is.

Friday night was fun-filled and rowdy–with 10 boys in the house. Shaggy had a wonderful time with his friends, got some amazing presents, and thoroughly enjoyed his first sleepover. As I was making pancakes for them for breakfast on Saturday morning, he threw both arms around me and said, “Thank you for making this the BEST birthday ever!” I smiled and hugged him back, all the while thinking that we were at least successful in getting him to forget about the court happenings for the evening.

But after his friends left, we saw plenty of evidence of the stress these kinds of things place on the kids’ small shoulders. All of them fought more, cried more, reacted more. They were emotionally charged, and ready to blow. Therapy was a welcome respite–a place they could enter and let it all out, no holds barred. Let it out they did. Evidently ED has been talking to them for quite some time about “doing everything she can to get more time with them”. But none of them thought she would stoop to this level to get it. Rather, they thought that she would do what the judge ordered her to do. None of them were happy about the lies she told and were worried about My Hubby getting in trouble for her accusations.

I talked with the therapist at length about our decision to tell them and she agreed that it was difficult. She also agreed that they were old enough to understand what was happening to them, and that not telling them would have been far worse. She expressed concern about all of the kids, but especially about Freddy–the child with the least control of all of them over this ugly situation. Again, I seethed over ED’s far-reaching path of destruction. Not just My Hubby, not just her own flesh and blood, not just me, but my Freddy, too.

The rest of the weekend passed without court incident. It was a tough one, though. I don’t know how we can continue to live with the constant threat of her accusations, motions, and failure to comply hanging over our heads. It makes me want to go to law school, file a civil suit, find some remedy out there that will just make her leave us alone. I don’t, for the life of me, understand why she can’t just spend the precious little time she has remaining with her children and enjoy them. Why continue on down this path?

My one hope is that The Honorable What’s-His-Name (THWHN) will put a stop to this, soon and once and for all.

We really just need some peace.

Our response is below. Filed yesterday afternoon. I hope judgment is swift.

My Hubby is the Petitioner (MH) and The Egg Donor is the Respondent and, of course, ED.

1. Respondent has made continuous false allegations of abuse by Petitioner since the parties separation in 2000. To date, Respondent has made these allegations to the Special Advocate assigned to the case in 2004, to Social Services on at least four separate occasions, to the children’s therapist, to the children’s teachers and other school personnel, to the Parenting Coordinator with powers of arbitration agreed to by the parties, as well as directly to the Court.

On every occasion, Respondent’s accusations have been found to be false and without merit. Her continued accusations are slanderous, constitute defamation of character, and are Respondent’s way of attempting to get the Court’s attention when her other machinations fail.

2. Respondent’s statement that the District Court recommended that the parties use a Parenting Coordinator is false. In 2005, the parties agreed to appoint a Parenting Coordinator and explicitly granted him powers of arbitration, under Statute X. Judge XXX, assigned to the case at the time, added the agreement of the parties to the Order of February 9, 2005, as follows:

“The Court hereby adopts the Stipulation of the Parties, as to the appointment of a Parenting Coordinator with arbitration powers under Statute X. The Parenting Coordinator shall be Arb-Man. Arb-Man’s retainer and all subsequent charges shall be split between the Parties on a 50/50 basis and shall be paid 30 days from the date of this Order.”

3. Respondent’s statement that a magistrate granted a Parenting Coordinator authority to change decision-making responsibility in the summer of 2006 is also false. There was no order granting the Parenting Coordinator authority to change decision-making responsibility because there was no requirement for the Court to do so. The parties agreed to appoint the Parenting Coordinator with powers of arbitration, under Statute X, which states as follows:

“(1) With the consent of all parties, the court may appoint an arbitrator to resolve disputes between the parties concerning the parties’ minor or dependent children, including but not limited to parenting time, nonrecurring adjustments to child support, and disputed parental decisions . . . . “

The parties’ appointment of the Parenting Coordinator under Statute X, provided jurisdiction to the Parenting Coordinator with powers of arbitration.

4. Respondent’s statement that the Parenting Coordinator unilaterally gave Petitioner sole decision-making responsibility based solely on the fact that Petitioner paid for the Parenting Coordinator’s services is also false. The Parenting Coordinator, agreed to by the parties and granted powers of arbitration by the parties, issued an Arbitration Award which stated as follows:

“Since May of 2005, when I first started as parenting coordinator with arbitration power for this family, I have seen virtually no evidence of the ability of the parties to cooperate to make decision jointly. MH has spent $2520 on my services to arbitrate decisions regarding the children. Per court order, MH is responsible for only 50% of my charges, but since ED has refused to participate financially in the process, MH has paid 100% of the costs, in order to get decision made and filed with the court. All of the arbitrations to date have been awards that basically matched MH’s requests. These arbitrations were made because MH’s requests were seen as being in the best interests of the children. I believe that these issues needed to be arbitrated because ED was either going to take no action regarding these issues, or act in a unilateral manner regarding these issue. In either case, both strategies resulted in a type of sole decision making position for ED that MH could only counter through arbitration.

This process depleted MH of funds that could be used for the children, delayed important decision regarding the children, and added to the conflict between these two co-parents.”

Further, the Parenting Coordinator with powers of arbitration granted Petitioner modified decision-making authority, rather than sole-decision making as represented by Respondent in her Motion to Vacate, stating as follows:

“MH must consult with ED, in writing, before any major parental decision is made. If ED believes that MH has made a decision that is not in the best interests of the children, and she wishes to arbitrate that decision, she must contact me (copying MH) immediately, to schedule an arbitration. I will schedule an arbitration 10 working days (in order for checks to clear) after I receive a $600 deposit from each party.

If MH’s decision is reversed or significantly modified through arbitration, MH will pay 100% of the arbitration. If MH’s decision is substantially upheld through the arbitration process, then ED will be 100 % responsible for the cost of the arbitration.“

Respondent has never sought review by the Parenting Coordinator of any course of action taken by Petitioner. See Court file.

5. While Respondent could have sought review by the Parenting Coordinator of any course of action taken by Petitioner and failed to do so, Statute X also provides a method for review by the Court if Respondent so wished. Statute X states as follows:

“The arbitrator’s award shall be effective immediately upon entry and shall continue in effect until vacated by the arbitrator pursuant to section Statute A., modified or corrected by the arbitrator pursuant to section Statute B., or modified by the court pursuant to a de novo review under subsection (2) of this section.”

Respondent never sought a de novo review by the Court of any Arbitration Award issued. See Court file.

6. Respondent’s claim that Petitioner’s Motion to Modify Parenting Time was granted by the magistrate without a hearing in January of 2008 is also false.

In fact, there was a hearing on November 1, 2007, during which Petitioner’s Motion to Modify Parenting Time was denied and during which the Court issued an Order (Order of November 2, 2007) requiring Respondent to meet specific requirements. The Court’s Order specified that if Respondent failed to meet any of the Court’s requirements, the Court would sua sponte modify her parenting time to every other weekend. See Court file.

7. Subsequent to the November 1, 2007 hearing, Respondent failed to meet the Court’s requirements and the Court, in its own Order of December 27, 2007, modified her parenting time to every other weekend. See Court file.

8. Petitioner never required Respondent to attend therapy with the children. Instead, Petitioner sought counseling for the children in order to help them cope with issues surrounding the contentious post-divorce situation with Respondent and with issues they were facing at school.

Petitioner provided all information regarding the therapist to Respondent and asked Respondent to become involved. The therapist also personally contacted Respondent and asked her to become involved in therapy with the children. At no point prior Petitioner’s filing of the Motion to Modify Parenting Time in late April 2007, despite the fact that the children had been involved in therapy since January 2007, did Respondent object to the children’s involvement.

The therapist was chosen because of her extensive work with children suffering from trauma, and because she was a preferred provider for the insurance company covering the children. Neither the Petitioner nor his current wife had any relationship whatsoever with the therapist prior to engaging her services and Respondent’s claims to the contrary are false.

Respondent’s claims that the therapist has made false accusations against Respondent and acted impartial only to benefit the Petitioner’s agenda and his ability to further abuse Respondent and the children are false, groundless, and retaliatory.

Respondent’s claims that the Petitioner “conspired with” the therapist against Respondent are ridiculous. The therapist has reported to the Court based on her own observations.

Further, Respondent has a long history of retaliation against providers for the children if she believes such providers are not “on her side” or act as witnesses for Petitioner. Respondent has undertaken a campaign of denigration against three separate daycare providers for the children, the children’s therapist, the children’s teachers, the Parenting Coordinator and others, going so far as to file complaints with the school district and professional organizations with which providers are associated.

9. Respondent’s claim that Petitioner “has further abused Respondent through the courts by filing extensive malicious, vexatious, and groundless motions causing great financial burdens upon Respondent including interference with her employment,” is also false.

Petitioner’s filings have been required because of Respondent’s neglect of the children’s welfare (see transcripts from the November 1, 2007 hearing for extensive testimony by several witnesses regarding Respondent’s failure to provide timely medical care, medication, and decent living conditions for the children) and/or because of Respondent’s direct, ongoing and blatant disregard for following the Court’s orders.

Respondent has been found in Contempt of Court on three prior occasions, underlining her consistent disregard for the Court’s orders. Petitioner’s most recent Motion for Contempt of Court against Respondent was filed after Respondent again refused to pay her portion of the children’s uninsured medical expenses and refused to pay child support, resulting in a current arrearage of $3000.00 in child support and over $650 in the children’s uninsured medical expenses. See Court file.

In fact, it is Respondent’s continued disregard for the Court’s orders that have caused great financial and emotional burden for the Petitioner. Respondent declared bankruptcy on her former attorney in 2004, writing off almost $25,000 in attorney fees and representing herself until May of 2008, while Petitioner has incurred and paid well over $60,000 in attorney fees, since 2004, attempting to provide for his children and seek Respondent’s compliance with Court orders.

10. The Petitioner has never abused the children or Respondent. All claims made by Respondent to the contrary have been found to be false.

11. Respondent’s filing of this Motion to Vacate, as well as any additional motions she might file regarding abuse of the children, are malicious and in direct retaliation for Petitioner’s filing of the Motion for Contempt of Court on August 18, 2008. See Court file.

12. During the January 2008 hearing, during which the Court gave Respondent the opportunity to prove that she had indeed met the Court’s requirements and during which Respondent was unable to prove such, the Court specifically ordered that there be no additional requests for Modifications of Parenting Time for 24 months, stating the Court’s desire for the children to be allowed to settle into their new routine.

13. The children have thrived under the new parenting plan, engaging in extracurricular activities for the first time, making great strides in therapy, and leading minor child Shaggy’s teacher to state in his final trimester report card for the 2007-2008 school year that:

“I am so very proud of Shaggy this trimester. He is almost a different person. He takes pride in turning his work in on time, in being ready for instruction and being respectful in the classroom. You have done an incredible job working him this year, with me, and I salute you! He will be successful in 3rd grade!”

14. Should Respondent file a Motion to Modify Parenting Responsibilities, it will be based on her continued, slanderous, false allegations of abuse by Petitioner and for the sole purpose of manipulating this Court, despite the Court’s explicit instructions not to continue to do so.

Because all of Respondent’s claims regarding the issuance of sole decision-making authority are false, and because none of the hearings since 2005 have been regarding contested permanent orders but rather modifications of orders already entered, Respondent’s additional legal analysis does not apply. In fact, the State Rules of Magistrates state as follows:

“A district court magistrate shall have the power to preside over all motions to modify permanent orders concerning property division, maintenance, child support or allocation of parental responsibilities, except petitions to review as defined in Statute F.”

Additionally, the Court did not provide the Parenting Coordinator authority to address decision-making, the parties did. The Court simply made the agreement of the parties part of the Order of February 9, 2005.

Both the fact that the parties explicitly provided authority to the Parenting Coordinator to arbitrate all issues, and the fact that the magistrate would have maintained jurisdiction had he provided authority to the Parenting Coordinator (though that was not the case), make Respondent’s claim of lack of subject matter jurisdiction moot.

Further, Respondent failed to seek timely remedy through the proper channels if she disagreed with the Arbitration Award.

Finally, Respondent did not timely raise this issue after the Magistrate’s order of January 18, 2008 which resolved all issues except child support, nor did she timely raise this issue after the Magistrate’s order of May 15, 2008. Instead, Respondent waited until immediately after Petitioner filed a Motion for Contempt, to file her obviously retaliatory filing, a filing making Respondent’s desire to get out of paying child support or medical expenses clear.

WHEREFORE, Petitioner respectfully requests this court deny Respondent’s Motion to Vacate Magistrate’s Order Modifying Parental Responsibilities Based on Lack of Subject Matter Jurisdiction because the lack of subject matter jurisdiction is moot, her application of State Rules for Magistrates does not apply here, Respondent’s filing is untimely, and Respondent’s filing is blatantly retaliatory as well a desperate attempt to not have to pay child support and medical expenses for the children.

Petitioner further requests this court impose strict sanctions against Respondent for her continued false allegations of abuse against Petitioner, for her continued campaign of denigration against providers for the minor children, for her continued attempts to manipulate this Court, as well as for her continued failure to abide by this Court’s expressed desires and orders.

Monday, we filed Contempt against The Egg Donor (ED) for her failure to pay one thin dime of child support or medical expenses since the May hearing.

Yesterday, surprise of surprises, we got a new motion, filed by Miss Fancy Attorney Pants (FAP) on behalf of ED, requesting that the Court vacate The Honorable What’s-His-Name’s (THWHN) orders… all the way back to 2006.

The premise is, of course, that My Hubby is an abusive jerk, that he has manipulated the system specifically to railroad poor, picked-on ED, that the children are suffering horribly during their parenting time with us, and that ED is a shining star in this–just misunderstood.

Ms. Therapist, the Parenting Coordinator, My Hubby and myself are all in cahoots to file false affidavits with the Court, and THWHN (a magistrate) does not have subject matter jurisdiction to modify decision-making abilities between the parties.

Ms. FAP obviously has NOT done her homework. 90% of the statements she made in the motion were blatantly false. It was almost like she just took ED’s words (twisted, of course, because that’s the kind of person she is) and put them to paper, rather than checking her facts first.

She claims that the Court ordered the appointment of the Parenting Coordinator, but it didn’t. The parties agreed to it and the judge at the time (not a magistrate) made it part of the order in 2005. Further, the parties agreed to grant the P/C powers of arbitration, which means that his decisions are binding and become an order of the court immediately, a minor tidbit Miss FAP seems to overlook.

She goes on to say that the Court then issued an order giving the P/C authority to hear decision-making (outside of its jurisdiction), which never happened. It didn’t NEED to happen, because the parties agreed to it back in 2005. Did I mention that?

Then she says that the P/C acted outside of HIS jurisdiction in issuing the change to decision-making responsibilities, and therefore…

really…

seriously…

she said that…

ALL orders issued by THWHN since 2006 should be reversed, parenting time should revert to the 51/49 split we had previously, and child support should be set back to what it was in 2006.

The worst part of the whole gig is that Miss FAP claims that My Hubby is abusing the kids horribly and alludes to filing an Emergency Motion to Modify Parenting Time based on their “stunted emotional development” at our hands. If she does so, we will get a mandatory suspension of parenting time until such time that the Court sets a hearing. The hearing is then supposed to be set within 7 days, but the thought of it makes my stomach turn.

More than the thought of being without them for that period, while she does God knows what to their brains, is the boiling, seething rage inside of me at her continuous false allegations of abuse against My Hubby. He is a fantastic husband and father and, while we could parade 75,000 witnesses through the court to testify that he is such, he should not have to continually defend himself against her ugly accusations.

I’m tired of watching his eyes fill with tears… of seeing the fear on his face–the “what if someone believes her?” hanging over his head. I’m sick of her leveling these claims because it’s the only, last-ditch, pathetic way she has of getting someone’s attention. It’s abominable. It’s worse that the court continues to allow her to do it.

We’ll be filing a response today – one that outlines just how green Miss FAP must be, and just what a manipulative, retaliatory, scheming, demon the ED is. I don’t know what the court will say. I’m hoping they just dismiss this ridiculous motion as such.

It’s grueling, this battle. Every time we think it might be over, another round ensues.

Please say a prayer for us if you get a chance.

The only thing distasteful about vacation–especially one in the newly renovated 1975 travel trailer–is coming back to real life.

As you know, our real life includes The Egg Donor (ED), and it’s just painful after witnessing such incredible beauty and enjoying such wonderful family time, to return to the insanity. I know I promised pics of the trailer, and I really will deliver. But this post had to come first.

This past week two of our kiddos had birthdays, which sort of throws our calm into upheaval. It’s not the balloons, the invitations, or the houseful of giggly pre-teens that wreaks havoc.

No. It’s the ED.

She’s a master.

This birthday deal, because of the way the Court Order is written, means a day on/day off deal for us with the ED. So this past week? After our wonderful, long, refreshing, drama-free weekend? Wednesday with us. Thursday with her. Friday with us. Saturday with her. Sunday with us. Monday with her.

Ugh. It’s not that we didn’t try valiantly to get her to block that schedule so we could reduce transitions. We did. But far be it for her to think about what’s actually best for the kids. When My Hubby suggested to her that it might work better for them to trade some days (note: NOT reduce anyone’s time in any way, just trade days) so that the kids would be able to spend more blocked time with us, and then more blocked time with her, she (of course) refused, stating that she would just “follow the court order.”

That she would “follow the court order,” even stating such in e-mail, is laughable since she’s the last person on earth to actually follow any kind of order whatsoever. Did I mention that we still haven’t seen a penny in child support or medical reimbursement since the May hearing? But she does love to be snide and hateful. So her little cutesy statement about “following the court order” was a direct response to Hubby’s request that she actually follow the Court Order when she demanded that Velma spend the night with her on her birthday.

I mean really, how dare he suggest that ED should NOT turn the Order on its ear at her every whim? How dare he believe that Velma would be better off to spend fewer overnights with ED (as clearly the Court believes), rather than more? How DARE he not agree to give extra time to ED whenever she demands it? Since he didn’t, she won’t even attempt to work with him now.

Anyway, Monday was another birthday day–supposedly a special day to be spent with ED. Unfortunately, the kids have lives now that they’re getting older (read: they actually can participate in activities since they’re with us full-time, which occasionally “interferes with” her parenting time). Shaggy and Freddy just started football (oh, I so have to blog about that at a later date) and they practice three times per week.

Since we had been on vacation, and ED had refused to take Shaggy to practice on his birthday last week, he really needed to be there Monday night. As these things typically go, Back to School night at both the elementary school and the middle school were also scheduled for Monday night… for the exact same time.

So My Hubby sent ED an e-mail offering to pick Shaggy up from her at the middle school so she could take the girls to Back to School night. He even offered to take Shaggy to the elementary school that morning, get the paperwork, help him find his teacher and classroom, and forward all pertinent information to her.

Her response? As usual…

We can’t be at both in time. You’ll have to pick up Shaggy at the Middle School at 5:00 and you will also need to allow us to have the kids an additional 2 hours the next time that we have them so I am not giving up my time. Please verify that you have recieved this and the date which the 2 hours will be added.

She’s incredible, isn’t she? She deliberately misunderstands what he says, and then makes demands. She hasn’t paid a penny in child support or medical. She’s hasn’t done anything except completely mess with the kids (read about Velma’s birthday if you have questions), My Hubby is trying to work with her, and THIS is what she says?

So he responded.

I will not give you an additional two hours. You are not giving up your time. The kids have events that conflict. It is HIS time (during which the girls will be with you) and I am trying to find a way for us to work together to make sure that all of the kids can attend what they need to. I will pick Shaggy up at the Middle School at 5:00.

Good enough. Right?

So the plan went that My Hubby would take both boys to the elementary school early in the day to find their classrooms, meet their teachers, etc.; then he would pick Shaggy up at the Middle School at 5:00 and take he and Freddy to practice. I would attend Back to School night at the elementary school to pick up the info packets and drop off school supplies. Then I would pick the girls up from the Middle School at 7, our appointed pickup time–AFTER they had attended Back to School night.

It’s important to note here that this is Velma’s first year of Middle School and she’s more than a little nervous about the whole thing. We’ve been trying everything we can think of to make this transition a smooth one. No stress, no worries, no excitement. Orderly, calm, organized, planned. That’s the ticket.

You can imagine our suprise when My Hubby shows up at the Middle School, Freddy already in the car and dressed for football, to pick Shaggy up, and the girls are panicked because he’s not staying and I’m not there. As My Hubby explains to the girls (across the parking space in between his car and ED’s) that ED was supposed to take them to Back to School night, she screams across the space at the girls that that WAS NOT what My Hubby had said in his e-mail. HE was going to take them. THAT’S WHAT HE SAID.

Not knowing what else to do, My Hubby called me to come get the girls since he needed to get the boys to practice. Of course I got in my car immediately, but poor Velma was a complete wreck by the time I arrived. I was unprepared for the evening because I had planned to go to the elementary school, so I didn’t have their schedules printed out. I mentioned that we had e-mailed them to ED, but both girls said, of course, that ED maintained that My Hubby had not sent them to her.

Because she never gets anything we send… even if it’s certified.

She did actually manage to take them inside the school, while they were waiting for me, and get a printout of Daphne’s schedule. But she didn’t get one for Velma. And as she was driving away in her newly repaired $680/month SUV, I discovered that she had taken Daphne’s schedule with her.

Seriously.

What kind of a person does that? This whole debacle infuriated me. I honestly think she planned this so that she could claim that My Hubby owes her two hours, rather than at all consider her children and their welfare. As usual, it’s all about her.

As annoyed as I was, it didn’t really end up mattering all that much. I calmed Velma’s fears, got printouts of BOTH schedules, went back home to get all of their school supplies (you didn’t really think SHE would buy those, did you?) and we made a little side trip to Staples to get some special locker bling–locker mirror, some magnetic clips, and a whiteboard–so that she would be decked out for her first day.

I got Daphne a set for her locker also, and we trekked back to the school to find their classrooms, memorize locker combinations, and open and close said lockers 6,000 times. We organized their notebooks, binders, and folders, opened packages of scissors, protractors, colored pencils, and pencil sharpeners.

We visited their classrooms one more time for good measure, and thanks to a good friend, I had time to get to the elementary school to collect information packets and sign up for assessments.

Both boys had a great practice and were lucky enough to miss 90% of the drama.

Although I really think her motivation for pulling this little stunt was to gain more time for herself by twisting things around, I think she also did it to get at My Hubby and me. It’s too bad that she doesn’t realize we’ve become experts at flexibility. It’s also too bad that she doesn’t realize we’ll set our personal feelings aside to do what needs to get done–in this case, help two girls prepare for their first day of school in a way that will assure their peace of mind.

It’s more than she seems to be capable of doing.

Sad.

These are the times they’ll remember.

***********************************

Stay tuned tomorrow for today’s even greater insanity…

We had a fabulous time!  Really…

We needed to get away and it was wonderfully refreshing and rejuvenating.  While Wyoming may be God’s Country, the Rocky Mountains certainly are close to His heart as well.  The dizzying heights and depths, the craggy rock faces and the thick forests packed with evergreen trees, the winding roads over Berthoud Pass, the tall waving grasses–they all are a tribute to a Creator with imagination and creativity I can only dream of.

In fact, I was completely awed by just how beautiful the hillsides remain.  The pine beetle has been destroying trees at such a rate that logging is going on continuously to keep up with the devastation.  But even in death, the hillsides are gorgeous–not just a drab, mournful brown like you might expect, but a fiery orange-red that offsets the deep green of those that remain. 

We hiked some, relaxed around the campfire some, fished some, drove ATVs way up into the hills, took the kids horseback riding and saw an enormous bull moose lazily grazing in the meadow.  I wish I’d had my camera then!  We ate a lot of s’mores, went to bed late and slept late, looked for cool rocks and examined some bones from an animal that might have met an untimely end. 

The kids rode their bikes to and from the stables just about hourly and knew every, single horse by name before we left.  Since the campground was far enough away from civilization, I didn’t mind that they were constantly off, like a little herd, pedaling their hearts out, checking out their surroundings.  We played cards, and Sorry and a fabulous game called Mafia that you MUST learn if you’ve never played. 

We didn’t watch TV, listen to the news, or answer our cell phones.

The wind through the treetops, the sunshine on my face, the cool breezes, the gentle afternoon rains, the nightly thunderstorms, and the brisk morning air served to bring some sanity and stability back into my crazy world.  It was a good time to commune with nature, and reconnect with My Hubby and my kiddos.  I didn’t want to come back.

Now that I AM back (I know you were wondering), I can’t wait to go again. 

You really should go and witness the breathtaking majesty for yourself.  Until you get a chance to pack up your very own trailer and head for the hills, my pictures will have to suffice–though they just don’t quite do it justice.

!!!

Pictures of the trailer (perfect, just perfect) coming tomorrow…

We recently inherited (read: were gifted with) a 1975 travel trailer and we’ve been busily remodeling it so that it feels a little more modern. We’re not quite finished, so it’s maybe a mid-90’s kind of trailer now. Anyhoo, it’s a complete blessing to us for a number of reasons–first and foremost is that the size of our family makes travel fairly prohibitive.

We don’t fit in one hotel room, we need two… or a suite. Expensive. Eating out with six? With one that no longer orders from the kids’ menu and really likes seafood? Expensive. Air travel for six? To anywhere? On any airline? Fuggeddaboutit.

We have NOT been free to move about the country.

Our “vacations” have all been to somewhere that involves a long ride in the minivan, seeing family… and sleeping in someone’s basement. I’m not complaining, really. Family is awesome. Sleeping in someone’s basement is cheap, cool (as in temperature) and 100% worth it to spend some quality time with folks we don’t see very often. Some of our best memories have been made on road trips to South Dakota (anyone a fan of the Corn Palace?), Wyoming and Minnesota (you betcha).

But I remember trips with my family when I was a kid that were true vacations–just for the heck of seeing whatever great things there are to see out there in the world. Great things like Bedrock City, Tombstone, the Devil’s Tower, the Oregon coast, the San Diego Zoo, Miami Beach, the Great Sand Dunes, the Liberty Bell, Cape Cod…

These United States are packed full of amazing things to see and do–not cost prohibitive if you are a family of three. Double that number and the odds of seeing those things any time in the near future–like before one of my children becomes a professional athlete or I win the lottery–are slim to none. So a little piece of my heart has been broken for the past several years because we just couldn’t afford to travel anywhere, especially with the outrageous number of dollars we were pouring into attorney fees.

Enter The Trailer… Happiness and joy (and some seriously hard labor) have been abounding in our household. The Trailer is exactly what we’ve needed. It sleeps six, has a fridge, a stove, an oven, a shower… and my favorite part–a toilet. Just for us. No portable potties required. No yucky campground bathrooms. Our. Very. Own. Pottie. It’s so exciting! As I mentioned previously, it’s a 1975 so it was a little dated when it first joined our family. My folks had it prior and used it many times, but it’s been sitting, waiting for some traveling love, for the better part of four years now.

That means that while it has everything we need, it really needed some TLC from us before it’s maiden voyage. It’s been a family project. A big one. Remember me? The optimist? Yeah, me. The one that thought we could do the whole thing after a single whirlwind shopping trip to Home Depot… in one weekend! Uh… right. It’s taken a little longer than I initially expected. But the results are incredible! We’ve been busy little beavers, let me tell you.

I forgot to take “before” pictures, so I borrowed these from a similar trailer to ours.  You get the idea on the color scheme we had to work with.  You’ll have to wait a little while for the “after” photos. 

We’ve stripped out old carpet, used gallons of Rit dye in the washing machine (without dying anything that wasn’t supposed to be dyed–woo hoo!), cleaned, bug bombed, washed, scrubbed, re-tiled, reinstalled, sanded, painted, contact papered, and re-wired. We’ve been THE remodeling family of the century for the past two months–with the exception of a small side activity that kept us really busy for about a two-week time period.

And? It’s almost ready.

The excitement in our household has been palpable. We’re leaving (not on a jet plane) this Friday for parts previously unknown to us. OK, I went there as a kid, but it’s been a long time and the kids have never been there.

We’re going horseback riding, fishing, and hiking. We’re going to make s’mores around the campfire and ride our bikes. We’re going on a hayride and to an ice cream social. We’re going to get back to nature and still make Salisbury Steak for dinner. We’re going to cram all six of us into that little trailer and bond, dangit. My kind of camping trip!

The kids have had their bags packed for three days now. The countdown on the whiteboard by our fridge started with a depressing “17 days till camping” and now has a ginormous “2″ in place of the “17″–a big, blocked 2, drawn in red dry-erase marker, with black stripes running through it and little hash marks out behind it like it’s in motion.

The living room is littered with all things related to camping–quick dissolving toilet paper (did I mention that we’ll have our very own pottie?), Jiffy Pop for the campfire, sleeping bags, tent stakes (for the awning), disposable plates, the cool pop-up trash can I bought, seventy-five kinds of rope and bungee cords (ask My Hubby, I have NO idea), the mini dish drainer made just for RVs and trailers, a bag of marshmallows and three boxes of graham crackers, antibacterial hand soap with adhesive on the bottom so it doesn’t roll around while you’re driving (genius, pure genius), and the new shower curtain we need to install. We’re psyched!

But we’re going to take this adventure thing a little bit slowly. This trip? Only about 2 hours away. We’ll make sure everything works and we’re not too far from home in case something goes wrong. If all goes well, this maiden voyage will be the gateway to things we’ve only dreamed about before. The kids have a list of at least 100 places they’re dying to see. I have at least 100 more. My Hubby just smiles and nods and goes back to the next remodeling task on the list, but I can tell he’s excited, too.

Thank you Mom and Dad for blessing us so very much. Finally we ARE free to move about the country.

Memories are out there, just waiting to be made.

I can’t wait to leave!

Yesterday we happened to be at the doctor’s office, waiting for a sinus infection verdict (which was, thankfully, negative) on both Daphne and Shaggy. Velma and Freddy were out in the waiting room reading, or otherwise occupying their time. We were sitting inside an examination room, Shaggy and Daphne perched up on the exam table, a long sheet of paper crinkling under them with every move. I was sitting beside them in a chair that was designed for utility rather than comfort, counting the minutes until the doctor would arrive.

We could have covered a thousand topics in the time we sat. I covered at least that many in my head. Shaggy kept up a constant stream of chatter, interrupted every now and again by a question or sarcastic comment from Daphne, the quintessential pre-teen, while I wondered why so many doctor’s offices seem partial to the foamy shade of mint green that covered the walls. After several minutes, Shaggy got a thoughtful look on his face and asked me how I had come by my curly hair. Was it Grammy? Or Grand-grand that had passed it along to me?

It was a little out of left field, but Shaggy is not so much a linear thinker. Used to his “all over the map” questions, I shrugged and said, “Well, Grammy used to have VERY curly hair, but it was not Grammy or Grand-grand that passed it along to me. I don’t know who it was that gave it to me because I’m adopted.”

We have talked about it before. It’s not a secret in our household. It’s not something I’ve kept from them, or have even talked about with discomfort. It’s just a part of my life, like having brown eyes or size 7 feet, so I haven’t discussed it often.

“Right,” he replied as he remembered that fact. “Do you know who your Mom and Dad were?”

“I know who my Mom and Dad ARE,” I explained. “Grammy and Grand-grand are my Mom and Dad. I don’t know who my mother and father are, though.”

He nodded. “Do you even have a picture?”

I shook my head no.

“Do you want one?” he inquired.

“Not really,” I said. “I’m pretty happy with the family I have. I don’t feel like I need to know who they were. I’m thankful that they chose to give me life, and that they chose to give me to some people who really, really wanted me. I don’t think I need much more than that.”

He looked a little puzzled, like it was tough to reconcile the not knowing, and Daphne chimed in. “Yeah, my friend Carla is adopted. And she doesn’t really talk about it either.”

“Does she not talk about it because it’s no big deal, or does she not talk about it because it makes her uncomfortable?” I asked.

Daphne shrugged her shoulders and picked at a hangnail. “I don’t really know.”

“Hmm,” I mused. “I think she’s pretty comfortable with her Mom, don’t you? I don’t think she has issues with it, really.”

“Nah, not really,” Daphne said.

I went on. “Because you know that parents aren’t just people who give birth to a child. They’re the people that are really there for you for your whole life, who love you no matter what. Grammy and Grand-grand did everything for me. I don’t remember anything else.”

“How old were you when you were adopted?” Shaggy interrupted.

“Three weeks,” I answered.

His eyes opened wide. “They changed your diapers and everything?”

I smiled. “Yes they did. And they were there when I learned to ride a bike, when I went to my first day of school, when I graduated from High School and college, when I had a baby. I never knew anyone else. They loved me. They provided for me.”

A couple more minutes went by as Shaggy moved on to another topic and chattered along. Daphne was quiet as he rambled. The conversation we just had got stowed in the back of my mind as other things fought for attention. Bills, school starting, scheduling physicals, work. The list is never-ending and I spend my downtime (e.g., in doctor’s offices or waiting rooms, at stoplights, in line at the grocery store) organizing my thoughts and my to-do lists. Deep in thought about the best way to pack our trailer for our upcoming camping trip, I almost missed Daphne’s soft voice as she looked up from her hangnail and into my eyes.

“So…,” she said, pausing as if she was unsure how to proceed, “Being a Stepmom is kind of the same thing as adopting kids, isn’t it?”

I hastily looked down at my shoes so she she wouldn’t see the tears that suddenly filled my eyes and nodded. “Yes it is, sweetheart. Just like that.”

As I looked up to meet her eyes with a smile I hoped imparted the depths to which her comment penetrated my heart, I thanked God for giving me this bunch. No matter the pain, the cash, the frustration, the heartache… this is why I’m here.

More than just giving them to me, I thanked God for preparing me, for the experience of being an adopted child, so I could understand a love that rises above biology…

So that she could, too.

The Egg Donor (ED) owes My Hubby (MH) almost $5K now, for medical expenses, child support, and those pesky attorney fees she was ordered to pay because of her constant, consistent, ridiculous non-compliance with little things like discovery. And that? Is only since May.

By law, the arrearages actually go back to the date of filing, which was mid-January. Even if the Child Support folks take into account the fact that she paid daycare until May 15 and give her a credit, which I’m not sure they will do, she will have arrears up through May of almost $1500. If they don’t factor payment of daycare, she’ll owe $4K, not including the $5K that’s accrued in various things since May.

My Hubby had the following lovely e-mail exchange with Miss Fancy Attorney Pants (FAP) regarding the whole deal…

****************************************************

From: My Hubby
To: Ms. Fancy Attorney Pants

Ms. Fancy Attorney Pants,

I e-mailed The Egg Donor, and copied you, several times with totals due for her portion of the children’s medical expenses–on 5/16, 6/4 and 7/6.

I have also exchanged e-mail with you directly on several occasions–6/4, 6/11, 6/12, 6/19, and 7/2. On 6/12 you stated that payment would be forthcoming and would come directly from your trust account.

To date, I have received no payment from The Egg Donor (or from your trust account) for her portion of the children’s medical expenses, for child support, or for the attorney fees she was ordered to pay in November of 2007.

Totals due at this time are:

$439.36 for her portion of the children’s medical expenses
$2500.00 in arrearages for child support ($500 May, $1000 June, $1000 July)
$1785.55 in attorney fees per the Order of November 2007

I have received no response from you or from The Egg Donor regarding these amounts. Are you still representing The Egg Donor? I will state again that I do not wish to go back to court, but will have no other option if The Egg Donor continues to blatantly disregard the Court’s orders.

Thanks,

MH

****************************************************

From: Ms. Fancy Attorney Pants
To: My Hubby

MH,

We are verifying medical costs as well as the support registry procedure for the County.

Sincerely,

Ms. Fancy Attorney Pants

****************************************************

From: My Hubby
To: Ms. Fancy Attorney Pants

Ms. Fancy Attorney Pants,

Medical costs were “verified” by the invoices (obtained directly from providers) I submitted to The Egg Donor each time I made a request for payment.

The support registry takes literally less than one week to set up. My account was setup and a letter sent to me verifying such within a week of May’s hearing. The Egg Donor was ordered to institute a wage assignment “immediately” on May 14. I have asked several times for proof that she has actually put one in place and have not received it. “I’m working on it” would have been valid for perhaps the first 15 days following the hearing. It has now been 2 1/2 months.

Are you advising your client to continue to use stall tactics rather than support her children and comply with the Court’s orders?

Thanks,

MH

****************************************************

Of course there’s been no response.

Seriously. I wonder why she thinks this is the approach to take. I wonder if she really thinks she’ll get away with it.

I guess so.

Does she not believe the Child Support folks when they say things like “garnishment,” “driver’s license revocation,” and “jail time”?

I guess not.

When I woke up this morning, I heard lots of thudding and clanking coming from the basement. Since it was only 6:30, and I had… um… sort of a long, busy weekend, I wasn’t really all that together yet. I briefly wondered if the dog had gotten out of her crate and squeezed through the cat door to wreak her own personal brand of havoc on my Christmas decorations, or if the cat might be stuck underneath something down there, but I put it out of my head in favor of a couple of more minutes of snuggling my pillow.

When my eyes finally opened for real, the sounds were still there. But I needed the hot water blast from the shower more than I needed to know what it was, so I stumbled into the bathroom to do that instead.

When I got out of the shower the sounds were gone, and my mind was a million miles down the road already. As I exited my bedroom door, bathrobe and slippers on, to see what the rest of my family members were doing (read: to keep the rest of my family members on track so we might have a shot at leaving the house prior to the year 2010), I was pleasantly surprised to see both boys in the kitchen, freshy scrubbed, completely dressed, making lunches. They both turned as I wandered in to survey their lunch-making efforts, and Freddy immediately put my mind at ease about the noises from basement.

“We worked out this morning, Mom,” he said proudly.

Let me explain that it’s the beginning of football season and both boys just finished up a week of conditioning camp. They’re both athletically inclined (which is great because I have the athletic ability of an overripe cantaloupe on a hot day), and conditioning camp inspired them to greatness. Freddy has done at least 7,985,432 pushups in the past four days, dropping to his hands and toes to “give me 50″ with a look of intense concentration in the most unlikely places–like our living room floor in the middle of Spongebob, the Wal-Mart parking lot, the entryway to our neighbor’s house, and the driveway. Shaggy has been the same, doing sprints and agility exercises every time he can squeeze them in.

“Great honey,” I replied, hunting for the Diet Dr. Pepper and a glass. “What kind of workout did you do?”

“We lifted weights!” he continued, his eyes sparkling.

Suddenly I knew exactly where the sounds in the basement had been coming from and, like any mother would, I was worried about him using the weight bench that’s been gathering dust in the cobwebbed corner down there since, oh, 2003 or so.

“Excellent,” I said cautiously, not wanting to destroy his enthusiasm. “Were you careful? Which weights did you use?”

“We were careful,” interjected Shaggy, “And we only used the two and a half pound weights.”

I nodded. “Good.”

“Do you think if I keep lifting weights I’ll get really buff, Mom?” asked Freddy.

I bit my cheeks to keep from smiling and said, “You’re nine years old. You’re not supposed to be BUFF. But exercise is good for you. Everything in moderation, OK? Let’s not get too carried away with this.”

Shaggy nodded and Freddy flexed both arms to show me the progress he’d already made.

“See Mom? These are my guns.” He nodded toward his left arm and said, “I named this one Rifle ’cause it’s not very big yet,” then nodding toward his right arm, “But this one… I named it Bazooka. It’s got potential.”

I couldn’t stop the smile this time as I nodded and then shook my head. Visions of Mr. T filled my head and I thought to myself, “It’s been a LONG time since the A-Team was on TV.”

“Yeah,” he said, still flexing as I turned back to grab my Diet Dr. Pepper, “My guns are SO big… I should be illegal!”

Illegal, indeed. Where do they come up with these things?

Conversation number one, about the glasses, was followed almost immediately by conversation number two… about Velma’s birthday presents or lack thereof.

She piped up after we established that The Egg Donor (ED) was not an Optometrist, Opthalmologist, or any other kind of doctor, and informed me that her weekend had been pretty rotten. I think the initial plan, though I try not to ask any questions really, was that they were all going swimming at ED’s apartment complex. It sounded like a good thing. It was officially so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk this weekend and I would have been thrilled to go for a cool swim. They were all looking forward to it when I dropped them off on Saturday morning.

So it was suprising to me that they hadn’t gone. It was even more surprising when Daphne interrupted Velma’s tale of disappointment over not swimming to throw Velma under the bus.

“Yeah, we didn’t get to go because you threw a fit in Wal-Mart.”

One eyebrow raised, I turned back to Velma and said, “You did?”

She shook her head vehemently in denial, and proceeded to relate the rest of the story.

Velma’s birthday was at the beginning of the month. Remember the big deal over the supposed “party” that ED needed to take her to? The one that required her to pick the kids up early? The one that never actually materialized? Yeah, that one. The kids did go up to their grandmother’s house on the afternoon of Velma’s actual birthday, for a few hours while ED was at work. Hardly even a true family birthday party, given that her mother wasn’t even present. And the day that the party was supposed to occur was filled with that dangerously sun-drenched festival. But no party.

On the day of the trip to grandma’s house, Velma got some Harry Potter jellybeans (you know, the kind with flavors like vomit, grass, dirty diaper, etc.) and a promise from grandma to buy her a book at Target. ED? Nothing. Not even a card. Now before we get off on a tangent of how much money was actually spent on Velma’s birthday, that’s not really the issue here. It’s not about money. I repeat, this is NOT about money. It IS about forethought, a little planning, at least a facade that anyone at all in ED’s family thought Velma’s birthday was important. Didn’t happen. She was disappointed.

Disappointment faded fast when ED explained to Velma, over the phone, that her gift to her was letting her pick out something special at the festival that weekend. Excellent. That’s a pretty good deal, and Velma’s spirits were high. When they actually went to the festival, ED bought Velma a $5 ticket to spin some wheel and get a prize. The prize she got was worth $25, not really something that Velma even wanted or picked out for herself, and ED announced that the prize was Velma’s gift. Alrighty then.

Velma was disappointed again. Let me say one more time that this isn’t about money. Although I have some strong opinions about the fact that ED is driving a car that costs her $680/month and not paying a penny of the $1K/month in child support she’s ordered, or any of the children’s medical expenses, but can only afford $5 to spend on her daughter’s birthday, it’s not about that. It’s about the fact that Velma is eleven years old and gave us at least 15,000 different ideas of things she really wanted… ranging from $2 to $200. We made it clear that the $200 was far outside of the budget, but couldn’t ED have at least come up with something for $2 that she wanted? Anything?

Anyway, to assuage Velma’s hurt feelings, ED told her that she HAD actually ordered her a gift, that it had come but was broken, and that she had to return it. It would be there in a couple of weeks. Well, that was a a couple of weeks ago now. Evidently ED got a case of the guilties when Velma pushed her on the subject of this mysterious broken item that was supposed to be on its way and ED offered to take her to Wal-Mart to purchase something there by way of replacement. Velma, being a smart cookie, opined at this point in the story that she had some suspicions about whether there actually WAS an item on order, and continued with her story.

Once at Wal-Mart, she beelined for the toy aisle. Because no eleven year old is NOT going to beeline for the toy aisle when they’ve been told they get to pick out a gift. ED told her that it needed to be something not terribly expensive, and Velma picked out a $10 doll. This is where things went downhill. ED had in mind that $5 was not terribly expensive and Velma really thought $10 was pretty thrifty. After all, $10 is exactly half of what we usually spend on gifts for Velma’s friends when they have a birthday. So when ED told her that it was too expensive, she got tears in her eyes. I imagine that the disappointment of the much-hyped party that never happened, and then the $5/$25 “gift” that ED got her at the festival, piled on top of the “$10 is too expensive” conversation was just too much for poor Velma to take.

Once the tears started rolling, she evidently couldn’t stop them and ED began to yell at her, right there in the aisle. I don’t know how much of what she related after that was exaggerated by her 11-year-old mind, but if her past history is any indicator, it was probably pretty accurate. She’s the LAST child in our family to be deceitful, or to even stretch the truth. She’s a factual kid… tells it like it is. She went on to describe ED’s diatribe in some detail, repeating the words she had spoken with the venom in her voice I’m sure ED was using at the time.

“I can’t believe you’re so selfish that you are crying in Wal-Mart over $10 rather than taking into account the possibility of making me angry.”

Grown up words. All of them. Velma went on to say that she offered to put the doll back, that if ED was too broke to purchase it she understood. She said that while she was trying to “pull it together”, ED threw the doll into the cart with such force that she dented the packaging, causing Velma to feel horribly guilty and beg, new tears coming, for her to put it back. ED refused. I can see poor Velma, in my mind’s eye, running after ED, begging her to put it back, feeling absolutely terrible that she’d caused her mother such grief, while ED just stalked away with the cart. She ended up buying her the doll, but managed to suck all of the joy right out of what should have been a happy occasion. And now? Every playtime with that doll will just be a reminder of that awful exchange.

When they arrived back at the apartment, ED notified the entire household that Velma had “thrown a total fit at Wal-Mart” and that, as punishment, none of them would be going to the pool. To add insult to injury, she turned to Velma and said, at the top of her lungs, “Thank Velma. She’s selfish.”

Nice.

I didn’t have words ready for that one. I wanted to head right on over to the apartment and give her an earful but, you know, it wouldn’t do any good with her. Instead, I just hugged Velma and said, “I’m so sorry.”

What else could I do?

***Update (since a couple have mentioned it): We did do a birthday party for Velma at the beginning of the month. We went to a local restaurant that specializes in entertainment for young ones–her request for the third year running–we brought friends, and had a giggle-filled sleepover afterwards. She got showered with gifts from us, from her friends, and from my parents. In fact, she might have come close to getting 14,999 of the things she asked for. Thank God for normalcy in at least one household.

Today’s that day. You know, the one where the kids come back from their two-day trip down the rabbit hole with the Countess of Cuckoo. It never ceases to amaze me the stories they tell when they return. This morning, I picked them up from the local “neutral dropoff and pickup location” and they actually didn’t look too worn by their weekend.

But as they piled into the car, the very first conversation we had centered around Shaggy’s glasses… the glasses that he’s supposed to wear all the time… because he’s very far-sighted (the worst in our family, as a matter of fact)… and he gets terrible headaches when he doesn’t wear them. So you can imagine my surprise when he got out of her broken-down $680/month SUV this morning without them on. He had to run back to her vehicle–smashed front-end, broken out headlight, buckled hood, and all–and retrieve his glasses from her purse.

A little history lesson here…

Remember when Daphne lost her glasses? We, of course, ended up shelling out the smack-a-roos to purchase replacement glasses because The Egg Donor (ED), the Pillar of Parenting, not only refused to assist with the purchase of new ones or even look for the pair that was lost, but actually told her attorney that we failed to send them with Daphne, therefore we were completely financially responsible for their replacement. Uh huh.

Not long after that e-mail from her attorney, and a rather heated phone conversation during which I determined that her attorney was actually Satan with a blond hippy wig, we had a little “Come to Jesus” meeting with the kids over this whole fiasco and, without beating them over the head, placed the responsibility for the loss of things at their mother’s home squarely on their shoulders. We revoked their privilege of taking things from our home to hers that weren’t absolutely necessary–toys, GameBoys, etc.–until we saw a drastic improvement in the return of things that WERE necessary–glasses, jackets, shoes, and the like.

During that lovely few minutes, it came to light that ED tells them to take their glasses off when they arrive at her house, and that… get this… no, really… hang onto your hats for this one… as long as they can actually SEE without them on, they don’t really need to wear them all the time. So they take them off shortly after they arrive, and then spend the whole weekend without them.

I had a little temper tantrum the first time I heard those words fall from their lips, mumbled some words I’m not proud of but that they couldn’t hear, and requested that they recount their mother’s lengthy training in the optical field. I asked where she had gone to school for it, where her degree was issued, if she had some sort of certificate allowing her to practice Optometry in our fair state, if they had any idea how long the degree had actually taken. They, of course, had no response.

I went on from there to explain that the Optometrist actually went to school to get a degree, a certificate, and a LICENSE to practice… that he was very knowledgeable in his field, that they had all three sat directly in front of him and listened to him explain why they needed to wear glasses, how often, and what would happen if they didn’t. I asked Daphne if she remembered coming home from school crying because of the headaches, if she could recall how hard she struggled with reading initially because she couldn’t focus on the page. I was not happy that ED was actually irresponsible enough to tell them such nonsense, but I was equally unhappy that they had not used their brains to actually test what was real. I know it’s tough, but they’re old enough to not make bad choices because they believe whatever ridiculous poppycock their ED sells them.

I thought we had made headway during that conversation when we discussed that they knew right from wrong and needed to start making decisions based on what they KNEW was right, not just on what ED said. So I have to admit, I was a little grouchy when Shaggy ambled over to the car without his specs on his face, like it was no big deal.

When he further told me, head hung low, that he had not worn them all weekend, I lost my patience. We had a long discussion, at higher than normal decibels, about understanding right from wrong, testing the things we hear for validity, thinking things through to see if they make sense, etc. I asked a couple of very pointed questions like, “If your Mom said you should take drugs, would you do it?” and “If she told you to drive in the car without wearing your seatbelt because the risk of having an accident was low, would you do it?” He responded with a negative to both questions, and I think my point penetrated his little brain.

Gah.

Why do I even have to HAVE these kinds of discussions?

It seriously gives me hives.

I woke up this morning, prior to the alarm going off, to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I am a sleep craver, so I’m not so much excited about the knocking, particularly because I know what the outcome of the knocking will look like. Inevitably, the little voice on the other side of the door will tell me at length about some transgression visited on the owner of the voice by one of three other parties living in our home. It will be a serious transgression, one that requires instantaneous action on my part, and typically one that requires a remedy of some sort to make the injured party feel like all is right with the world again.

In the past, we’ve had knocking over what kind of sandwiches must be packed for lunch, whose turn it is to wear (insert important shared item of clothing here), who should get in the shower first, whose responsibility it is this particular morning to put the milk away since all four of them used it, and other earth-shattering and life-altering decision-making opportunities. We’ve also had knocking for bloody noses, tripping, high-sticking, goalie interference, and other sibling issues that really do end with someone in the penalty box.

After a groan and a sigh, and a peek at the clock through one mostly closed eyelid, I answered in my most patient, kind, good morning voice…

“WHAT?!?”

“We’re having an argument about underwear,” came the rather timid voice of Shaggy through the door.

“What?” I threw back, wondering if I heard him correctly. “Underwear?!? Are you aware of what time it is?”

“Yes,” he said, almost in a whisper, which is also a pet peeve of mine. If you’re going to knock on the door, loudly enough to wake me from a sound sleep, then for the love of GOD and ALL THAT IS HOLY, at least speak so I can actually hear you. My bionic ears are just not awake enough to catch everything the way they normally do… at a reasonable hour of the day… say 10 or so… after caffeine. “But we can’t agree on whose turn it is to wear the crappy underwear. I wanted to do Rock, Paper, Scissors but Freddy wouldn’t do it.”

By this point I’m shaking off the sleep and I’m valiantly trying to process this issue. Did he really just say that my involvement is required to mediate who needs to wear the crappy underwear? At 6 in the morning? Am I dreaming this? Nah, couldn’t be. I couldn’t MAKE this up.

“The crappy underwear?” I replied, feeling a little like there was an echo in our household.

“Yes,” he said again, a little more forcefully. “There’s only one pair of good underwear left and we can’t decide who should have to wear the crappy ones.”

Now let me give you a little background on this fascinating underwear issue. Shaggy and Freddy are 8 and 9 years old, respectively. They grew out of character underwear a couple of years ago. No more Scooby-Doo, Spiderman, or Spongebob for them. They became too “grown up” for that kind of nonsense. Nope, they wanted plain old solid-colored underwear. And not briefs, mind you. In fact, any color but white, and definitely not briefs. During our outing to Target to replace that “little kid” underwear with something much more mature, I was informed, in indignant tones, that tightie-whities were just not for them.

So we didn’t buy tightie-whities. And we didn’t buy any with Spongebob, superheros of any nature, or any other cartoon characters. We bought boxer briefs… in young man colors like olive green, dark blue, and black.

No white.

No briefs.

Mature colors.

I thought we had it goin’ on. So I bought, like, 752,000 packages of boxer briefs. Because two boys can wear some serious underwear. I don’t know if it’s like the disappearing socks in the dryer, or what, but it never fails that it’s Wednesday morning, we’ve done 75 loads of laundry in the past two days, and no one can find clean underwear. The obvious solution to that problem is to, you know, buy a lot more. And that’s what I did.

As they grew over the past year? I bought even more. Their drawer was practically brimming with underwear. And it seemed that I had solved the case of the missing underwear. No more knocking, early in the morning, complaining that the drawer was empty. Either they had plenty, or they learned the art of inside-out reuse… and either way really, I was fine with that. Things went along swimmingly, right up until a couple of weeks ago when a trip to Wal-Mart netted a new kind of underwear that THEY. MUST. HAVE.

Those boxer briefs? The 752,00 packages that I bought? Out. For little kids. Completely unhip and uncool. Boxers… those were the ticket. I had concerns. Boxer briefs are soft and not, uh… floppy. You know, they keep everything where it’s supposed to be, not just out there… freewheeling, for lack of a better term. Anyway, I agreed to let them try one package–three pair.

“Try them. See what you think,” I said, like any good mother would. “And then we’ll see if we want to buy more.”

I heard nothing. Not one word. Not a peep. Two full weeks have gone by and I’ve been blissfully floating through life thinking those old boxer briefs were doing the trick, thinking I’d saved myself tons of grief by not just going off half cocked and buying 752,000 packages of plain old, scratchy, floaty boxers. I was pretty proud of myself, truth be told, for not being swayed by the Wal-Mart conversation. You know the one… “I NEED TO HAVE (insert impulse buy here).” Saved lots of green… the whole deal.

We… he… hell…..

Little did I know that behind closed doors, those boxers were causing quite the issue…

Quite the issue that resulted in the knocking on my door this morning at some ungodly hour.

Back to groggy, sleepy, grouchy me. “Seriously? Are we fighting about underwear at this hour? Really? Because you couldn’t find something better to argue about, like who to vote for in the next election, the best way to solve world hunger, or something? Anything? Besides underwear?”

I wracked my brain for a workable solution to this problem. I could force the Rock, Paper, Scissors issue. I could cut the non-crappy underwear in half and make each boy wear one side. I could make them flip a coin. I could try to figure out why there were no more pairs of non-crappy underwear available when laundry had just been done. I could make them search the dryer…

As my grouchiness increased, my husband, never one to mince words, and the King of Sibling Rivalry, solved the whole thing for me. He rolled over, magically awakened from sleep (since he could sleep through all manner of craziness–loud parties, the ransacking of our home and the theft of every item in it save the bed, a complete house fire, you know the drill), and yelled…

“Both of you wear the crappy underwear! Problem solved!”

And he rolled right over and went back to sleep.

Next, I think I’ll have him tackle that world hunger thing.

We spent lunchtime in the tiny town of Story, at a quaint little restaurant called the Waldorf A’Story, nestled inside the Piney Creek General Store. The store front boasts a large sign that reads “The Story Real Escape Co.” and looks a lot like the Alamo would look it it were made from river rock instead of adobe. The grocery side was about 1200 square feet, packed full of treasures and sundries. The area around the single checkout counter was filled with freezers full of ice cream and directly across from the ice cream were shelves jammed with toys of all shapes and sizes.

Further down, one aisle was all specialty Asian cuisine–I guess there’s a market for it there. Another was full of tin signs, rusted horseshoes and mismatched weathervanes–I bought one for my husband, the Green Thumb, that says “Experimental Dandelion Farm – Do Not Disturb Weeds”–and in the back was a small room filled to the gills with wine from all over the world. None of the aisles were large enough for more than one person to walk down at a time, but even the chaotic shelves (packed with gourmet food items and dog food in the same area) seemed to jive with the overall feeling that this place had it all–with no worries.

The “Restrunt,” as it’s called, was tucked into the corner of the store, separated from customers making their purchases by a double doorway. The interior was all rough-hewn log walls and ceilings, keeping corrugated aluminum in place, the logs reminiscent of the fort we had just visited. One giant log–split in half and polished to a sheen so clear I could see my face reflected in it–served as the long bench in front of the bar.

On the walls were chotchkies of every shape and size–a lifesize mannequin of a hockey player, complete with helmet and an open mouth that contained a bottle opener; hurricane lanterns; an old sled; a giant carved Indian; hot sauce labelled “Smack my Ass and Call me Sally”; and in one corner a giant buffet–deep brown mahogany, ornate and mirrored, glass figurines covering every square inch. The bathroom was far back in one corner and was the type that you had to step in, suck it in, and shut the door before you could even sit down. The kids each took a turn and each one came out laughing. It was completely charming.

The menu was just like the rest– laid-back , friendly, unhurried… like you might be having lunch at your long-lost friend’s house instead of someone’s “establishment.” Some of the culinary options were the Yullno-u-ata hoagie; The Piney Creek Soup Fer Shur (cuppa or bowla); Nuthin Butta Haffa Samich; the Mother of All Salads; and the kids’ choice… the plain, ol’ BLT. I had the Alaskan Creamery, a grown-up version of the PB&J, stuffed with smoked salmon and the cremiest Cream Cheese I’ve ever had.

We spent an hour relaxing in the tiny eatery. I let the kids drink their fill of soda, which I rarely do, while we chatted. When everyone was finally sated, we left the red and white checkered tablecloth behind and moved out front to the rocking chairs and picnic tables.

We sat for awhile in the sun, feeling full and happy, and watched the kids play in Piney Creek (that’s Piney Crick, if you’re from there). There was just enough cool breeze to make it a heavenly afternoon and the kids came back from the banks of the creek with handfuls of wildflowers–red, yellow, deep blue, purple, and white. I threaded the tiny white flowers through the braids in the girls’ hair and we sat awhile longer, listening to the sounds of the creek babbling by, and the wind whispering through the treetops.

We laughed with my Grandad and drank in the amazing scenery around us. It was good to just be with him, out in the warm afternoon sunlight. It was good to hear him laugh, that laugh that I remember from when I was a child. I wondered why I hadn’t done more of this with him over the years and vowed to get back up that way before too much more time passed.

If you missed the prior pieces, they’re here:  Part One, Part Two, and Part Three…

We spent the next day visiting local historical sights.

Wyoming’s history is rich with locales and lore that jog the imagination. Not so very long ago, it was a major thoroughfare for folks hoping to strike it rich in the gold fields of Montana and it was also home to many different Indian tribes–Lakota, Cheyenne, Arapaho, Shoshone, and Crow. The Bozeman Trail, named for trailblazer John Bozeman, cut through the middle of the Powder River Basin, hunting grounds of the Northern Plains Indians. Skirmishes between the Indians and those trying to find their dreams in Montana led to military occupation at several locations along the Bozeman Trail, including our first stop–Fort Phil Kearny.

There isn’t much remaining at the Fort itself. A dusty parking lot sits at the top of a hill just outside Story, Wyoming. A small museum, filled with artifacts, pictures, and maps serves as the Welcome Center. We stopped there and the kids roamed through each room, fascinated by an authentic headdress–its feathered resplendence still like new with deep golds and reds, and the tomahawks, spears, and knives used as weapons by the Indians. Velma was particularly taken with a ceremonial item called a Crow, worn on the back, fastened by a belt around the waist. This one was also made of feathers, fastened together in the middle and radiating out, red and yellow feathers at the ends, as bright as if they’d just been dyed yesterday.

Shaggy was fascinated by a Howitzer, and a military uniform–a castoff from the Civil War that was standard fare for military personnel at that time. Just inside the door was also a replica of a covered wagon. Inside the wagon were the supplies a family might take with them if they were to travel along the Bozeman Trail. It was sparse. A couple of changes of clothes, a bolt of fabric for sewing new ones, a small assortment of dishes, a washtub, a butter churn, flour, dried fruit, beans, rice, sugar and coffee, dishes, and a washtub–all squashed into a 4 foot by 10 ten foot space. Add to that all of your family members, jostling along in the wagon box, feeling every bump and rut, terrified of an impending Indian attack at any second, and it must have made tough characters out of anyone who made the journey.

We watched a short movie that described the history of the Fort in some detail. I wondered what it must have been like for the inhabitants of the Fort. It wasn’t very large, only 600 by 800 feet, and it contained enlisted, cavalry, and officer’s quarters, a hospital, a Sutler’s store, a guardhouse, a laundress’ quarters, a schoolhouse, a quartermaster and commissary supply, commander’s quarters, and a magazine. What stands there today is a large, grassy field… no remnants of the buildings that once stood or the people that once lived within the walls of the Fort, nothing that might indicate it was once a bustling center of activity, or the centerpiece of a horrible massacre. If the museum weren’t there, if they had not painstakingly walked the grounds and laid out boundaries and signage to point the way, it would just be another grassy bluff, like all of the others.

The view from the bluff where the Fort once stood as a bastion of safety for travelers and military folks alike was spectacular. It was warm, but not too warm, a gentle breeze stirring the air just enough that it wasn’t cloying. There were more of the fluffy, cottony clouds we saw on the drive up, dotting the sky and casting shadows over the neighboring hills.

The clouds were moving swiftly, and the shadows lengthened and stretched across the hills, moving from one to another like a wagon train fleeing from Indian attack. The kids spent time running along the newly built front walls of the Fort, giant freshly sharpened pencils standing at attention, shoulder to shoulder against each other. They peeked through the windows cut into the sides, hung on fresh hinges, and over the top, scrambling up onto the wooden planks, similar to the planks the guards would have used to see over.

Too soon it was time to go. On the way into town for lunch, we stopped by a monument built to Portugee Phillips. It was a small monument, built from smooth, rounded river rocks, caked together with cement, that reached up towards the heavens like a miniature pyramid. The inscription read:

In Honor Of
John (Portugee) Phillips
Who Dec. 22-24, 1866, rode 236 miles
in sub-zero weather through
Indian infested country to Fort
Laramie to summon and for the
Garrison of Fort Phil Kearny
beleaguered by Indians follow-
ing the Fetterman Massacre

The story goes that a Sioux leader, Red Cloud, staged a decoy strike on a wood train running near the Fort. Captain Fetterman, at the command of Colonel Henry Carrington, rounded up 79 men–the number he had previously said he would use to massacre the entire Sioux nation–and set out for victory. As they approached the attacking Indians, the Indians began to run away and the soldiers gave chase. As the soldiers reached the crest of the hill, they realized that the fleeing Indians had been decoys. There, on the other side of the ridge, were 2000 Sioux warriors. Fetterman’s meager 79 didn’t stand a chance. Within 20 minutes, Fetterman and all of his men were dead.

When news of the massacre reached the Fort, Portugee Phillips volunteered to ride for help. As the sign reads, so goes the legend. They say that he rode 236 miles on horseback, in a raging blizzard, to get to Fort Laramie for help. He rode so hard, and so fast, and so far, that the horse he was riding died just after their arrival at Fort Laramie.

The kids were awestruck by the idea. As I explained what that distance would be by car, their eyes widened. It was a great history lesson, fun to reminisce, fun to picture the whole thing in my mind’s eye. I was glad the kids got to be a part of it, to see this, and to think about what life might have been like before the Wii, before CDs, before cable TV.

I don’t know if they’ll remember it forever. My Dad tells me that I was there as a kid, too, and I don’t remember a moment of it. But I do know that the rich history of places like this was planted somewhere deep down in my soul–an appreciation for those that went before us, for the struggles, the achievements, the love, and the laughter that went into making today what it is.

As I stood watching them run around the monument and feel the stones with their hands, I tilted my head toward the sky, closed my eyes against the sun, and thought for a second I could hear the gunshots, the war cries, the pounding of horses hooves.

I hoped, even if for just a moment, that my kids could hear it too.

It’s Friday, and I’m thrilled about that!

In honor of the break I will get over the weekend from the rigors of corporate life (read: time-wasting, blame-shifting, and name-dropping), I am posting the top ten most annoying things I have dealt with at work or en route.

They are:

10. I generally run late in the mornings. I’m not sure if has something to do with the fact that:

• getting myself ready
• getting four kids dressed in the correct outfit for the day (e.g., in their neon daycare shirt if it’s required because they’re going somewhere where they need to keep track of all of the little munchkins)
• getting lunches made for the aforementioned four kids who could argue over the number of possible shades of the color pink and therefore argue about all manner of silliness, up to and including who got Cheetos yesterday even though there are 57,000 bags of Cheetos left for today
• getting the dog fed and corralled so that we can get her outside before she chews up my newest pair of slippers
• and turning off all of the lights in the house because my husband has “an issue” with lights being left on during the day (a leftover childhood trauma, I’m pretty sure)

…takes so long that I have to get up 4.3 minutes after I went to bed, but I am… usually late.

And I always end up behind the person who doesn’t have a care in the world, is likely unemployed, thinks it might be Sunday, and is therefore driving 3 miles per hour.

9. Once that person who was driving 3 miles per hour turns off, I end up behind someone who might be driving 4 miles per hour, but suddenly needs to turn and slams on the brakes directly in front of me, causing my blood pressure to go through the roof because I’m usually less than the safe following distance behind him (um, ok, maybe 3 inches IS a safe following distance) and I have to lock ‘em up in order to avoid a “fender bender”.  Then that person slows to .00000002 miles per hour before whipping over into the TURN LANE THAT HAS BEEN THERE FOR THE PAST 50 YARDS.

8. I am addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper… or Diet Coke if DDP isn’t available. That means that I’ve already sucked down about a 2-liter before I actually get to work (yes, I know–soda is bad for me, but remember how early I have to get up? I’m not operating on a lot of sleep and if caffeine keeps me rollin’, then so be it–lay OFF already). While my bladder has been learning for years and years how to manage this sizable fluid intake, I really have to go by the time I arrive at work. When I roll into the bathroom at full tilt, dropping my purse, my laptop bag, and my keys on the floor because I’m busy trying to get in there before anything embarrassing happens (because, you know, I’ve had a baby and all), I don’t generally pay attention to the position of the seat… in the women’s restroom…

Really? Why on earth is the seat UP? At home I can cope with that little problem. I expect it.  I live in a household with three males.  At work? No guys allowed in there.

Clearly, I need to have a conversation with the cleaning folks.

7. Also in relation to the restroom, I’m not sure who sets up those little automatic flush dealie-bobbers, but they should absolutely NOT recognize that I have leaned forward. THEY. SHOULD. NOT. Because really? I took a shower before I left the house for the day and I don’t need another one. Could it not possibly wait until I’ve actually stood up? Or left the stall entirely? Nothing’s better than a shower RIGHT THERE to start my workday off right. Seriously. Who’s the practical joker?

I think that person needs a spanking.

6. By the time I actually get to my desk, I’m already in a great mood (see numbers 10, 9, 8 and 7 if you have any questions about why I’m in such a great mood), and I’m just grateful to have my little corner of the universe. However, I’d like to find out whose idea it was to create cubicles. Because I? Am seriously over cubeland. I’m not really interested, especially after my recent shower, in hearing about someone’s problems with the in-laws, new medication requirements, bodily function issues, or kids. It’s not because I don’t genuinely like my co-workers and want to hear about their lives, but the folks on the conference call I’m trying to have? In New Jersey? Really don’t care about how well Immodium-AD works.

5. That conference call? Scheduled by those folks in New Jersey? Is at the crack of dawn. Because the whole notion of time zones is really lost on them, evidently. And why would they think that little old me wouldn’t be able to just bump my schedule ahead by hours and hours in the morning to accomodate their every need? Really, that’s why I exist. Just to please them.

4. That conference call? Lasts 2 hours. And we accomplish the big nothing–the goose egg, zero, zilch-a-rooskie, nada, nothing, nyet. Why? Because we spend the entire conference call blame-shifting (for things that really don’t matter, might I add) rather than attempting to figure out a solution to anything on earth. I don’t know about you, but I personally love to blame-shift. I would so much rather spend 2 fruitless hours at work, pointing the finger at someone else for all of my own personal failures, with my neck cranked over in that unnatural position so I can hold onto the phone while I actually DO WORK on my keyboard, than do anything else… like make progress, finish the 87 billion other tasks on my to-do list or, I don’t know, just go home and tackle the Mount Everest of laundry in the middle of my laundry room floor.

3. That conference call? Is followed by another meeting… during which we discuss the fact that no one can get anything done… BECAUSE WE HAVE SO MANY FREAKIN’ MEETINGS.

I wonder whose deep, abiding wisdom came up with that concept?

2. The person who came up with that concept? Probably makes at least six times the cashola I make… and he has an office… with a door… that closes.

And the number one most annoying thing about work?

It seriously cuts into my blogging time.

HAPPY WEEKEND!

After the bizarro “can’t be in the sun but went to the festival in a costume on a blazing hot day” discussion, my favorite topic surfaced…

Illness and Allergies.

We all know that The Egg Donor (ED) has had some serious health issues. It’s true. It is also true that she uses those previous health issues to her full advantage whenever it suits her. Whatever. It’s her life. If she wants to be the world’s biggest cry-baby and live at the hospital, because someone takes care of her there 24/7 and she doesn’t have to lift one tiny, pinkie fingernail to do anything for herself, then more power to her. But it makes my teeth clench when she teaches the kids to do it.

We’ve had scads of conversations in the past, required to set them straight about Mom’s terrible illness, about how she thinks it’s probably hereditary and they should be watched closely by the doctor for the minutest sign of anything wrong, how every rash, low-grade fever, and tummy ache is cause for an ER run (although she never takes them to the doctor, she believes that we should do it… and pay for it… because they could be in GRAVE danger), how allergy shots are dangerous and cause lumps on their arms the size of a grapefruit, etc., etc., etc.

She’s the High Priestess of Hypochondria. I’m convinced that there’s no one out there better. And she’s a master at manipulating their little minds into believing whatever malarky she has to sell.

This weekend was no different. Just like we’ve been through illness discussions until I could throw up, we’ve been through the allergy argument until I actually did (ok, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but it’s been a LOT). At different points in their lives, according to the Duchess of Daffy they’ve been allergic to shellfish, all seafood, olives, milk, soy, tree nuts, peanuts, tomato soup, cheese, eggs, and now the latest fad allergy — lamb. Because really? Lamb is such a big deal in allergy circles. So many kids are having really severe reactions. It’s a huge cause for alarm. (Insert eye roll here)

It’s important to note here that not one, single, solitary child in our household has ANY food allergies whatsoever, except Freddy who is the only child NOT biologically related to the Queen of Psychosis. How do we know this? Because every child in the household has been skin tested extensively. They are NOT, and I am underlining NOT just to emphasize it more dramatically, allergic to shellfish… or any kind of seafood… or milk… or soy… or tree nuts… or peanuts… or tomato soup… or cheese… or eggs… or lamb.

This all came about because Daphne was telling me about the gyros they had at the festival (yes, the very same one that was such a problem because of the SUN) and how yummy it was. Velma interjected that she had to go without because she’s allergic to lamb.

If my head had spun around in the car any faster it would have come clean off my head, I’m pretty sure. I was already grouchy because pickups are just painful, period, and I had already dealt with the whole “sun” discussion, and I was already wondering why it is that people like her are still allowed to walk the earth, let alone bear children, and the “I’m allergic to lamb” comment just sent me right on over the edge.

“Seriously?” I barked at poor Velma. “Lamb? And you know this because…?”

She looked me dead in the eye and said, like it had been rehearsed several times, “I had it at Mom’s and I got pink spots.”

“Pink spots like what?” I demanded. “Like giant, blotches all over your body? Like little tiny spots? Itchy? Welty? What? What kind of pink spots?!?”

“Just little pink spots,” she replied. “On my arms.”

“On your arms… hmmm. Like the pink spots you got on your arms while we were in Wyoming?”

“Yep, exactly like those.”

“Oh, good,” I said. “Then maybe you can tell me what it was you ate that you were allergic to that time.”

She looked confused for a second. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah, me neither,” I agreed. “But I do remember that it was probably a reaction to the chlorine in the pool because you hadn’t had ANYTHING to eat prior to getting those little pink spots. It’s called sensitive skin and it has nothing whatsoever to do with food allergies.”

“Oh,” she said.

“So,” I continued, “Does it make sense to you that you’ve had your skin break out in that same way on several occasions from lotion, chlorine, bug spray, whatever else; you’ve never, ever had an allergic reaction to food at our house; you’ve never been allergic to any of the things your Mom has said you were allergic to; and in fact you’ve had a doctor TELL you you’re not allergic to ANY foods; but your Mom thinks it was the lamb?”

The lightbulb went on. She shook her head no.

“Doesn’t make sense to me, either,” I said.

End of conversation.

Ugh.