My Summer (so far) In Pictures

So it's been two full weeks of summer vacation so far, and here's what we have to show for it...

A weekend getaway to the west coast with the entire family:

Ben described it as "the most awesome vacation ever," so definitely a success.

It amazes me that with a house full of toys (most of which seem to have ended up on our living room floor), the boys are always wandering aimlessly about, trailing us like shadows, insisting they have nothing to do. I have nearly given up on cleaning up, since inevitably, everything ends up out the next day anyways.

Last summer, we spent most of our days at the beach and at the water park, but this summer we've had to deal with Potty Training Boot Camp (which has taken way longer than we had expected), so I've had to find ways to make me feel better about being trapped in the house:

I am embarrassed to admit that I almost enjoyed scrubbing and organizing my frig and freezer for the first time ever. (I'm also a little embarrassed to admit it was my first time ever). Who knew the drawers were supposed to be totally see-through?!?

And when I was done with the frig, I started to tackle The Major Summer Project: photo organizing. I finally finished Aidan Kai's first year album, so now I'm only 2 years behind...

And of course, what would a photo recap be of the last two weeks without...

When Aidan didn't quite make it to the bathroom, and the stickers didn't quite make it onto the chart, we had to turn to:

And as a result, at the end of each day, I've had to turn to...

We have managed to squeeze in some late afternoons of pool play and the occasional barbecue...


And even on the bad days, when I've wanted to go out all day long and instead have spent it scrubbing the carpets, running the washing machine, all while still trying to be uber-positive and cheerful with our pee-boy-in-training, I still remind myself that a summer day at home is still better than a good day at work!

Potty Training Boot Camp (or: And So I Turn To The Merlot...)

Potty training stinks.

There is no faster way to suck the joy of summer right out of you like dirty superhero underwear.

Hubby, the boys, and I were all officially "off" for summer as of Friday morning. By Sunday afternoon, we were officially "on" for Boot Camp. We had done it with Ben when he was this age, and after only a few days, he had caught on. We figured, after months of plateauing on the potty, it was time for Aidan too. We know the boot camp method is a controversial one. We know it doesn't support the whole "the child needs to be ready" philosophy. But I sorta know my kids, and sometimes you have to push them a little (shove, really) or they might end up in college with Depends. They are both just the kinds of kids who would rather be playing with Hot Wheels or watching another episode of "Sponge Bob" rather than be receiving stickers and accolades for their bowel movements. My boys, it seems, can not always be bothered.

So, we figured we would jump in head (butt?) first, and do the intense potty training immediately. We had a window of time before the grandparents would be babysitting, and we knew it was now or never. After a visit to Target for Thomas and Marvel underoos in a 3T, we literally waved goodbye to all the diapers and Aidan proudly dumped them into the garbage (and then we promptly pulled them right back out and hid them...just in case...and mainly to be renamed as "nighttime big boy pull-ups"). Before the first 10-minute timer had beeped, in the midst of, apparently, a very intense game of Hot Wheels Monster Truck, I noticed a smell. "Aidan, do you have to go potty?" I asked, my voice pitched a bit too high already. Sure enough, I was initiated into the first hour of Boot Camp 2.0 with poop smushed right into Spiderman's face, and then, thanks to much wiggling, rolling out onto the bathroom tile, rug, and, just for good measure, smeared onto the Elmo Potty Seat.

The last 4 days have been filled with urine puddles and droplets, endless loads of laundry, cheers and stickers, timed potty runs (he's like Pavlov's dog when he hears the bell), and powdered laxative. Oh yes, our little champ decided he was not going to poop. At all.

Combine all of this with the stress of packing for a vacation and the number of children in the house doubling to 4 because of cousin sleepovers and two adults who need to get out of the house every day or else...well, summer ain't fun yet.

P.S. About an hour after posting my above entry, the following occurred:

~Aidan had a stomach ache and a fit and refused to go potty.

~While said stomach ache and fit were occurring, I tried to happily and cheerily encourage (read: force while still smiling) him to sit on the potty. This resulted in no bowel movement, but a sudden and unexpected stream of pee shooting out of him and onto me, my pink fuzzy slippers, the newly-washed bathroom rug, my newly-bathed, shaved, and moisturized leg, and the Eric Carle board book I was attempting to use as entertainment while he supposedly sat.

~Ben became The Obnoxious Version of Himself which sometimes makes an appearance and has been spending way too much time around here since school ended, and messed up any joy possible while preparing Father's Day gifts and cards (surely, a blog post to follow on this one).

~I drank waaaaaaay too much Merlot on an empty stomach, making me waaaaaay happier than when I started this post and making the title waaaaaaay more appropriate than I even thought possible when I wrote it.

To my preschool graduate

Dear Ben,

Tonight you graduated from your little school. The first school you ever attended. The first place I ever "left you" to be with others, to be on your own, to start your own little life. You were 3 then, just turned, when you learned what a "cubby" was and which one would be yours. I remember being so worried, on that first day, and then you walked right over and, without hesitation, pushed your little soccer-themed lunch box into that little square, right where the teacher had shown you just a couple of days before when you had met her.

After the first couple of days you had a little setback. The teachers said it was normal. They said most kids reacted like that after the novelty of the first day wore off. But when I left you, each morning, for a handful of mornings, and you cried...no, you sobbed...and clung to me, your little fingers clenched into my shoulders, I cried too--probably more than you did.

Your first year, you took to napping on the little cot faster than I ever believed you would. The teacher said she loved watching you, because you slept like a baby: your arms and hands tucked neatly beneath your body, your knees scrunched up into your belly, your little tush in the air. When she told me, I had to laugh...that was how you always slept as a baby. And even now, on rare mornings when you are really sound asleep, I enter your room to find you still sleeping like that, in your infant position. You were "a leader," your first teacher said. She said all the kids liked you. You were bright and funny and loud.

And then your next year, you got a little too bright and too funny and too loud. It was a tough year for us, because we started to see glimpses: maybe you were not going to be the perfect student Mommy and Daddy had envisioned. Maybe, instead, you were going to be like Mommy and Daddy: questioning, opinionated, easily excited, and loving the attention. That was the year you forged your first tight friendship with another boy, your buddy who became infamous around these parts, your nearly-literal partner in crime. You will probably graduate from college, and we will still remember the name "CJ." Just in case, we took video of him tonight, at the graduation ceremony, and oddly enough, I looked at CJ with tenderness: this was the my son's first best friend.

This year, you went on to the "Big Kid Class." You had homework. You had strict teachers. You had yellow cards. Oh, yes, your VPK year nearly turned into "The Year of the Yellow Card." I am embarrassed to admit that the mood of our home became nearly completely dependent upon the color card you received in school each day. Somewhere along the line, after many conversations between your daddy and myself, great advice from your teacher, and many lost nights of sleep (mine, primarily...you know your dad never stresses), we sorta figured you out and learned how to encourage you while still disciplining you. And either it all worked, or you just matured a little, because green cards became the norm and yellow ones rarely appeared anymore. You went on to learn all of your letters and numbers and how to spell your whole name. You learned 24 of the 26 phonetic sounds. You came home talking about constellations. You taught us songs. You proudly displayed your 10 new sight words on your bedroom door.

Tonight, we watched you and all your classmates walk in wearing little red caps and gowns. Your 2011 tassel dangled in your face as you turned around to look back at us and wave one more time before going up on stage. When they called your name and you walked up to your teachers to receive your diploma (a blank rolled up piece of paper that most of you chose to use as telescopes for the remainder of the ceremony), they announced "When Ben grows up, he wants to be a pilot, but he doesn't want to work in the summers." A big, proud grin stretched across your face. You are, it appears, going to be like your mom and dad: you want to have your cake and eat it too.

I cried tonight. I couldn't believe that you were the same little boy we had welcomed into this world only five and a half years ago. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed how you had caught up to the rest of the kids, and you were no longer the shortest. I couldn't believe you were going to be a kindergartner. I couldn't believe it was You: the little baby we had wanted so badly, for whom we had waited so long.

Congratulations, Ben. We know it's "just preschool," but we couldn't be prouder. We love you.

Mama and Daddy

The JOYS of summer: six word friday (saturday?)

Knowing there's only four days left

Until the summer is ours

to play and sleep and lounge
sip from icy cold beer bottles
linger together over fresh morning coffee

to have "babysitting nights" each week
quality time together, just us two
dreaming, conspiring, dancing, laughing, kissing, loving

and family days whenever we wish
quality time together, all of us
playing, growing, dancing, laughing, learning, loving

to wake up and spontaneously pack
a beach bag full of toys
spend a day in the sun
come home without bedtimes and routines

to spend time with my girls
and their babies at the pool
watching our kids becoming real friends

stay up with my favorite person
watching movie rentals or mindless TV
falling asleep, inevitably, on the couch

even getting things done: laundry, errands
without the rush and daily pressures

life's just easier and more joyous
when you can spend your days
doing as you wish without demands
without work hours and lunch boxes
alarm clocks, homework, and gym bags

Joy, right now, means having time
Looking forward to an entire summer

To spend with my (serene) Self
my girlfriends and my loved ones
my two wild, loud, little boys
my favorite person in the universe

Knowing every day I wake up
really, truly belongs solely to me

What does the word "JOY" mean to you? Join Six Word Fridays (although, I know, I am technically doing Six Word SATURDAY this time) at Making Things Up.

Mrs. Mama

Today I drove the same exact route I've been driving every weekday for the last 8 years. I parked in the same exact parking lot. I walked into the same exact building. I entered the same exact cafeteria. But today, I wasn't a Teacher. Today, I was there as Mama.

My oldest will be starting kindergarten next year at "Mama and Daddy's school," and I needed to attend an informational meeting. It felt odd to arrive as a mom. It felt decidedly and shockingly different.

Even before we'd had kids, Hubby and I had made the absolute decision that our children would definitely not, under any circumstances, be attending the same school in which one (much less both) of us worked. We wanted our kids to have "their own lives." We wanted them to be their own people...not "Mr. and Mrs. So & So's kids." We wanted them to be independent. We wanted to keep our professional and personal lives distinctly separate. We wanted their teachers to be "just" their teachers, not their pseudo-aunts or "Mommy's friends." We wanted our kid to be "just another kid"...not one of The Teacher Kids.

Then, suddenly, as so often happens in this journey called Parenthood, we realized that maybe it was quite possible that perhaps we were not so sure about all of this after all.

"You want to be a drive-by parent?!?" my amazing-single-mother friend/hairdresser extraordinaire gasped. "Let me get this straight: you're telling me that you could put your kid in your school, you could handpick his teacher from year to year, you could monitor everything everyday, you could be right there in case of an emergency, and you are choosing to send him to his neighborhood school instead, in a school district where you know absolutely no one, where you would have to drop him off to morning daycare and pick him up from after school supervision, where you would be just another parent who, in order to be heard, would have to make an appointment just to get clarification on a homework assignment, and you're gonna choose that? You're just gonna roll the dice? What you're telling me is that you basically have won the lottery and you don't want the money. No thanks, I don't actually want to give my kid any sort of advantage or opportunity. No thanks, I don't want to be involved in the first most important years of his education."

Well.

That wasn't exactly what Hubby and I meant all those years, but when you put it that way...

Fast forward to tonight, when I drove for the first time ever to my job to be Ben's Mama.

One of my worries had always been that I wouldn't feel like a mom taking her kid to school; that, instead, I'd feel like a teacher taking her kid to work. But I didn't. When I looked up at those teachers, I didn't see co-workers. I saw Ben's Teachers. When I walked in, we weren't greeted with cordial stranger hello's. We were greeted with hugs and love and genuine warmth. I felt welcomed. I felt that I would be turning my kid over to people who knew me, who knew us, and who would eventually know him...the good and the bad.

Both Ben and Aidan behaved beautifully throughout the one-hour meeting. They colored and drew and whispered. When Ben asked if he could run around the cafeteria with a buddy after the meeting ended, and I said no and reminded him that "this is going to be your big kid school soon; you have to do the right thing." He nodded emphatically, almost immediately, and smiled: "I know." When I told Hubby how proud I was of their behavior, Ben told Daddy about "the lady who even turned around during the meeting" (another teacher disguised as a mommy for the night) to say that "Wow, they must be really good kids." He, too, seemed to notice something was a little different here...this was no longer the VPK playground where he jumped off chairs and played with grasshoppers: this would be the Real Thing. "Aidan," he explained dramatically to his little brother, "this is Mommy and Daddy's school, but this is where I'm going to be for kindergarten next year."

I don't know if, at some point, we will second-guess our decision. I don't know if, at some point, we will wonder if perhaps rolling the dice would have been a better gamble. But tonight, I know for sure that I was Mama, and not Mrs. So-and So. And I know that my little boy is going to go to Real School really soon.

The cosmetic surgeons hoard all the good magazines

I used to have a very strong opinion on cosmetic surgery (which doesn't really mean anything, I suppose, since I have a very strong opinion on just about everything). This very strong opinion included lots of judgments and assumptions.

Fast forward a few years, two babies, and lots of life experiences.

Let's just say that my opinion is no longer that strong.

Okay, let me come clean: today I had an appointment with a cosmetic surgeon. A "free consultation." Yeah. One of those. Me. Ha. Ain't it funny how life has a way of slappin' you around just for kicks?

No, it wasn't the boobs (we have a very good relationship still).
It wasn't the tummy.
It wasn't for lipo.

It was...ya' ready for this?...the neck. Yep. 38 frickin' years old, always having had body and weight issues, two kids later, and I'm seeking out a free consultation about my frickin' neck. All those years I spent obsessing about all the parts of me that were messed up from the neck down, and it turned out that was the part that's really betrayed me.

The infamous thighs that were pointed out as "fat" in kindergarten by the dirty-blond-haired freckled boy who sat next to me? Nope, those are holdin' out pretty good after a decade of running and weight training. The postpartum belly pooch that was literally torn open in an emergency c-section and sewed back together lopsided? Healed, flattened, and barely noticeable. The hips that were, quite literally, my cross to bear during my teen years and the subject of much discussion in the dressing room during shopping trips with my mother? So over those. It ended up being the skin on my neck that finally broke me.

There I was: sitting in the waiting room of a cosmetic surgeon. Me. The girl who swore she'd never...(insert peals of raucous "I-told-you-so" laughter from all the friends and family who'd heard my soapbox dissertation on plastic surgery many years ago and warned me)! The discomfort was probably palpable. I pretended to be totally okay with this...I filled out the information forms like I visited plastic surgeons all the time. I noticed that every time I opened my mouth to respond to one of the incredibly wrinkle-free and expression-less receptionists, my Thank you's and Yes's all came out high pitched and overly cheerful.

In addition to the senior citizen receptionists with the non-existent crows' feet, I also noticed that the waiting room was unlike any "regular" doctor's waiting room I've ever visited. The lighting was dim. The music was sultry and slow and made me want to have a cocktail on a yacht. The furniture was plush and actually matched. And the magazines...oh the magazines! No wrinkled Parenting, tattered Cosmo, and outdated National Geographic. No, here you could sit back on the high-priced couch and peruse the high fashion pages of the latest issues of W or Elle or the recently launched local Bal Harbour. As I sat there, glad I had opted for a summery dress and heels rather than my at least-once-a-week uniform of teacher polo and jeans, I wasn't sure if the surroundings made me feel more at ease with the idea of cutting myself open for vanity or more pressured that the whole idea was vain and unnecessary.

I was called in to "consult" with the doctor almost immediately (apparently, when you are willing to shell out thousands of dollars for reconstructive anything, they are very timely with your appointments...hello?...non-cosmetic medical world?...you can stand to learn a thing or two here!). After a 10-minute conversation, I was basically told the following:
1. Flappy thing under my neck? Everyone has at least a small version of one "in order to allow your head to turn".... Well, if you refer to my last post, I am not able to turn my head these days anyways, so can we just chop that sucker right off?
2. I am "way too young" for "any kind" of surgical lift/tuck/cut in that area.
3. For a mere $2000-$3000 I can have a laser thing-a-majig that will improve the "texture" of my skin.
4. For a measly $600 I can buy lots of prescription products that will improve the "texture" of my skin.
5. Neither of these two incredibly affordable options will give me "dramatic results" of any kind.

Well, then. Thanks, doc. Really glad about the whole free-consult-thing.

I left not knowing if I was relieved that I really had no options, or discouraged. On one hand, it was pretty evident the doctor did not think my case was any sort of a big deal. He validated ("I mean, I do see what you are saying, Elizabeth. I do see the slight loose-ness."), but almost made me question whether I really had been making a bigger deal of this than I should have. I suppose feeling slightly sheepish is a good thing at a cosmetic surgeon's office? I mean, who wants to go in there and have the doctor gasp and nod with immediate understanding: "Oh yes, yes! I see that turkey neck! Unfortunately, there isn't much we can do for you. Have you considered a scarf?"

But still, maybe a little non-surgical magic cream? A laser that would've zapped some tightness in there? A little placebo pill to trick me into thinking I was doing something about it?

"I'm too perfect for surgery." That's what I jokingly told Hubby and my friend when they asked how it went. Ha.

It's just amazing how you go through life thinking you've got all the answers. You know exactly what you would do in a given situation. You sit and pass judgment on others who pull and tuck and cut. And then...well, then...you wake up one morning and realize you have no frickin' clue and you're just gonna figure it out as you go along and do the best you can and you learn that if you stand with your chin jutted out just a teeny bit, everything stretches out on its own.

The curse continues (or: WTF?!?)

After my last post, I figured, surely, we were done: the string of bad luck had run its course. I mean, we had gone for Hubby's staph infection follow-up and it was all good. Aidan was no longer needing the splint on his finger. We'd had two full nights of uninterrupted sleep. I had tangerine-colored nails, for God's sake! But you know where this is going...

Saturday morning, sometime before dawn, I was in the half-awake/half-asleep stage, stretching and tossing and turning under the covers, my brain trying to figure out if it was a weekday, trying to register why the alarm hadn't gone off yet. I stretched...my head pushing up against my palm, my palm against my head, twisting and opening my body into one of those deep intense morning stretches...when I felt a searing and sudden pain on the right side of my neck and shoulder, and I became fully awake. I knew I had pulled something. After trying to shrug it off (no pun intended) and trying to fall back asleep, the pain was unbearable, and I got out of bed. The rest of my day included an emergency visit to the chiropractor (if you're keeping count from the last post, that would be the 9th emergency doctor visit for the family in 2 weeks), 9 ibuprofen pills, 2 Tylenol PMs, and lots of ice.

Hubby and I chuckled (okay, not really...Hubby, in his ever-optimistic-never-bothered-by-anything-attitude chuckled and I pouted) about it. Really, who messes up her neck that badly on the first day of no-drama in 2 weeks? And how was I going to manage a full day at the beach for Mother's Day with both sides of the family and all the kids for our annual Mother's Day celebration when I could barely move?

Ah. So that is where the irony perhaps kicks in: I didn't have to figure out how I was going to manage my Mother's Day Beach Day Extravaganza with an injured neck because....

...Ben got a stomach virus!

Yep.

It continues.

Now poor Ben, who has had his string of bad luck too, has spent the last 24 hours next to a bucket. Poor thing..for a kid who has such a strong personality, he sure is a passive patient. Yesterday while he and his little brother were eating dinner at the table (and by dinner, I mean Ben was attempting to have crackers and juice) and I was in the kitchen, I hear Aidan say: "Hey! Where's Ben? What is Ben doing under the table?" I figured he was playing around, but before I could yell at him to get back in his chair, he sputtered: "I need water!" and proceeded to heave into the bucket he'd brought with him to the table. He spent the rest of the day with ashy lips and a pale face.

Today, in an effort to make Mother's Day better for all of us, Hubby brought home a special breakfast and put down the "nice tablecloth." He has joked that my Mother's Day at home today is even better than one at the beach because he's "doing laundry, folding and putting away clothes, installing my new car radio (the Mother's Day gift I requested), and cleaning up the house." But the truth is, I'm one of the lucky ones who has a husband who does that all the time...not on special occasions. And we do go to the beach all the time. So I suppose every day can be Mother's Day for me, and I will keep a smile on my face all day (except when I turn my neck in the wrong direction and see stars).

But I have to tell you...I am seriously wondering if there is really such a thing as being "jinxed" or needing a "cleansing" (not the type the celebrities do to lose weight, although I admit I wouldn't admit dropping a few pounds). Rabbit's foot, anyone?

Wanted: Rabbit's foot, horseshoe, four leaf clover, magic crystal, and any other hocus-pocus, superstitious, good luck crap

I tend to get anxious.

I'm not one of those crazy neurotic people, but I get a little tense when stuff goes awry...especially medical stuff.

Over the last 2 weeks, we've had 3 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Ben, 1 follow-up to the pediatric ENT, 2 emergency visits to the pediatrician with Aidan, one emergency visit to my eye doctor, and one trip to the emergency room for Hubby (this does not include one routine visit to the dermatologist in the mix).

Each visit was minor, as far as emergencies goes, and they all ended well (actually, I'm waiting on Hubby's return as I type this), but it's enough to put a person a little on edge.

Put this all together with two weeks of nightly interrupted sleep to check on: high fevers, chronic coughs, sore throats, fractured fingers, and general discomfort (sometimes theirs, sometimes mine)...well, I'm not in the best of places this week.

I literally feel like I've been jinxed...like maybe that slightly sociopathic student in my class who wrote an essay about how much he hated me and threatened to kill a classmate over the weekend just might have gotten himself a blond voodoo doll and found himself something to do over his 10 day suspension for throwing a punch at a teacher who was visiting in my class (that teacher happened to be Hubby).

Perhaps I should be looking at the bright side: nothing serious in any case....could be worse...just bad colds...small fracture...infected bug bites...all that stuff. But really, I just feel like I've been walking around with a black cloud of bad luck literally hanging over my family's heads and if we cross the street a grand piano or an Acme safe is gonna come crashing down on us.

My chest feels tight, I have a pit in my stomach, and every time I think: "Ok, that was it...certainly that was the last doctor's visit/middle-of-the-night scare/hammered finger/scratched cornea/possibly toxic insect bite," something else pops up. And right now, until Hubby comes home and gives me a full report on the bite on his leg that looked like something straight out of one those scary, disgusting chain emails they send around, I will not be at ease.

*Morning-after update:
~So after lots of antibiotics, minor cutting-open, and a wound that made me (literally) woozy, Hubby should be fine.
~Aidan yanked off his own splint so it wouldn't get wet in the bath, and then again before bed, proclaiming he "wouldn't sleep with it today."
~Ben is sick of his white-out-consistency antibiotic, but keeps taking it like a trooper and doesn't show anymore symptoms.
~I woke up this morning to discover that we had actually all slept straight through the night--a whopping 7 hours.
~I gave myself a pretty tangerine-colored mani/pedi late last night and woke up to find that I didn't get any those bedsheets lines and smudges on them.
So...hopefully the tide has turned (for a while anyway). But just in case, I'm gonna avoid ladders and black cats (and pianos) for a couple of days.

AGAIN: Six Word Friday

Sometimes you plan life just so.

You have it all figured out:

Follow the women along the path

That was carved out for you.

So you find yourself settled in.

You have attained, accomplished, and arrived.

Then you look around and realize

You really are only settled, instead.

Not, at all, what you wanted.

Not, at all, who you are.

So you call out: Do over!

And you start all over again.

Terrified and doubtful, second guessing yourself...

Wondering every moment of every day

If you did the right thing:

This second draft of your life.

Then later, much later, you realize

The outcome was obvious all along,

Because it was the only option.

Your life: a reset was required.

What does "AGAIN" mean to you?

Join the conversation with Six Word Fridays.

Closure

It is inevitable that, at some point in life, someone will disappoint you.

I understand that.
I expect that.
But what I have a really hard time with is letting it go, especially when it happens repeatedly and intentionally.

I realize, as I begin this post, that there is a strong possibility that it will not make sense. That when people read this, they will be left only with questions, and possibly wondering why I would write something in a way that doesn’t really give a clear picture. But sometimes, you just have to write stuff for yourself. You just have to get it out.

Consider this an exorcism of anger.

Everyone has issues. No one is perfect. And certainly, no one can behave perfectly every time with every one. But really, that whole little excuse people toss around: “Oh, that’s just how they are”…? That’s bullshit. People treating people poorly isn’t okay. Especially when you actually know each other. Especially when you actually shared a lifetime’s worth of secrets and stories together.

When you just become too wrapped up in your own life, your own world, your own head, that you can’t take a moment to step out of it long enough to ask someone else about her life, her kids, her stuff…that’s not just being flaky, or ditsy, or busy. That’s not “That’s just how she is.” That’s selfish. That’s inconsiderate. That’s rude. And that, in my book, is unforgivable.

When your own issues and personality “quirks” make you a burden in my life, when you can not bring yourself to reach out and return a gesture, an interest, a thought, then I’m done with you. And I don’t really care if that’s just the way you are. I don’t care if you don’t mean anything by it. Because it’s pretty damn obvious that you don’t care, either, about me or my world.

I understand that, in relationships, there’s an ebb and flow. There are times when one person will have to give more, one person will have to be more available, one person will have to be more patient. That’s what relationships are for: not just to enjoy the good times, but to carry the other one’s load when it gets a bit too heavy for a while. But when that becomes all there is…when it’s all about one of you, for a long, long time…when the other one is forgotten…when it becomes completely one-sided…then you walk away (I do, anyhow) because it’s unacceptable, and life is too short. And my life, right now, is filled with wonderful people and amazing things. And when someone becomes toxic, when your presence literally pains me instead of elevates me, then I’m done.

And what drives me the craziest…what bites at my subconscious constantly and makes me desperately want to try to understand...what makes me consider actually having yet another conversation about this behavior...is that it’s just not normal. It’s just not socially acceptable responses. It’s unexplainable.

And, I suppose, this is why so many are suggesting that there must be a reason for this person’s behavior. “It just doesn’t make sense,” is what I hear over and over again. “Maybe there’s something going on.”

Maybe.

But I doubt it. Because this is just this person’s method of operation, historically.

Maybe.

But I don’t care. Because after you’ve been figuratively beat up for a couple of years and you’ve been chronically bewildered and disappointed by behavior for even longer, you get tired of making excuses…you get tired of defending and explaining… You realize that you were the first person to shrug and say "But that’s just how she is.”