I have to say that I kind of like this new place that The Other Mother and I have ended up. It’s still a little odd and I know we’re both wading gently into the motion and the waves, but for the most part I think we’re doing okay. Except that I have this small problem and I don’t know how to handle it.

More and more I find myself actually thinking of her as an actual friend. One who won’t snap and yell at me; one who likes me for who I am even though they know all my faults and misdeeds. It’s an odd place to be, for both of us I would assume. I just don’t know how to handle it. I don’t know how to be anymore.

I’ve done some Google searches to see if other people had found some sort of middle ground and I haven’t found a whole lot. I guess usually they have found it too good to be true, so the peace fell away. That both scares me and fascinates me. I mean, why did it happen that way for other people? Did one side feel like they were always kissing the other sides ass or vice versa? I can see where that would get old and make things a little more challenging. Still, why didn’t they try harder?

Part of me knows, obviously, that she hasn’t been my best friend. The other part of me thinks that we should be best friends, simply because of the position we find ourselves in. Do we act on the premise of self-preservation or selves be damned? I’ve never been very good at these kinds of things.

Now that I have rambled aimlessly for far too long I guess I can admit that there is really no point to this post. Other than to get it out. Because this is still my place. Because right now, I have no one else to talk to.

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After speaking to Mama concerning the new middle ground reached with The Other Mother, I expected her to at least try to do as she said she would. I expected her to allow enough time for pick-up and drop-off; I expected that she would at least try to treat both The Other Mother and The Ex with respect even if it was only for the sake of The Girls.

Unfortunately, it didn’t happen that way this weekend. I will say that we had quite an unexpected snow storm here, but I think there was plenty of time to meet the expected drop-off time. I don’t know all the circumstances and I can’t answer for my mother. I also can’t make excuses for her.

All I know is that The Other Mother and I have come to this place of tentative peace and any actions that either of us finds disrespectful or damaging to the greater good won’t be tolerated. I love my mother and I know she loves her grandchildren but this is one of those areas of our lives that I won’t budge on.

I apologize to The Other Mother and The Ex once more for the way things happened tonight. It may take some discussion and some reworking, but we’ll figure it out. For the first time in a very long time, I’m standing firm.

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More than once I have blogged about Mama and her somewhat antiquated beliefs and operations. Since I was a child I never really understood why she couldn’t be more  cool or more “progressive” but my wishing it never made it so. In her family there is a way things are done and there is a way that they’re not; it’s just that simple.

In light of the changes in my own life recently I knew that I would have to sit down and speak with Mama as frankly as possible. Knowing her the way I do, I knew it was going to be difficult, maybe even impossible to get my point across. Still, I knew I had to try.

Last night she and Dad dropped The Girls off for their weekend with us. Everyone was in relatively high spirits and I was thrilled to see my babies. (Though my oldest looks more like a young woman every single time I see her! She is soooo darn beautiful!) My tummy flip-flopped and I wondered if I would have the courage to actually talk to my mother.

We ordered pizza for the kids and spent some time talking about general things. While The Knight entertained the children I decided to take my mother in another room and be done with it. No time like the present, right?

I calmly explained to her that a lot of things had changed lately in many areas of my life. Some of those things I gave details about, other things I didn’t. I explained that while I loved her and appreciated her willingness to help me out and look out for me, the time had come for her to step aside and let me be the parent.

To her credit, she did listen. She wasn’t hurt or angry. She didn’t yell or fling accusations. She simply listened. (Knock me over with a feather!)

I went on to let her know that The Other Mother and I had reached what basically amounted to a peace treaty of sorts. I detailed some (not all) of the events that had led us to this place, this unfamiliar territory. And like I should have done a long time ago, I made sure she understood fully that many of my actions had led to the breakdown of my first marriage and the continued deterioration of any sort of co-parenting possibilities.

She stunned me by telling me that I was right. She went on to let me know that these were the times that parents both loved and hated, a matured and wise state beyond their own years where the child teaches the parent. And then she agreed to be more decent and more respectful of The Other Mother and her role in the girls lives.

While I don’t expect her to change her behaviors overnight, I do believe that she will try. I think that speaking to her as an adult, as a parent who is determined to make life as wonderful as possible for her children, was what needed to happen. For the first time ever, I think my mother respects me and the position I have taken.

My only hope is that The Other Mother and I can begin to take one another at face value. I hope that she can do the same with Mama if she does actually try. I know that none of this is easy and I know too that when things get uncomfortable it will be all too easy to for any of us to revert back to our barbed wire and bombs as a method of self-preservation. I hope that we can avoid it and instead find the way to stay focused on the bigger picture, the greater good of our families.

I’m curious to see how Mama handles this whole thing. After talking to her, I’m hopeful. Still, it can’t be easy living with these new rules for our old fashioned family.

{Mama started when she first walked in about my oldest daughters choice of nail polish, etc. and I had to let her know immediately that as the mother, blue nail polish was the least of my worries. At almost thirteen I know that there are far worse things that she could be doing, so blue nails (no matter how icky I may think the color is!) are not an issue. Surprisingly, she let it drop and that was that. Score one for me!}

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If you’ve read here for any length of time you probably know way too much about my ex-husband and his new wife. No doubt I have exposed you to far too many one-sided and slanted retellings of events, conversations and mishaps. If that is the case, please accept my apologies for being so…childish…petulant…immature.

Somewhere in all of the she said, I said or he said, we said bullshit there was a major breakdown. As a parent I lost sight of the two most precious things in the world, the real reasons for laying differences and petty behaviors aside. I focused on the fact that there was someone else in their life that wasn’t me. I obsessed and stressed; I ranted and raved but not once did I ever stop to think about what it might be like for my little girls.

Being diagnosed with cancer didn’t open my eyes to the reality as far as our whole situation went. It opened my eyes to the importance of love and security on some level I suppose, but not on the level that it made me change my behaviors as a parent. Writing this now is more than difficult, because I never wanted to be that kind of former spouse, that kind of parent. Acknowledging that I ended up that way is hard and humiliating as can be.

Finding out that the chemotherapy used in the clinical trial had worked was like a gift from God. A personal gift and open invitation to start living my life the way it should have been lived all along. No more excuses, no more bullshit, just honest living and loving, the way I should have been doing all along.

At about the same time my daughters step-mother blogged about some of the things that were on her mind. The things were less than flattering and as I read them it was devastating that someone in this world felt that way about me. I thought I was an okay person. Not a person without faults or a person who couldn’t improve but a decent person none the less. After reading what she wrote, I was a breath away from wishing for death.

As I usually do when something is on my mind, I curled into a ball and cried like a baby. Part of me wanted to scream and throw things, exclaim at the top of my lungs that she wasn’t right about me. I wanted to knock on doors and shout that I wasn’t the evil, self-absorbed bitch that she thought I was. But I couldn’t very well do that without admitting that while every story does indeed have two sides, every side does have its facts. Hers was no exception.

So I whined and I cried. I snapped at my husband. I cried and ate cookies. Then I emailed her with facts instead of excuses. I didn’t care what Joe Blow might think of me as much as I cared what SHE thought of me. But why did it matter so much all of a sudden?

The truth be told, it wasn’t all of a sudden. It was always there, the need to find some middle ground, a safe space to share with one another the things that mothers (biological, step or otherwise) need to share. We didn’t have it and I think I can safely say that we both felt the absence keenly.

For me, as a step-mother, I know the position that she is in to an extent. While she lives with my girls day in and day out, I live with The Knights sons day in and day out. While she may have the girls all the time and I have the guys all the time, the fact remains that we’re raising another woman’s biological children. As so many blended families can attest to, this is no easy thing to do, even if the other woman is your closest friend. Can you imagine trying to do it when the other person is fighting you every step of the way?

I didn’t want them to like her more than me. I didn’t want them to want to be with her more than they wanted to be with me. I certainly didn’t want them to love her. I wanted all of them to be only for me! (This has been the same for sharing them with The Knight as well and only recently has it been addressed and an effort made to NOT be that way.)

I realize now that having those desires and that mindset only served to put the girls in the middle of what basically amounted to an emotional and metal war zone. I can’t go back and undo what has been done. They are beyond the age of kissing and cuddling the hurts away so only love and honesty will do. I can’t change what came before, but I can change what happens from here on out.

Through all of this it seems that The Other Mother (I think that will be her name on here…I will have to ask her what she thinks) and I have found our way to a place where the white flag waves. So with each tentative step and each stifled impulse to dive right in, I suddenly find myself breathing a little easier. (And as crazy as it sounds, I find myself wanting to get to know her, like someone I’ve just met for the first time; I find myself wanting to open up and call her friend!) All I know is that it feels really damn good to have muddled through the muck and the mire to find that blessed middle ground.

{Now I have to wonder if it’s more courageous to leave the posts from the past or get rid of them? They fill me with shame and I don’t want the people who read here to think that my words are all that there is to the woman who is The Other Mother to my girls. Opinions welcome!}

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As we grow older many of us find it difficult to change. We get comfortable and settle into routines like a comfy pair of pajamas. Some routines are fine, like a glass of wine with dinner or hot tea for breakfast, but some are less than healthy. Often times these less than healthy routines stem from childhood upbringings or the inability to admit that it is far too much work to be different.

It shames me to say that I am guilty of both. Please keep in mind that this post is extremely difficult for me; difficult in ways that few of you can imagine. Still, it needs to be said.

In my life I have been less than wonderful to more than a handful of people. The reasons now do not matter because they will read as a list of excuses and that is something that I wish to avoid. Instead, I will try to be as blunt as possible, even knowing the fallout that may come of it.

When I was married to my ex-husband, I was less than a perfect wife. I didn’t treat him well at all. I didn’t know anything about true and genuine respect, so I paid great lip service to it, but had absolutely none. In that self-hatred I allowed myself to wallow in the past, in things that were over and done, and falsely placed the blame on him. It shames me to no end the things that I put him through, the half-struths and false promises that I made. Even as our lives moved forward, I refused to admit it. I still played the immature games.

When he found someone else, it hurt. I knew that what we had was over and I should have left it at that, but it hurt just the same. Instead of admitting it and dealing with it, I acted like a psychobitch from hell and steeled my defense, prepared for the fight ahead. Just because she was the new woman in his life I was prepared to hate her outright.

Even as I write that, I cringe. It makes me sound like the terrible person I was and have been. It’s very hard to swallow, but this is long overdue.

I used him in ways that are unforgivable. I took something that was real and I trampled on it in a very cold and callous manner that is deserving of absolutely no forgiveness.

I’m not proud of what I did. Every single day I realize that it could have been (should have been!) handled so differently. Instead of following my mothers MO for leaving and playing and out for all I could get, I should have simply walked away. Anger and childhood examples be damned. I should have been a bigger person.

No doubt there is a better way to say all of this. I just can’t think of pretty words and flashy paragraphs when something is as raw as this is.

In November my ex-husbands new wife sent me a very heartfelt email. To say it shocked me would be an extreme understatement. As I read the words on the page I could hardly believe that she was writing the things that she wrote. I was dumbfounded.

I sat on it for a few days, letting her know up front that I didn’t know what to say but that I would respond in time. And I did respond. I just didn’t respond in the way that I really wanted to. Instead I let my guard remain up and I cautiously checked and double checked every word.

What kind of bullshit is that??

This woman is with my daughters on a DAILY basis. I don’t know her. I know OF her; I know ABOUT her but I do not KNOW her as a person. She is the other mother. As hard as it is for me to say that, much less accept it, it remains a fact. The girls love her and accept her, then so should I.

Maybe it’s time that I let my guard down. Maybe it’s time that I show her and the rest of the world that I am NOT the girl I used to be. Gone is the hate and the inability to let others in. Over are the times where I follow the not-so-great examples shown to me in my childhood.

I wish I could go back. I wish I could undo my actions, my behaviors and my words from the past. I wish that I could instead open my heart for the world to see. I wish so desperately to show them that I am NOT the girl I used to be.

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For too long I have been silent. I have taken so many things in, held them close, and there they’ve stayed. I have decided that those days are over.

After I posted about my imperfections yesterday I found myself in a very pensive sort of mood. For me, it was a good thing. So I shifted and sorted my thoughts. I looked at each and every thought, every feeling and tried valiantly to give it its own place in the archive.

The things that Sperm Donor did to me do not define who I am. He did those things to me. I didn’t ask for them. I didn’t “seduce” him the way he tried to tell the court that I did. It has been a very long time, but now I’m pissed and I’m calling bullshit.

I was a child. What two year old could be so overwhelmingly seductive that a grown man was compelled to abuse her? None. Two year olds are NOT sexy or seductive. They are innocent and in need of protection. They are precious.

For far too long I have sat back and let the past exist without setting the record straight. I don’t know what I’ve been so afraid of. It’s not like I’m two anymore. The days of playing his victim are long over. I was a helpless child then and I couldn’t do anything about the things he did to me or to my mother.

It’s over. The abuse, the inferiority complex, the silence. All of it ends this very second.

I love that you come here to read what I write. I like knowing that sometimes my words reach people in very positive ways. For that reason, I have to say this, so please understand.

This is my life. However long or short it may be, this is my life. Finally, at the age of thirty-one I am ready to set the record straight. I am ready to speak up.

I will write about real life. I will write about reality and the difficulties that come with being married. Maybe I’ll even write about really hot sex with my husband again.

And I’ll write about Sperm Donor. I’ll write about childhood abuse. I will take off the gag and break my silence.

These are my stories and they will be told.

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It’s the one thing I’m not. The list of things that I’m not is much longer than all the things I am. As much as I would like to say otherwise, that’s just the way it is. Instead of fighting it, I have accepted it.

Sperm Donor fucked me up. Not for a little while. Not just in my sexual relationships. The things that man did shaped every facet of who I am in ways that I am just now beginning to understand.

As my father, as someone who was supposed to protect me, he failed in the most basic way a parent can fail. His actions violated my physical self as well as my mental self. Every single time he molested or raped me he promised that it would be the last time. He lied to me time and time again.

Not only did he lie to me, he played head games. I would fight him, yell and scream that I hated to be touched but he didn’t listen. Instead I was told that no one hates it, that I really liked when he violated me or took the time to (supposedly) school me in the ways of adult relationships.

I learned not to trust my body. I learned not to trust men. And I learned not to trust myself.

So here I am, all these years later, and what has changed?

Thanks to cancer, all the work I did on accepting my body, etc. has come undone. Oh, I’m trying. It’s just a very dificult thing to do.

I still don’t trust men. Or women. No one in positions of power. I try to develop healthy relationships with healthy boundaries but who am I fooling? I don’t leave my house except to go to the doctor.

The most terrible part of this is that I don’t trust my husband. I trust him more than I trust anyone else in my life, but only so far. And he knows it.

You know those exercises where they have you turn your back to a group of people then ask you to fall into the crowd, trusting that they will catch you? It would never happen. Not even with the man I’m married to. He is absolutely right to be angry and frustrated.

I don’t know that I will ever trust myself. Even if I go into remission, I will worry and wonder if it was what I was supposed to do. Was I meant to live? What if I wasn’t? What if my living took away someone else’s life?

I know that I have so very much to be thankful for. And I am. In ways that I can’t even begin to find words for, I am so thankful. I don’t take this life for granted.

I just know that I’m living on borrowed time. I want to spend it healing. If and when the end ever comes I want to meet it head on knowing that I have made my peace. I want to know that I have beat the odds that Sperm Donor stacked against me and come through on the other side with my sanity intact.

And I know I will never ever be perfect.

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I’m thrity-one years old. I have been married twice. I have two incredibly gorgeous biological duaghters and three incredibly boyish not biological sons. With my bare hands I have wiped away tears, wiped runny noses, stitched wounds, rescued beads from noses, dug for clams, and saved lives. I am not without reasons to feel okay about myself.

So why is it that when Mama comes to visit I feel like an inept child?

My parents were here with us this weekend. I love when they visit, even if it means that I probably don;t rest the way I should. I like having them here because I don’t get to see them as often as I’d like.

For the most part the weekend was fine. Quiet. Uneventful. Just the way I prefer it. I’m not a big fan of feeling pressured or being on the go from sun up to sun down, even when I had the energy to handle it.

I know my mother means well. I really do. The thing is, sometimes her best intentions miss the mark so completely that you can’t tell anything good was ever supposed to come of it. {I can this and not feel guilty about saying it because sometimes I have the same problem.}

It seemed that every time I asked the kids to do something, she questioned me. Every time I told them no or set a time limit or some other thing, she had something else to add. Even in the middle of a very intense heart to heart talk she had something to interject!

You have to understand that I have discussed this with my mother in great detail. She has always done this. It has always made me crazy. I told her again on Friday night that I want her to be proud of me, etc. but that I don’t believe she is. She says the words and tells me how wonderful I am, what a great woman I’ve become and how very proud she is of me, but it doesn’t ring true. Because she still second guesses and criticizes me.

How is that being proud of me?

No matter what I do. No matter what I say. No matter my age or my survivability. I have to accept that as far as my mother is concerned I will never ever be good enough.

{By the way, for those who have asked why I don’t submit stories to various publications, etc. this is why. My mother says to do what I want, that it’s my life but I know she doesn’t mean it if it means I’m writing erotica. Or posing naked. Or speaking frankly with our kids about sex. I don’t need to do yet one more thing to make my mother ashamed of me.}

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