Good grief

This has been a crazy few days. I went to the consignment sale on Saturday morning. I had $200 to spend and Mark said he had a small check to cash, so I spent most of it. I got so many cute outfits, plus fall clothes for Andy and a pair of well worn Italian leather sneakers to replace his Skechers that are falling apart. He likes worn shoes anyway. It was a great morning, and my mom very kindly waited in the line of 50 people with all my stuff while I went home to rest. It was almost 90 minutes before she got back.

We untagged all the clothes and I started doing baby laundry. Mark left on a bad note because he took $20 from my wallet when he left and refused to admit it. Sure, okay, somehow it magically vanished on my walk home even though it was in there when I left the sale after giving my mom money for my stuff. He always does this. Then he supposably couldn't cash the check because of the I.D. problem, even though it was a small one. But his mom wanted some little things done, and said she would pay him. She'd been calling me every day telling me she wanted to give me $100 or so for baby stuff, but I know her well enough not to count on that. Not because she's stingy, by any means. It's just that she doesn't let a lack of ability dampen the size of her promises in any way. She merely gets angry if you hold her to them.

So, I figured she'd at least pay him for his work. I wanted to get the boys haircuts that day. He took Andy with him, which also annoyed me because both of them spoil Andy rotten and are always looking to please him, but leave Hunter by the way since he's not as demanding. I spent the afternoon at my parent's house watching Grandmom and sorting baby clothes with Hunter.

Mark called late in the afternoon. He said his mom had given Andy money to buy a video game, but Andy left it there and was it worth going back for, or should he just let Andy spend the seven dollars he had on him. I asked if his mom paid him, and he said something about her not having cash so she let him put gas in the truck with her debit card. I started screaming. It was just the last straw. Really? You take what little money I have left, don't cash the check you told me you'd have within an hour, spend all afternoon working at her house while our house desperately needs cleaning that I can't do at 38 weeks. And all you come back with is a half tank of gas and money for another cursed video game?
I told him that he and his mom could both go f#@% themselves and hung up. Mature, I know. But it was certainly true to my feelings.

He called back and said something about her and a baby shower I wasn't supposed to know about. That was just insult to injury.

I told him I didn't want a baby shower, I just bought everything, I needed money for bills and groceries and everything else, I hate his family and the last thing I want to do is sit in a room with them and pretend to be happy about it. And hung up again.

I spent the rest of the weekend crying. I just can't fake it with her any more. I'm sick of Mark not taking it seriously, I'm sick of him not taking our finances seriously, I'm sick of her feeding Andy craploads of sweets every time she sees him and giving him tons of junk to bring home so I can be the bad guy and throw it all away because there's no place for it. And I'm sick of Mark letting that go on too. Andy was a monster for the next three days. All he ate all day with her was cake and ice cream and candy. She could give a rat's ass about the boys' health. All she wants is their attention. And I am just done cleaning up her messes. In Mark's life, in the kids' lives, and in my own life.

So we didn't talk all weekend, and I slept upstairs and cried all night, and Mark slept downstairs and cried all night, and early Monday morning I came to the conclusion that the only way I can live with her existence is to go on antidepressants. The alternative, since Mark can't leave her, is to eliminate him from our lives. And that's not good for the boys. I thought he would be staying at his Dad's, since he never wanted to leave; but now that he's out he doesn't want to go back. And nowhere else he would stay is a place I'd let the boys go. Plus she'd still probably assume she was welcome. If she can decide to forget what I said last Thanksgiving, nothing I say will ever get rid of her.

To get antidepressants, though, I have to go to the community hospital in the city and walk in. We're talking probably a whole day for the intake. And I haven't had the time yet. I may not at this point.
Monday evening I went over to my brother's house to look at baby clothes with my SIL. Turns out that was the baby shower. And Mark's mom put the money in a card for me.

I still don't know what to say. Whatever possessed my brother to invite her is beyond me. I know we can't relate to each other much, but I guess the disconnect is a lot bigger than I thought.

It was a very nice shower. Everyone bought things I could still use, all the boring stuff that no one likes to buy but costs big money. And that I deeply appreciate. I have lots of diapers and wipes, baby products, towels and washcloths, receiving blankets, bibs, bedding, nursing pads, and a beautiful diaper bag - yayyyy! Plus three more absolutely gorgeous little outfits.

I spent the money she gave me on nursing clothes, which seem to be in amazingly short supply. I've been hunting for weeks now and found only a few tops, a couple nursing tanks, and a sleep bra. I guess breastfeeding just isn't as popular as I assumed.

I still don't know what to say to Mark. I was immensely relieved that it wasn't her family doing the shower. I still feel the same way about her. I'm still furious that he took the rest of my money and refused to admit it. And that he didn't think it was important to bring it back. I'm still not letting Andy go back to her house with him, because there is no excuse for all that sugar and another freaking game and bag full of crap I have to throw out. But I feel awful that our whole weekend was ruined over something he couldn't tell me. I just don't know how to handle this screwed up situation any more. I need her gone. Nothing she ever does for us could make up for what she's already done TO us. I wish she'd just stop pretending.

Meanwhile, though, I've had a ridiculous amount of energy the past couple of days, and got everything I can think of ready for the birth. Now I just have to wait.

The last days

Of pregnancy, that is. Lol, you really thought I had something epic to say at this stage?

Couldn't resist.

I have given up writing anything long from my phone. Twice in the past month I've had a very long post almost finished, only to have someone call me and scrap the whole thing. Something to do with the battery being too low to access the server and save it. Even if I don't answer the phone, it still disappears. Oh technology, how I loathe you
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Yesterday I had to watch my grandmother for a while, so I thought maybe I'd post something after catching up on all the printing I have been putting off. But Mom took the computer with her. I give up.

School is going well for the boys. Mark finally contacted SOAR and has talked to them a couple times. The police finally decided to interview people about the robberies earlier this year, so they talked to Mark and I and who knows who else. The kids' consignment sale I've been waiting for is this morning, and I can't wait. Baby stuff! I bought a bottle of Dreft to wash everything in, and decided unless she breaks out terribly, I will stick to the free-clear stuff we use for ourselves. That Dreft is like buying gold laundry detergent! Highway robbery. Plain and simple.

I started taking arnica in anticipation of labor, and I wonder if it has made a difference in how I feel already. I've been so sore from the pressure that walking and sitting were very uncomfortable. But the last few days I feel much more mobile. I also finally got enough money to buy more cod liver oil for my joints, which makes a huge difference at any time and no doubt helps my mobility as well. Here's hoping it lasts.

Next expense? Nursing clothes. Ugh. And diapers. And a bed. I can't sleep on the floor with a baby all winter. This isn't Belize.

One of the other moms from the preschool gave me her car seat and stroller, and a portable bassinet. That was wonderful. One less expense to worry about. She is from Mexico and has the neatest baby wrap I ever saw. It's like a long, wide scarf that stretches just a bit, and she tucks it around the baby and walks hands-free. It looks so much more comfortable than a sling. I have to find one.

Anyway, it may be a while before I post anything real long. Or have a chance to comment. But I'm still reading regularly. Happy fall!

Baptism

I have never been happy with my baptism. When I joined the community church I attend, I briefly mentioned it to the pastor, but without really explaining why. He said he felt that it was the state of my heart that mattered, not the circumstances or the person who performed the ritual. But it doesn't set right with me.

I got saved/asked Jesus to come into my heart/committed my life to God at the age of 7. Whatever you want to call it, it was real. And life-changing. It also wasn't some sort of instant cure for all of life's ills as many Protestants seem to believe. Of course, the next step was to be baptized. I assumed it would be immersion in a creek or pond. I didn't like the idea of it being public, but we were supposed to be declaring our commitment to the world, so that meant having to put up with people staring at me.

My memories that far back are not entirely clear. It seems to me that I had wanted to be baptized by the pastor of the chapel we had sometimes attended before my 4th brother was born. Whether I expressed this wish, I don't remember. I asked my mother about it, and she said that our family had been disinvited to the chapel by that time due to differing religious beliefs.

All I know for sure is, that in the end, my mother's mentor June traveled up from Tennessee to baptize me herself. She laid a towel on my parents' hall floor, poured a pitcher of water over my head, and declared me baptized. I was shocked, confused, and angry, but didn't dare let it show. When I questioned how you could baptize someone with a pitcher, I heard a long spiel about how there was no way John the Baptist could have immersed all those people, clearly he must have used pouring or sprinkling (both accepted methods by the Orthodox Church IF circumstances prevent immersion), and I knew better than to argue. I felt like crying all day. It was not at all the joyful and blessed experience I had anticipated. I got wet in front of my family and the boss said some prayers over me. Big deal.

Of course I felt profoundly guilty for not being thrilled, so I hid my reaction carefully. Over time, I came to much the same conclusion that my pastor expressed: I knew that my commitment was real, and that's what mattered.

I never subscribed to the Baptist belief that one's salvation is not complete until immersion. I am not sure I believe in the doctrine of instant and complete salvation anyway. But after going through the adult period of questioning God and religion in general, and renewing my commitment to Christ with a different outlook, I have been increasingly unhappy with that event.

Ultimately, it isn't the method that bothers me. It's the person who did it. I feel that I was baptized by a cult leader. It's very hard for me to put that in writing. But it's true. When I started researching Orthodox Christianity, I put the idea of rebaptism on hold, because I didn't want to be rebaptized into the Protestant Church if I really didn't believe their tenets.

This past Sunday I went back to St. Michael's. Mark didn't go. I started getting serious about the Orthodox because he has always said that's what he believes. But after attending there a few times, it's obvious to me that he actually has no intention of attending any church with us. No matter what denomination, culture, or creed. So I have to decide for myself where I feel closest to God.

I believe more in the doctrines voiced by the Orthodox. But I can't pray to Mary and the saints. It's too foreign a concept to me, and I see nothing in Christ's teachings to support it. From the standpoint of simply talking to our loved ones or to good people we believe are in heaven, I can handle that. But I just can't call it prayer. I've cried to Mark's Pop-pop a few times. I don't know where he is, or if he knows, but it makes me feel better to think someone else out there still cares about Mark. I wouldn't call it prayer, though. I believe in guardian angels, and maybe that's all the "patron saints" assigned to infants in the early church really are in the end.

Also, I miss the singing of hymns as opposed to the chanting. I have no objection to the chanting. I always feel blessed by the concentration on worship at St. Michael's. But there is all the ritual on top of it, and much of that I find impossible to follow or feel a connection to. The fellowship there is certainly more to my liking. No one tries to pet me or hug me, and they somehow manage to be much more outgoing and communicative without hovering. It helps not being the youngest family in the church, no doubt. Old people are always more obsessive towards young people, and my church is mostly the 50-80 age group. In fact, I doubt there are more than a few under 60 if you don't count the teenage and adult children of some members. So that's just the dynamic of the place, not really a reflection of their doctrine. Still, it makes me uncomfortable.

But I concluded that I want to be rebaptized by my current pastor. I'm not comfortable being baptized Orthodox; I don't think I can embrace their mode of worship fully enough. I will continue to visit there. I hope that doesn't cause my pastor to be uncomfortable rebaptizing me. It's time for me to start being honest about my beliefs though. And my questions in the areas I'm not settled on yet.  

The Battle of Blenheim - or, Am I A Pacifist?

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

by: Robert Southey (1774-1843)

T was a summer evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done,

And he before his cottage door

Was sitting in the sun,

And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round

Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;

He came to ask what he had found,

That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he,

"Who fell in the great victory.

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about;

And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out!

For many thousand men," said he,

"Were slain in that great victory."

"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin, he cries;

And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;

"Now tell us all about the war,

And what they fought each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,

"Who put the French to rout;

But what they fought each other for

I could not well make out;

But everybody said," quoth he,

"That 'twas a famous victory.

"My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;

They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died;

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

"They said it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene."

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine.

"Nay ... nay ... my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory."

"And everybody praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win."

"But what good came of it at last?"

Quoth little Peterkin.

"Why, that I cannot tell," said he,

"But 'twas a famous victory."

This poem made a very deep impression on me as a child. My mother was passionate about early American history, and the main focus of our education was the Pilgrims, the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, and as we got older, World War II. I think that one became part of our schooling simply because the 50th anniversary came along and inspired my mom to research that as well. My oldest brother and I wrote poems to commemorate the war; that is a whole other story in itself.

I began to learn about the abandoned POWs because we met veterans of the Korean and Vietnam wars. One of them I corresponded with through most of my teens, and then very loosely as an adult; and he sent me many articles and old newspaper clippings. I loved getting his letters because he was a good sketch artist and always drew funny or pointed political/military cartoons on the envelopes. I never had the chance to meet him in real life. The closest I came was having him pointed out to me over the heads of a crowd at the Korean War Memorial dedication. Last year I sent him our New Year's card with a request to forward, and the people who received it were kind enough to return it with the date of his passing.

I have kept that pile of articles, letters, and artwork, and I always intend to. It had a strong impact on my life. We were taught that pacifism was evil and cowardly, the result of persons being too weak and lazy to stand up for their rights. At the same time, my family being a "hybrid" as Mark once described, and willing to think rationally, my parents had great respect for William Penn, the Quaker who founded Philadelphia, and his writings.

I'm not sure what, if anything, my mom and the veteran with whom I corresponded thought I would glean from the war history I was given. But over time, I think that like the poet, what ultimately stood out to me was the futility and cruelty of war. I have gone from viewing it as a heroic thing, with clearly defined good and evil sides, through a period of disillusionment where I realized that wicked people on both sides manipulate the events for their own ends. And today? I think I might be a pacifist.

Not that I have a passive nature, mind you. I am partially Scotch-Irish, after all. I prefer to always react aggressively in a one-on-one situation. Having children toned me down a lot. As a teen and young adult I was fiercely defiant. I have never been afraid of death, from a personal standpoint. Perhaps in part because I never found anything to live for. Once I became a mother, that changed. Now the worst that can happen is not my death, but the fallout for these little persons entrusted to my care.

When I told my mom that Mark and I were separating, one of the things she mentioned was that she had told my dad long ago, when she saw the relationship developing between us, that I had found my own personal POW to rescue. Yeah, I guess that's true. I can't deny that I was drawn to him mostly because I resented the treatment he received from his so-called family, and the unfairness of his life. I have ever been ready to fight back against bullies, especially bullies in authority, and that will never change. But the way I prefer to fight certainly has.

My family are all major Second Amendment advocates. I think I'm the only adult child who has not gotten a carry permit, and they used to constantly ask me when I was going to. The overriding factor by far has certainly been Mark and his brother's lifestyle. It would be terribly irresponsible of me to keep a deadly weapon in a house where someone is frequently suicidal, and very stupid when I never knew what illegal substances - or wanted persons - might be around. The police were never called to our house, partially because a local officer lived next door to my in-laws and chose to handle things himself whenever he felt they were escalating. Not to mention it was always convenient for avoiding violent confrontations if someone got really wasted, to say, "Hey, keep it down, a cop lives next door!" But just in case, I wasn't about to let them find a weapon registered to me along with whatever else they might discover.

But since I wasn't willing to say all this to my family, I came up with other reasons. And realized that I truly felt that way. The other reasons were things like, I'm not the type to reach for a gun if someone breaks in; I don't focus that well when I wake up. I'd prefer to have a heavy floor lamp nearby because I'd rather grab something to swing. Or, I am not going to shoot someone to stop them from taking my purse. No one's money and posessions are more valuable than a human life. I might not even kill to keep from getting beaten. Then again, that's one of those things you never really know for sure unless you are in the situation. I would certainly kill to protect my children from a predator, or keep from being raped; but how do you predict those kinds of intentions far enough ahead of time? I feel safer with a knife, because I don't need to aim it, I can choose to hit with the butt end rather than cut if I think it will be effective enough, and if my kids are not present, I'm not particularly afraid of a gun if the other person has one. People die horribly painful deaths from cancer and other diseases, or accidents, every day. Getting shot is probably the easiest way to die.     

Then, there's the fact that I tend to get very flustered and full of rage when I feel threatened, which is not a state of mind that lends itself to handling a gun competently. The first step to being a responsible gun owner is knowing when you aren't one. Most of my family are actually the type of citizens who really should own guns. They respect human life, believe that taking it requires an extreme threat, and are not reactionary under pressure. My dad was a firearms instructor during his years in the military, and the first thing he taught us about guns is that their purpose is to kill, not to threaten. You never, ever draw a gun on something or someone you are not willing to kill if necessary. And I really can't think of enough situations I'd be willing to kill over, to make it worth carrying a gun.      

My oldest brother once blasted the gun rights advocates who were calling into a news program talking loudly about their right to protect themselves from the bad guys. He pointed out that the Second Amendment had nothing to do with "bad guys" and criminals. It was put there by men who had just fought, and WON, a war against the most powerful government on the earth at that time; and they wanted to make sure their descendants could do the same. It was to ensure that the government could not outgun the citizens. Of course, nuclear warfare changes that dynamic tremendously. But that's a whole other discussion.

As time has gone on, I have concluded that I do not ever want to carry a gun. And I do not believe that war usually solves anything. I may someday own a weapon, simply so that Ruby Ridge doesn't happen to me. I hope I will never be so radical, but even the radicals have rights. And oppression always begins with the extremists and progresses to the mainstream. That's the nature of government takeover. Like boiling a frog. So it's important that we maintain the human rights of the people we think are weirdos too. But I think there are much more effective ways to maintain those rights than building an arsenal and digging yourself a foxhole. Violence, even when justified, always opens the door for manipulation by those who stand to gain something monetarily. And that is the main thing I have learned from my extensive education about war. I'm not willing to be someone else's pawn.       

Does that make me a pacifist?       

School begins

Andy started first grade yesterday. Yikes! He is loving it. I am extremely nervous, but trying not to show it. I hope today goes as well. We had a rocky start when the bus never came. Fortunately since we live within walking distance, except that there is an uncrossable major highway in between, it wasn't a big deal to drive him over. He only had a half day though, and I called to confirm the bus number and stop, which they assured me was correct. So at 10 past noon I was up there in the pouring rain with Hunter, waiting on the neighbor's porch.

After a half hour I called to see where he was, and was told the buses were all running late. Okay. Another half hour. I was getting mad. Not too worried, since I figured worst case they would take him back to the school and call me. We have no sidewalks here, it's too rural (or was when the roads were laid), so they won't let the kids off unless it's the assigned bus stop. But shivering in the rain for an hour was not in my plan for the day. Finally the bus arrived. The driver was sure they had given me the wrong bus number, and complimented Andy on the good directions he had given her. He was thrilled about his adventure, telling me how he got a tour of the whole district, hehe.

Turns out the school added our stop to her route at the last minute, and neglected to give her an updated route map. So today the bus came like it was supposed to, and hopefully drop off will go well too. He rides with the neighbor boy, and that's helpful since there will be days I may not get over there to meet him. He can just run across their backyard to get home.

He loves his teacher, the school menu looks awesome and very inexpensive, and according to the other neighbor boy, that particular teacher is a favorite among the kids. That's encouraging.

Hunter starts next week, and is very upset he doesn't get to ride on the bus with Andy. I almost wished I had put him in kindergarten there after we visited. The academic standard is about the same as the Pre-K class he's going back to, and even the small amount we have to pay after his scholarship is a difficulty. But he will be with his friends from last year, and hopefully get over his miff once he's actually started.

I had my last WIC appointment today before the baby comes. These milestones help me. I feel like things are progressing somewhere, towards something, hehe. And I found out I don't actually have to get vaccinations to stay in the program. They just would like me to think I do.

The midwives told me because of the physical issues and history of dystocia, I qualify for an elective C-section. But I don't want to go that way. I'm prepared for the possibility of ending up with one, but elective? Not now. Maybe in a few weeks, if the discomfort gets worse, I'll feel differently; but I doubt it.

I keep trying all kinds of different blanket patterns and yarns, and have not been happy with anything so far. Lol. I think I'm getting a bit ridiculous about this baby and her style. I need to chill out and just accept that her blanket will not define her.

Space issues are really getting to me. I can't turn around in that cabin. But I'm trying to cope by spending as much time at my mom's as possible. School having started will help tremendously. And I will try to lie down as much as possible during school once Hunter starts. That should make these last few weeks more bearable.

Andy lost his first tooth! I almost forgot. And another one is getting quite loose. Ahh, my handsome little man is growing up. I'm so proud of him.  

Baby steps

I have to say, as much as I love having babies - even labor and nursing - I truly loathe being pregnant. I hate the physical impediment it presents, and besides, who really thinks getting kicked in the rectum from inside is a pleasant experience?

One of the biggest things I hate, though, is how scattered my thoughts are. It took me nearly 24 hours to remember that I had, in fact, already laid out a bare minimum budget for Mark when he was planning to go to Connecticut (That hasn't happened because of his health and because they refused to hire him as an employee.) It would have cut the conversation much shorter, and saved me a lot of anger, if I could have remembered that right away. This month he actually came pretty close to that scraping by budget, which explains why things have been a little easier. A chunk went to Hunter's birthday, but still.

The part of me that always wanted to be a psychologist knows, somewhere deep down where rational thought still survives despite the stress and the hormones, that he has to go through these pendulum swings of self-pity and unreasonable assertion on his journey to finding himself. It's normal. And it's also incredibly hurtful to me, because he's already projected onto me for so long that I just can't take any more. It highlights the reasons why separation is important during this time. Because he has to go through this, and let his emotions and thoughts out, no matter how unreasonable they may be, in order to sort through them and begin finding a balance. And I can't be there for it. That's what counselors are for. That's why he needs a professional. I have other needs and obligations that supercede being his sounding board.

I was talking to a lady I rode the train with by phone yesterday. She is a family counselor and proponent of gentle discipline, in spite of the fact that her youngest child was killed by running out in front of a car while still a toddler. I rarely call her because I want to be friends with her, not just a needy whiner. But when I do, I always feel encouraged. She believes in keeping a marriage whenever possible, although she is divorced, and that makes her easy to talk to, because her beliefs are much like mine, but she doesn't believe in just grinning and bearing it like my mom does.

We pay rent weekly, and last night I sat down to rewrite and thoroughly explain that budget for Mark, and realized we already paid the whole month's rent because there were 5 weekends this month. Whoohoo! Now I have to decide which other need must take priority, hehe. Probably propane. Trouble is, where to hide the money if I save it. The tank will need refilling soon and will cost about $350. We have nothing set aside yet. But when I set money aside, it always vanishes. Ugh.

I'm going to the grower's market today. I haven't been there all summer, and I want some of the chamomile soap they sell for the new baby. Plus I need produce and have to spend cash for that right now. Hopefully it will be a rejuvenating morning.

Did he really say that?

Mark called me this morning to tell me he bought a truck. I tried to sound as though I actually cared. He needs a vehicle badly, of course, so he can get a reliable job. I'm just not getting excited over it unless it turns out to actually make a positive change in our lives. I want to tell him to just stop telling me anything. If he wants me to know something, he can let me know by his actions. I'm sick of hearing about this or that plan. He supposedly had bought a van several months ago too, and all I ever saw of it was the money that disappeared under its guise. The body shop he said was working on it was suspiciously close to where Tim lived, and maybe the fact that he moved explains why Mark hasn't mentioned the van recently.

Well, I guess the truck is real, because he showed up in it. He needed to get money together for the title transfer. I just spent the money he had given me on groceries, since our food stamps don't last a whole month due to him eating here although the county has him as living at his dad's. He has never changed his address from there in all the time we've been married. So I didn't have any. And the money someone from church sent me at the old address, which he told me about on Sunday because he presumed to open it, has been conveniently "lost." Whatever.

Anyway, I tried to seem positive for the boys and told them to go see Papa's new truck, complimented his find, etc. He mentioned that he got it through the Turd in exchange for all the missing back pay, which was supposed to go to my parents to replace the bail money. But a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, and I said as much. I never really believed we'd get that money anyway.

After he left he called to ask if I wanted to go for a ride in it tonight. I said sure. Honestly, I don't. It's his truck, it's not big enough for the kids, the only way it will benefit me is if he actually gets a real job with it. But so that he doesn't feel worthless and despised, I pretended I wanted to.

He went on to remind me that transferring the title and getting insurance will take up a good bit of the money that he has coming. He added that the toolbox is going to cost him an additional $250. Ok, whatever, it's a good toolbox already installed and he needs one. Plus he owes another $500 on the truck. Whatever. We're separated, right? What do I care? Even though lately he seems to have missed the bulletin and expects me to leave the door unlocked every night so he can come in late.

I've been pushing about the futon with upper bunk that I planned on getting for this cabin before we ever moved in. It's increasingly difficult for me to get up off the sofa, downright dangerous in fact with him sleeping on a mattress right in front of it. Plus he kept allowing the kids to sleep on the only remaining floor space at the end until they now take it for granted. One of these nights I am really going to hurt myself and someone else by falling down in the dark when I get up to use the upstairs bathroom. A futon would solve most of the space problems and make room for a bassinet, which we don't have.

Anyway, he mentioned that futons will have to wait another couple weeks, and asked why he can't just build the kids some bunk beds upstairs. Umm, because the roof slopes deeply on both sides, remember? And this after he asked the other day why he and the boys can't just sleep downstairs the way they already do, and I sleep on my old bed upstairs with the baby. Well, for starters, you don't live here, remember? I didn't say that though. I got rid of my old bed, which was falling apart, because it took up the entire room and the boys need at least a little floor space for playing. Especially over the winter. (He disagrees.) Plus they will just insist on sleeping wherever I do. And finally, how dare he try to regulate me to the upstairs after he was the one who insisted we stay here?

Still, I tried to keep my cool. I was doing okay until he went on to ask how little I could get by with until the 10th or so. How should I know? He suggested skipping the rent, and added that I shouldn't need any more groceries until the food stamps are reloaded since I just went shopping. I told him I don't want to skip rent while he still owes them for the bail, and that I will need at least another $50 for groceries since all I could get were a few days' worth of basics. I didn't even think about Hunter's very small (comparatively) tuition payment that's due. I reminded him that he will typically take back at least a hundred of what he brings home over the course of two weeks, for everyday expenses, and now gas will be added to that. He says no, he spends so much on rides that he will be saving money on gas. That's quite possible.

Then he went on to say that we would have to make some sacrifices over the next several days to make up for this truck, and where could I cut expenses? That's when I started to crack. I asked what he thinks I already do every day, and he hurried to assure me that he understands all that, I do a great job, but the futons have to wait and what else can wait? I started reminding him that my expectations have not wavered a bit since we moved in, I made it clear what we needed from the beginning and have been making do without ever since, and he is the one who insisted we stay here over the winter. He said, "Please don't start crying, I know you're right, it just seems like everything is always solved by giving you money and there's never a cheap way to do anything. It always comes back to cash flow."
I was totally speechless at that point. If I started talking I would just scream. Maybe the fact that he thinks everything is solved by giving me money explains why he has presumed to come back here every night since he gave me - Oh Joy! $600 to pay rent and a small portion of the bail, and another $400 to pay the phone bill, out of which I was able to keep somewhere around $300 to buy non-food necessities for once. Thankyou, kind sir.

When I didn't answer, he breezed on congratulating himself for giving me over $1600 in the past month. I don't think it counts as giving me money when over a thousand goes to rent and his bail debt, and he takes back money every day from the remainder, plus a chunk of it went to Hunter's birthday trip. I still didn't trust myself to say what I thought.

Then came the kicker. He asked if I got anything special for dinner. I stammered around in disbelief and finally managed to coherently ask, "Uhhh.... What?" "Well, you went grocery shopping. I mean, is there anything for me to look forward to when I come home tonight?"

WOW, ASSHOLE, I JUST CAN'T TELL! Maybe I should be the one asking that question! Do I have anything to look forward to tonight, besides rubbing your back while listening to more excuses for why we will continue to be broke a while longer? Did those words seriously just come out of your mouth?

What I actually said was that all I had gotten were the basics, nothing fancy. He sounded downcast and asked if we didn't have anything in the freezer worth making. I managed to choke out that I would come up with something (read: Go ask Miss Morgan from the mall to cook you dinner, or maybe Tim, you son of a bitch - literally), and hung up the phone, and cried my eyeballs out.

Which of course upset the boys, and when they couldn't calm me down, they ran upstairs in frustration and started fighting.

Oh, right, I'm separating for the wrong reasons. How could I forget?