This shit is easier than I thought it would be
Seriously, this is so much easier than living with my ex. For example, try to parent with someone who constantly undermines you. You tell your kid that taking a flying leap off the couch isn't acceptable behavior, he says to let her find out for herself. The threat of a concussion isn't even a spark in his mind. You tell your kid that throwing a tantrum automatically means she aint gettin' shit, and he gives her candy and tells her it's okay. Yeah. That was my life. Every single day. For nigh on four years. Now, since there is nobody else but me for authority, life seems easier. My child gets it now: no means no, there are consequences, and throwing a tantrum will not work. Guess who's better behaved now? This kid. On the other hand...
This shit is a lot harder than I thought it would be
She goes to her Dads house, where there are virtually no rules and accordingly: no consequences. My child has Sensory Processing Disorder which brings its own set of problems, but one thing that helps is consistency, consistency, consistency. The same schedule, the same routine, the same expectations, the same rules. Since the judge has temporarily ordered that I have her for four days and he has her for three days, you can imagine the fun I've had trying to bring her back to normal. I spend most of my parenting time trying to get her back on track, and holy fuckballs. It's draining. Look, I love my daughter but goddamn. The first 24 hours she comes back are chock-full of tantrums and by hour 2 I'm wondering if it's considered child abuse to dose her with Nyquil just to get one goddamn minute of peace. Part of me says that she's trying to adjust back to our routine and that the SPD is doing this. The other part of me wants to lock myself in my bedroom with noise-cancelling headphones. Talking to Father of the Year about laying some mutual rules, expectations and routines is as useful as tits on a boar hog.
Being single is kinda awesome.
I didn't know this while I was with my ex, but evidently there were a bevy of men waiting for me to be single. Either because they just wanted to taste the taco or actually take me out on a date. Case in point: I briefly dated one guy who wanted to date me for almost a year, knew my situation, and quietly waited for his turn. He got his turn, I got several dinners out, a Juicy Couture handbag, $100 pink walking shoes, $300 worth of groceries, $300 worth of household items, and a massive pink sapphire ring. While we broke up, I'm just laying this on the line: if you get a chance to date a guy who makes close to $100k a year and wants to spend it on you...go right ahead. Presently, I have a date with a Jason Aldean clone I went to high school with, whom I have been texting for a week. And, since we're not an "item" yet, I feel zero guilt flirting with anyone who catches my eye. This whole being single thing is doing wonders for my self esteem. And, at the risk of sounding like a complete and utter whore, the very idea that I have several men in my contacts list that will happily come over to hit it and quit it is rather nice. Picture it: I'm home alone, Kidlette is with her Dad. A couple glasses of wine later, and I'm getting happy in my happy place. If I want to, I can call someone to come over and make my happy place even happier, and an hour later we're both ecstatic. Yeah. This is kinda awesome. (For the record, I haven't done that yet. And as much as I have fantasized about doing filthy, raunchy, kinky shit to Jason Aldean 2.0, I will not. Yet.)
My new independance is one helluva drug
My condo is decorated precisely the way I want it decorated. There is nobody else using the bathroom, missing the goddamn bowl entirely, and pissing on the floor. There is nobody else whining that he's tired of listening to my music. Yeah, okay, Tchaikovsky and Jason Aldean are so much fucking worse than Nickelback, Limp Bizkit or whatever else ear-raping shit you listen to. For the first time since 2004, I can more or less do whatever the hell I want, when I want, and how I want it. I was terrified that when I moved out, I would contemplate going back just to have another paycheck to count on. Turns out, I'm fiercely protective of my independance, and I would rather shampoo with Ajax dish soap and wipe my ass with newspaper than go back. It's tight, no doubt about that. But I'm on the drug called Independnce & Freedome, and I have no intentions of coming off of it. Knowing that I depend on no one but myself and and getting along juuuust fine is very empowering. My situation has forced me to find an inner Damascus Steel hitherto undiscovered. Had I not done this, I would've never known it was there. All of these things combined is dizzying, and I love it.
The other day I walked past a mirror and I was like damn bitch..You fine.
Since leaving Mr. I want to lose weight so I'm buying Doritos, I lost about twenty pounds. So yeah, there's that. Here's the thing, ladies, when you're in a soul-sucking, life-draining relationship you look like it. You look like hell because you're in Hell. You don't care how you look because fuck it. He doesn't, nobody else does, so why should you? You dress so crappy you makes nuns look sexy. But then you dump the chump. Your confidence starts to come back, and no matter how mirror-breaking fugly you are, confidence is aatractive. Personally, I've always been insanely vain about my hair because well..Shit is glorious. I've loved playing with makeup since I was three. But for 2/3's of my relationship with my ex, I rarely did either. He never noticed so I just gave the fuck up. But even if nobody notices my hair, my makeup, or my ass, I do. I dress better because I feel better. I know I look good and I feel good. My confidence is back, bitches. Confidence makes me feel incredibly sexy, and I project that to the world around me. If you see a pleasantly curvy woman with magnificent dark chocolate hair swinging her ass like she's on a cat walk while discussing cereals with a dirty blonde four year old...Chances are you're looking at me.
I love this, and I love me.
