Daily Archives: August 22, 2009

I hate (every other) Saturday

So yes, my babies have daddies. One each. Hank has a biological father, George has a biological father, and they are not the same man. I am married to George’s father, and Hank calls George’s father, “Dad.” My husband has been “Dad” since Hank was 2, and for a few years, Hank’s biological father was not even around. He’s been back for quite some time, however, and things are actually going well, as far as the importance of Hank getting to know him.

This is how it is, and it’s a direct result of my own actions. But, as consequences go, this means that my oldest child goes with his “father” every other weekend.

Now, to be fair, I say “father” in “quotes” because I am not fond of the man. But Hank’s biological father is a TOOL. He’s not a serial killer, he’s not an abuser, he’s not a total deadbeat (anymore). I don’t necessarily fear for my son’s safety, ie, it’s not like he’s going to kidnap the kid and leave the country. He pays child support and does not complain about it, at least not to me. But he is a TOOL. A TOOL I TELL YOU! He makes poor decisions, such as, dragging out the end of the weekend with a long, weepy goodbye that starts at the end of the driveway and continues as The Tool drops the child off, drives around the corner, then gets OUT of his car and waves his arms frantically at the kid from between the neighbor’s houses. And on one hand, it’s good that my son and this man have a good bond. But on the other, how STUPID can someone be as to torture a 7-year-old boy by turning what should be a 2 minute “goodbye, see you on Wednesday” into an all-out sob fest? I mean come on. TOOL.

My lawyer gave me a great piece of advice (or more like a nugget of wisdom): “This is the consequence for having a child with someone to whom you are not or cannot be married.” She was right, and I am pretty much at peace with the fact that since Hank’s father and I were not compatable as a couple, we have to, for lack of a better way to put it, split the baby. And all I can do is try and make the rest of Hank’s life as normal as possible. And when you think about it, a good 50 percent of couples split. Hank’s life with two dads isn’t really a unique story these days.

Even so, every other weekend, The Tool comes and picks that little boy up and takes him away. I hate every other Saturday.

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Hello world!

I like the title of the first post. Hello world. I think I’ll keep it.

So what’s a girl like me doing at 9:30 on a Friday night? Sitting on the couch, of course, watching Frost/Nixon, wondering why my 3 year old won’t just go to bed/sit on the toilet/sit on the toilet and pee at the same time/stop opening the fridge and taking my Pepsi/stop being so cute so I can punish him appropriately.

So here I am, blogging, wearing what can only be described as Mom Capris (from Target!) and a t-shirt that is deliberatlely wide at the waist so to hide my muffin top, kind of watching a movie, thinking about getting up and getting a beer…

I am 35 years old. I wonder what 25 year old Marney would think if she could see this. She probably would not be suprised by the blogging (although she would just be writing in a journal), but I’m not sure what she would think of the night life. I can distinctly remember thinking, “I will never be one of those BORING older people. I will have EXCITEMENT! My husband and I will have culture and go out to bars and clubs that are hip yet age appropriate! I shall see movies in ACTUAL theaters. My family¬†will TRAVEL!”

Well, we travelled to the WalMart today. And as for excitement, my husband has some seriously loud gas, and it is everything I can do to get out of the line of fire of those bad boys (honestly, dude, you’re going to have to clean your own skeetch marks this time).

I seem to be one of an infinite amount of women world wide who slowly but surely realize that you do not have plans for your life… your life has plans for you. And while at 25 you assumed you would be attending wild and facinating parties with wild and fascinating people in ten years, the truth is, unless baking a cake for your Dad’s 70’s birthday party is “wild” and “fascinating,” then you are in for a rude awakening.


That’s my husband’s butt again.

But you know what? My Dad’s party was actually pretty killer. And Frost/Nixon seems ok so far on DVD. And potty training is a legitimate thing to worry about. And Target makes comfy pants, which serve a dual purpose of 1) hiding my muffin top and 2) hiding my cellulite.

This is a good life.


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