boogers and bunk beds.

Lately, the weather has been downright dismal, and dismal weather makes for an overall dismal week.  I've been more agitated, more on edge, and more stressed than usual, (and believe me, that's saying something).  It's been taxing just to get things finished that need to be finished, like cooking, cleaning, laundry, playing with the pup, getting ready for work, working...

In addition to these daily chores turned dismal and other dismal happenings of the past week, I took on the job of painting the teenager's room.  It's something that needed to happen five years ago, but that's the story of the entire house...  You name it and it probably should've been fixed, redone, painted, raked, planted, or gutted at least five years ago.  To even begin painting the room I had to clean the room, and to clean the room I had to clean out the room, and to clean out the room I had to haul around all of the furniture to get to the dirtiest parts of the room.  Awesome.  Among the things I found while prepping for the paint job were the following foul objects:

• old toys covered in spider webs
• boogers plastered to the wall 
• the ex's book collection that had been lost in the back of the closet
• old candy
• candy wrappers
• dead leaves
• fuzz
• dirty soccer socks
• dirty soccer shin guards
• more boogers

If anything has put me over the edge this week it was the sighting of the crusty snot wads.  The moment I saw what was staring back at me from the wall I stopped seeing the teenager as a person and saw him as "her son."  I ceased work on the room and swore I wasn't going to clean up any more of her messes when she's right around the corner to do it herself.  I'm tired of finding her remnants in my house, I'm tired of caring for her kid when he's not mine or the boyfriend's, and I'm tired of feeling like I'm putting myself last.  I tried to recall my middleschool days (which weren't that long ago) and thought, "If my room had ever looked like this when I was a teenager I would've been beaten and banished to somewhere icy and cold."  The teenager has never, I repeat, NEVER, been made to do anything that resembles responsibility, and this was the last straw.  Or, so I thought.

I calmed down.  I collected myself.  I asked the boy to clean help me clean his mess.  I got over these harsh feelings and moved past them so something could be accomplished.  After days of a cooperative cleaning, organization, removal of old and broken furniture, and wall painting, the room had almost reached the current health codes.  I had conquered my mean and selfish thoughts about not wanting to help anymore.  I brought the teen into his new room.  I bounced through the door and excitedly asked, "How do you like it?!"  I couldn't wait to see his jaw drop in awe, for him to drop to his knees and bow to my generosity and outstanding cleaning abilities...

I didn't get what I was hoping for.  What I got  made me even more angry, mad, furious, and worst of all, sad.  The boy simply replied, "I think I miss my bunk bed."    

I've often thought about investing in a light box for days such as these, but alas, there is no dough to spare for said luxury when all of it is going to unappreciated paint and new furniture.  I'm at a loss for how I'm supposed to feel.  I'm hurt.  I don't want to continue trying and doing and going for this person.  It never seems like it's enough.  For sanity's sake, I'll have to keep in mind that boogers are what teenagers are made of, and this one still has a lot to learn.  I just have to keep looking for the light at the end of this tunnel...

after-school and incredible biological science.

I have the afternoons off from my job at an architectural firm and then I go back to work in the evenings at an art gallery in downtown.  I cherish my free time at home when the kids aren't back from school, away from their messes and the inevitable noise.  Although I love the free time to clean with my yellow rubber gloves, I would never pass up an opportunity to spend time with the littlest human in our household.  Said human gets off the school bus at approximately 2:45 and from that point on we do homework, we read, we play, we snack, and we watch Sponge Bob.  That time spent together is so precious because it's time spent getting to know this tiny piece of incredible biological science who's learning how to read, write, and be creative.  I wouldn't dream of putting her in after-school since she only lives with us for the first half of the week- there's so much we already miss out on.

On the flip side, after-school is a huge help if you're a busy someone who owns tiny humans.  It's convenient, relatively inexpensive, and somewhat educational.  If you work all the time and can't afford to be a stay-at-home parent, then after-school is a great resource.  That's why it kills me that the tiny one is in after-school for the other half of the week on the days her mother doesn't work, and yesterday her mother forgot to pick her up.  That's right, she didn't pay her after-school bill so the tiny one isn't allowed to attend the program anymore, and her mother forgot to pick her up yesterday from school.  On her day off.  When she didn't have any occupational obligations.  My blood was boiling.

I cherish my time with my future step-human.  I love her because I want to, and despite the difficulties that come along with entering into a blended family, I wouldn't trade my time with her for the world.  Despite the constant rants and raves I have with myself about her biomom's decisions (and sometimes even her very existence), I have to remember that my time with this lovely little girl is limited.  Rather than putting my thoughts on after-school, I have to remember to put them on what's best for this incredibly sweet piece of biological science.

dog.

Dog.  D.O.G.  Those three letters, smushed together to make that short, one-syllable word, are the only three letters that have the ability to make my heart melt and my insides rage all at the same time.  I love dog.  I love MY dog, and although I share her with my boyfriend, his daughter, and his ex-wife's son, she's still my dog.  LaRow knows that I take her to the vet, that I bathe her, that I feed her, walk her, play with her, and put her in her crate at night time.  Every morning she comes to me first and wags her nub-tail for me.  I love my dog and I do not like to share her.

Over a year ago I met a person who loves to share.  He's a wonderfully generous, sweeter than pie, fantastically soft-skinned, incredibly handsome man.  An older man.  With a daughter.  A daughter who was five with half-brother who was twelve, he had a mountain of debt accrued by his cheating ex with whom his divorce was still, erm... pending.  With all of those things, and more, I didn't think it would amount to much.  Fast forward to now and I'm living with him, his daughter, his ex's son, miniature poodle, cat, two turtles, over-watered house plants, unidentified bugs, and one vole who resides behind the broken dishwasher.  This is not the life I had planned for at 23, and I'm definitely a planner.  Ever since I was little I've been planning my life out.  I've been independent (for the most part) and always thought that I could do things on my own with a dog.  But this man.  This man is wonderful and he's sharing his whole life with me.  How can I pass up this opportunity?  He wants to get engaged.  Get married.  Have a baby...  All of which have been absent of my plan until now.  Where's my serenity for the chaos of having my world turned upside down? 

Serenity is in sweet LaRow.  She's mine and she's constant.  Constantly needing a bath, constantly wagging her nub, and constantly giving me her unrelenting companionship.  Entering into a blended family is a learning experience, to say the least, but I love dog.  Dog is my haven.