My Baby Made Me Cry Today

It sounds like the first line or a title to an old southern blues song. One of the songs I would sing along with at the top of my lungs while driving to pick up my baby from her day at Kindergarden. I wish it was a song. Today, I can turn it into one, because I experienced it and that’s where all writers, songwriters included, get their material.

(Read this to the tune of Led Zeppelin’s “You Shook Me”, clearly inspired by the American Southern Blues)

My baby made me cry today.
But she ain’t a baby no more.
She’s five years old.
When did she become so cold?

This is not a post I intended to write today. I’m still in shock. I have had all of these great ideas for posts and have been jotting down my thoughts, but, readers, my health has taken a turn for the worse again and all I can seem to do is sleep and even that seems like work because it’s a tortured sleep. Night sweats, chills, fevers, vivid dreams.

I’m sick again.

I hate to write it because I can’t believe it. It hasn’t been confirmed by anyone other than me and my own body. My doctor is on vacation, but I know my body. This is how I felt right before I started chemo last year. Not good.

A while ago, I told my STILL FUCKING HUSBAND that I would take our daughter for half of this weekend, being Easter and all, I wanted to spend some time with her. This morning I woke up and felt like dying. I called him to inform him I would have to take back my offer to care for her today. I was too sick. A few minutes of verbal abuse later, I told him to forget it. I could handle it. But really, I can’t.

She was so excited to color Easter eggs. I pretended to be. I pulled out the eggs, nine cups-one for each color tablet, the vinegar and measuring cups for the water. Boiled the eggs, let them cool, made the color solution, helped her drop each egg carefully into the color of her choice, pulled out the decorations, watched the eggs for color while she found interest in something else, took them out of the nine cups to dry and took an unexpected nap.

She woke me up a while later saying I had taken a long rest and she wanted to decorate the eggs. I had slept for a while-just under 90 minutes. I groggily made my way to the kitchen to help her decorate the eggs when, with her back turned to me, playing with the kitchen magnets, she began to mock my illness.

She was making fun of me.

She was being a mean girl.

“I’m Mommy. I’m soooooo sick. I’m tired. I need a rest. I have band-aids on my arms.”

I turned around. My eyes welled with tears. I put the blue egg on the kitchen table and began to walk away. She called after me “Mommy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Mommy.” I continued to walk into my room, tears streaming down my face. I didn’t turn around. I closed and locked my bedroom door, curled back under my covers and sobbed and sobbed. I could hear start crying too. “Mommy, please, I was just being funny, Mommy, please, let me in, please, I’m so sorry.”
Of course, I pulled myself up and let her in the room. Wiped my face with a tissue and gave her a hug. I told her if I had one wish it would be to get better. To not be sick anymore so I can have lot of energy. I told her it made me sad when she teased me about being sick. I asked her not to do it again. She promised and promised and begged me to forget all about it. I promised her I forgave her and I would forget all about it.

But I’ll never forget.

All day, my eyes have been randomly filling up with tears. Sometimes, they spill over and I have to quickly wipe them away, sometimes, I just let them slide down my cheeks onto my dirty NY Yankee’s sweat shirt. Sometimes they just fill up and I blink them back like I’m doing right now.

I know, she’s just a kid and she is truly sorry for how she hurt me, but honestly, it’s hard for me to forgive her right now. I look at her trying so hard to make me laugh and all I keep thinking is “it’s 1:30, 1:55, 2:30, 3:00… I can do this. After dinner, time flies by. Soon it will be bedtime…”

Today was supposed to be special. It was supposed to be memorable. And the only memory I will ever have of her fifth Easter is that she made me cry.

My baby made me cry today.

On Being a MILF

I am a MILF. This is not something I discovered or some cult I chose to join, but for the past five years, since I gave birth to my daughter, I’ve been called a MILF by more people I can remember.

I think it’s flattering, being a MILF. I suppose the inference is that most women “let themselves go” after having a child, or even if they were childless, wouldn’t fit the “ILF” factor. I’m happy men still “ILF” me.

After I had my child, my Mom made a huge deal about keeping my figure, putting on my face and staying attractive for my (STILL) husband. Archaic and old school. I love her, but she’s given me some serious vanity issues. I did get my figure back rather quickly and I would never leave the house without my face on–unless I am running to the store and in that case, it is huge sunglasses and lipgloss but I did keep up my appearance after the baby. For me. Not for my Mom and not for my (STILL) husband. I had no idea exercising, lipstick and tight jeans along with my slew of tattoos would catapult me into this new category–MILF.

Being a MILF is fun. I love the smiles and looks I get as I walk with my daughter through the grocery store or on our “Girls Night Out” every Friday when we go out for dinner and a little shopping. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a Plain Jane Mom, but I can’t really imagine, because since adolescence, I haven’t been a Plain Jane. I started wearing winged eyeliner when I was fourteen years old, for Christ-sakes! Coloring my hair when I was fifteen. I didn’t have much money for fashion, but my friends and I swapped and we all made it work.

But I digress. I love men who love that I’m a single Mom and embrace the fact that I can still be hot, still be wild and still be a Mom. I haven’t met one man yet, since I’ve been dating again (it hasn’t been so long, I’ve only been separated for a year and two months, plus the cancer and shit) who has had a problem with my single Mommyhood and if he did, well, it’s curtains for him.

Though being a MILF is fun and flattering; it can be lonely. I have good old friends who went on to become MILFs themselves and I love them, but our kids are one or two years apart and that brings in a whole new type of Mom…The School Mom.

Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’m aloof, but I can’t help but feel that the school Moms judge me. They don’t say hi or keep me in the “know” about Mom things like swimming lessons and play dates. They look slightly afraid on a hot day when I drop off my daughter wearing red lipstick and a t-shirt, tattoos blazing. Are they intimidated? Do they think I’m a bad Mom? A “Slut Mom?” (Thanks to A Buick in the land of Lexus for that terminology–maybe I’ll get more views now.) Are they afraid their husbands will be attracted to me? Kind of like I wrote in “Stay Away From My Boyfriend!!”

I’m nice. I’m friendly. I’m creative and helpful and most importantly, I’m a great Mom–MILF or not. I could never change who I am–a girly girl with great genes/jeans to simply blend in with the yoga pants, no makeup, please comb your hair mothers I see everyday. I swear, sometimes I want to arrive at pickup time with my makeup kit and do ambush makeovers like they do on the “Today” show. But, to each her own. I’ll still smile, give a friendly wave and I’ll do it all with my cat eye and tall black boots.

I consider myself lucky to be considered a MILF at all. There are two sides, however, and I wish one of those sides wouldn’t judge a MILF by her cover. Their husbands don’t. (Wink, wink…)


Classless Bitches

So, I tried to follow Sean’s advice on how to get more followers, and I started by clicking on some of the bloggers he follows. (Sean likes the ladies, it seems.) I read through three posts from the “lady” bloggers he follows before I began to get nauseous. My nausea then turned to anger.

Seriously, how many female bloggers out there have nothing better to write about than getting fucked in a bush or making fun of an ex-boyfriend’s stutter? Walks of Shame? Yeah. I’ve done that (not the stutter thing, that’s just rotten) and while it makes for a titillating read, it has absolutely no substance or profundity whatsoever. And you know what the problem is? THIS IS WHAT THEIR BLOGS ARE BASED UPON. They are written with such flippancy, such a high regard for themselves that it makes me ill. It does make me laugh however, that they all think they’re getting book deals. Girls, I just read three blogs exactly like yours. Did you know that Marie Claire practically knocked down my door asking me to write a piece about the scandal? Yeah, I could’ve done it, but I would have sacrificed something in the name of my name being in print. And it wasn’t worth it.

Admittedly, these writers are young. 22, 23 years old. I remember writing poetry when I was 22 years old and I’m not being holier than thou, I’m just shocked at how female “writers” have changed. It’s all about the sex. Sex sells, I guess, on WordPress, anyway.

I’m no prude. I have sex and I looooove it. I love men and I have relationships with them. I enjoy blogs that are about sexuality, but written with some substance, some class, Goddammit! Lola, for example, she can write about her sexual escapades with a wit and charm that doesn’t make them seem so dirty. And another thing about Lola, it that she’s real. Her blog isn’t entirely about getting fucked up the “arse.” There is humanity there. Emotion. Feelings. Substance.

I’m done worrying about stats and followers and comments and likes. I’m too old for that shit. I like my mundane blog. And my mundane posts. I’m writing from my heart, from my experiences, about my feelings and hopefully that will make someone feel something too.

And to all you classless bitches, with your daydreams of book deals, I really don’t give a fuck if you think my cancer or divorce or friend in Afghanistan is mundane. I can write about the thousand times I spread my legs too, but I don’t have to. There are too many blogs out there like yours. All you’re doing is giving some strange guy a hard on and some jerk off material for the night.

If there are any mature female bloggers out there who write about sex and love and life in a way that can move me, please, please step up! I need to know that there are still some sexy bitches who can write with some class.

Good luck with your book deals, Ladies.

From Brooklyn to Afghanistan

The sound of silence didn’t last very long as I woke up the next morning to a text message from a foreign number on my cell phone. It was from an old boyfriend, someone I had almost purposely lost touch with over the years. He was crazy (they all are) but I dated him on and off for about eighteen months back in 2003 and 2004. We met online and on our first date, we discovered that I knew his father through my work, a man he despised with such intensity, it was difficult for him to swallow the beer that sat in front of him as we talked about his hatred for the man who gave him life.

The night before our second date, he called to confirm and told me he was getting a tattoo that night. I playfully responded “Well, I’m not playing nurse tomorrow, so don’t go crazy.” I met up with him the next morning for Sunday brunch and a few minutes into our meeting, remembered the tattoo. “So…what did you get?” I asked him. He explained that upon meeting me, I stirred up such intense feelings within him, that I was the inspiration for his latest tattoo. I was a little concerned, a bit flattered and wildly curious. “Let’s see it!” I exploded. I couldn’t wait any longer. He held out his hand and right there in big, black, bold letters was the word “HATE” spewed across his fingers.

I gasped.

“Um, I…I…Uh, how was I the inspiration for that?”

He replied “I haven’t thought about my father in a long time. I try not to think about him at all, what he did to my Mother, to me and to my brother. I hate him. When we were talking about him in that bar, it brought up all of these old feelings. I had to express it. You helped me to remember those feelings, not to repress them.”

I asked him why he had to display his feelings across his hand in big, black, bold letters? I mean, couldn’t he have written his Dad a letter and then thrown it away? Or perhaps a nice journal entry or a poem?

Nope. The tattoo would have permanency.

Despite the “HATE” tattoo, I continued to see this man for quite a while. He did have some good qualities. He was smart, funny, well-read, experienced and of course, good in bed. He was also an alcoholic with no real life goals and quite the liar. We dated from early fall until February, when he broke it off with me. We saw each other a few times in-between  the winter and summer and then spent the summer together. When I met my STILL husband, and broke off the relationship with him for the first time, it was MD who took me back into his arms. We had fun together.

I don’t remember exactly how it ended, I think it just kind of faded away, but my STILL husband and I finally became serious, got married, got pregnant and it was at that point in my life that I decided to join Facebook. He was one of the first friend requests that I received. I denied his request and though I did think about him from time to time, he was one of the few men who didn’t seem to have any lasting impact on me. We dated for a long time. I inspired his “HATE” tattoo. We hung out a lot, and yet, I could go years without thinking or wondering about him at all.

Until this past Sunday. The text message read “Hi TattooGirl. It’s MD. I don’t know if you remember me. I used to live on X street. How are you?

I shook the sleep out of my head and reread the message. Should I respond? Of course I should respond!! Why shouldn’t I invite another crazy back into my life?

I replied “I’m doing well, despite what you may have read in the rags. How are you?”

He was confused. He wrote back that he didn’t know what I meant about the “rags.” He was writing from Afghanistan. He had joined the Army several years ago and was on his second deployment. He had text messaged me from a calling card and told me it was best to contact him through Google Chat. I don’t understand Google Chat, so I just used plain ol’ e-mail and that’s what we’ve been doing since Sunday…catching up through e-mail.

I told him all about the scandal, the divorce, the cancer, and my daughter. He told me about his decision to join the Army and sent some photographs. We joked around a bit and then I asked him “What comes next, MD? Is the Army your new home? Your new career? You sound happy and fulfilled. I’m proud of you”

A few hours later I was sitting in the waiting room of my Oncologist’s office when I heard the buzz of a new e-mail. It was his reply and this is what he wrote:

“Honestly, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll never be truly happy or fulfilled. I’m constantly searching for challenges and that’s what gives me satisfaction. Physical, mental, whatever. Pushing myself, constantly. I love that. No one back home really understands what I do or why I joined., least of all what my service means. And I get that. It’s a pretty alien concept. New York Jews don’t join the Army and go to Afghanistan for their mid-life crisis, They buy sports cars and sleep with 19 year old blondes. That’s not me.

To be honest, tattoo girl, I was never happier than I was on my last deployment, sitting on a mountainside, haven’t showered in weeks, no laundry, crunchy socks, eating MRE’s and drinking warm water, getting shot at randomly. Once, I got shot at while taking a dump. Now that was a humbling experience. Me and 10 other guys. I’d come off patrol at 6 AM, read notes from underground, sleep, wake up and do it again. Simple existence, nothing mattered more than what I was doing right then and there. No internet, no phones, no way to communicate with anyone aside from my team and platoon…”

I had to hold back my tears. How could people change so much in eleven years? I don’t mean just him. I mean me, too. God, we have both changed so much. Our lives are completely different than they were when we used to date back in ’03-’04. We are different people, and for some strange reason, we still connect. We can still have a conversation a million miles away from one another and it’s meaningful. I felt so much stirring up inside of me after I read that e-mail. I was proud of him, I felt sorry for him, I connected with his feelings of being misunderstood, I felt a useless existence in comparision to what he was experiencing, what he was contributing to our society, our country… He made me want to DO something. How many people actually DO something?

He is.

And despite the questions that swirled around in my head about his former character, his hate, his lies…they are a decade old. And so are we, me and MD. We’re a decade older now and I’m still here and he’s over there and I never would have thought of him had he not sent me that message last Sunday morning, but all week, he’s all I can think about–not in a sexual or romantic way, but in a human way.

I look forward to his next e-mail.


The Sound of Silence

After a crazy week with a sick daughter, several doctor appointments, a growing pile of laundry, a Friday morning rendezvous, and a very late ex-husband picking up my daughter for his weekend, I closed the door and…silence.

I do love silence. I admit, on the weekends my daughter is with my ex, I close the door and I breathe it in. Deeply. I don’t know what was wrong with me today, but for once, I didn’t like it. It wasn’t relaxing or serene.

It was lonely.

I turned on the television and tried to find a program to fall asleep to. But I couldn’t. I walked from room to room, picking up this and that, folding clothing, feeling restless, but mostly alone.

Thinking I would fall asleep, I turned on the “Do Not Disturb” function on my phone, but it didn’t matter, because like my home, my phone was silent too. No texts, no calls.

It was lonely.

I tried to distract myself. I have a million things to do, but I couldn’t finish anything. My mind was wandering. I was exhausted, but not tired. It’s close to midnight here in Brooklyn and I’ve been up since 7:30, spent the day with a rambunctious child, took a chill pill and while my body is exhausted and my head hurts and my lack of iron should make me doze off at any given moment, I can’t relax.

It’s the silence.

I don’t like it today.

I’ve always been a loner and I enjoy my own company, but today I wanted noise. Not jackhammer noise, more like the clinking of glasses or the sound of my daughter splashing in the tub or a conversation with a good friend. I’ll admit, it was a little depressing.

Tonight I’ll go to sleep without setting my alarm and tomorrow will be another lovely day in Brooklyn and I know I’ll feel a million times better than I do at this moment, but right now, I can only try to explain how I feel, because it’s new. A new feeling. And not a very good one.

I think I feel silent. And empty. And it will pass. I know it will. And as much as I love the sound of silence, today I do not like it at all.

A feeling I’ve never felt before.

Being Single is Fun. Being a Single Mom is…






My Dad died when I was ten, so technically, I grew up with a single Mom. I know the struggles she went through trying to make ends meet, taking care of her five kids all the while dealing with her escalating Multiple Sclerosis. The major differences between my single Motherhood and my Mother’s is that she had a slew of kids ranging from six to sixteen years old and a sister who lived downstairs with us. That alone was a lot of help for her. My older brother and sister were given a tremendous responsibility and times were different then. We could walk to school by ourselves and play outside with our friends with no adult supervision–she had some alone time–not to mention a washer, dryer and dishwasher. (Oh, my kingdom for a wager and dryer!) She owned our home–my Dad made sure the note was paid off before he passed away, so we would always have a roof over our head. My Mom struggled, but I’m quite different from my Mom. She never dated another man after my father died. I, on the other hand, had to deal with a phone call home from my seventh grade math teacher advising my Irish-Catholic mother that I was doing poorly in math because my mind was wandering. She told her I was “boy crazy.”

I still am!

That is one of the greatest aspects of being single again. I can date, I can flirt, I can have as much sex as I want with whomever I want. As much fun as that is, it’s not always so easy because, well, I’m a single Mom.

I spend most of my days at various doctor appointments and almost every afternoon and night taking care of my daughter. I love my daughter. I don’t know what I would do without her. Before any man, ever, she is the love of my life, but damn, that little girl makes dating so difficult. Shit, she makes taking a long shower pretty damn difficult!

Whenever I meet a prospective date, the conversation usually goes something like this:

Prospective Date: So, I would like to see you, maybe a couple of drinks or dinner?

Me: Yeah, great, that sounds good.

PD: How about Friday?

Me: Sorry, Fridays are out, I have my daughter. And Saturday and Sunday are out too, because it’s my custody weekend.

PD: I understand, what’s your schedule like?

Me: Well, I’m free on Wednesday and Thursday nights and every other weekend. I can usually meet up for a cup of coffee on Friday mornings.

PD: Well, Friday mornings are out for me, I work, but we’ll talk, we’ll figure something out. Text me when you know you’ll be free.

I know, I know…it’s so simple…Get a babysitter!!! Not so simple. Babysitters are expensive and the trustworthy babysitters are hard to find in this part of Brooklyn–some of them have waiting lists! Then you’ve got to to the interview, introduce the potential babysitter to your kid, have them spend a couple of hours together to make sure they mesh and the biggest problem with a date night babysitter is…no sex. I’ve got to go home. For a first or second date a babysitter is fine, but there will come a time that sex will become an item on the dating menu and unless it’s my weekend “off”, I can’t stay over–or even stay out too late at a man’s house and I certainly can’t have him stay at mine. Besides, I don’t want to come home to my daughter looking like I just got fucked. I actually have limitations.

I have some family and friends that can help me out for a couple of hours when I have to go to a doctor’s appointment, but they have social lives too, and it’s really difficult to get a trusted friend or family member to change their own social calendar to accommodate mine. As far as school vacations are concerned, oh man, forget it. Cancel that week. I’m on lockdown.

One more important difference between being simply single and a single Mom is my apartment. Any man I choose to date has and will know immediately that I have a daughter, but I truly believe that unless said “man” has children of his own, seeing that Mr. Bubble on the ledge of the bathtub is a reality check. The children’s book I forgot to put back on my daughter’s bookshelf after reading her a story in my bed. The random Lego that is so painful when stepped on with bare feet on the way to use the restroom. Being simply single means you have an “adult” apartment, and for the most part mine is, but it is undeniably shared with my little girl…books, Lego, My Little Pony and all.

During the past thirteen or fourteen months since I’ve been separated, I have had some excellent adventures with men. Admittedly, they are fewer and farther between than I would like. I have also bonded with my daughter in a way that I could never imagine happening had my STILL husband and I had not separated. I just wish it wasn’t so difficult to have both. I suppose you can’t have it all, and I would choose my child over any man, any day…but..well, I’m boy crazy!

And I always will be.

The Sexter

I’m not quite sure when it happened, but I’ve become involved with a serial sexter. I am fully aware that he is bat shit crazy. We don’t see each other and we don’t speak on  the phone; we just sext. Truthfully, HE sexts and I just kind of respond with “oh yeah?” “really?” “That sounds nice.”

He’s filthy.

I met him at a party back in December. He was seeing a friend of mine but we were drunk and exchanged numbers. The next morning I realized that it’s always hoes before bros and I regretted exchanging contact information with him. I heard from him a few days later and made it pretty clear that I wasn’t interested in dating my friend’s current love interest. He was fine with that. A few weeks later, he texted me again. He and my friend had broken up and he wanted to hang out. Since my winter has been so busy, cold and generally horrible, it was really hard to make plans with him. Then the sexts began.

They started out as fairly benign sexually laced text messages. A message about how he loved the short skirt I was wearing the night of the party, another one about how he liked me as soon as he met me, how he followed me when I went to the bathroom and waited outside, planning to kiss me in a semi-private area of the party. I thought it was kind of sweet, but there was something about him that just reeked of a douchebag. I mean, really? Really? You were going to kiss me at a party that your then love interest was hosting? That shit is unacceptable. I told him that I was very flattered, but I never would have kissed him at that party.

Then he became more, for lack of a better word, intimate. I was wearing fishnet stockings that night and apparently, he noticed. He started texting about my stockings. How he wanted to rip them open, pull my panties to the side and slide his cock inside of my pussy. I’m not paraphrasing here. I remember being stunned. What?!? He started asking me questions about my panties and stockings and telling me how much he loved short skirts. I don’t think he’s a breast man. He never once mentioned my own breasts or a bra. Just panties and stocking and skirts. My responses were fairly bland. “I have lots of different panties.” “I like stockings too.” “I love wearing skirts and dresses, but it’s been so cold.”  He ALWAYS texts “I want your legs wrapped around me.” That’s one of his staples.

Over time, I began to realize that this guy is a sexual addict with a fetish I had never heard of before. NMCF or CFNM (I can’t remember the order.) He started sexting me one night about my public sexual history. I didn’t give much information. I think my response was “Oh wow, I  don’t remember, it’s been so long.” After my response, I realized that he didn’t give a shit about MY public sexual experiences, he wanted to tell me about HIS. A girl started jerking him off in a bar. Everybody was staring. They left. They walked around lower Manhattan until they found a townhouse that was under renovation. They sneaked into the basement, he pulled up her skirt and they fucked. To end their escapade, he left the “cum filled condom on the door latch for the construction workers to find in the morning.” So romantic.  This is when I found out about his NMCF/CFNM fetish. Naked Male Clothed Female (or vice-versa). Now, I’m no nun. I’ve always enjoyed sex and have had a few interesting sexual relationships of my own, but I had never heard of that fetish before and that’s when I realized–this guy has been around. And around. And around.

He’s sexted me at 6:20 AM to tell me how hard his cock is. My response “You woke me up.” He didn’t care. He woke me up again early one morning to tell me how he wanted to slide his cock up and down my thigh and rub it all over my silky panties. Apparently, he doesn’t like lace panties–too itchy. Makes sense.

I know that these sexts are just a distraction for me. I don’t plan on ever seeing him in person and honestly, he scares me a little. I could block his number, but I don’t want to. I want to see what happens next. His messages make me gasp and giggle. I know it’s terrible because he does have a sincere addiction and issues with women, but it’s entertaining. I never contact him. Never. I don’t have to. He’ll sext for days in a row, I won’t hear from him for a week and then “my cock is so hard for you baby, I’ve got my hand wrapped around it right now” pops up on my phone. As disturbing as it is, meaning he actually disturbs me when I’m trying to sleep or watch a show on TV as well as the fact that he’s clearly disturbed about women, I’m going to wait it out. He’ll eventually find someone else to sext and I’ll be history. But for now, the warped attention is fun.

And for the record, no sexts today.

My Coldest Winter Ever


My coldest winter ever actually started in November. My Mom, the strongest woman I know, the woman who raised five kids on her own, who has battled Multiple Sclerosis for over thirty years, who turned seventy five last July, who has nine grandchildren and who has always taken care of me whenever I was in a crisis ranging from the flu to my scandal became seriously ill with a septic infection. My doctor advised me not to go see her in the hospital because of my own immune system, but I couldn’t stay away from my Mommy while she was ill. She’s always been there for me and I would be there for her. I took the long drive out to Suffolk County, where she now resides with one of my sisters and her family and in my bag I packed the bottle of Lourdes Water that she gave me when she found out I had cancer. My sister rubbed it on her wounded leg, but unlike the “magic” it seemed to work for me, she ended up needing two surgeries on her leg to remove the infected tissue. We had no idea if she would be home for Thanksgiving and being a single Mom dealing with my own illness, I only got to se her once in the hospital, where she stayed for three long weeks. Her recovery would be long and painful and she’s still not fully recovered, but she was home for Thanksgiving and that’s the last time I saw her. I think about her everyday and I know she’s in wonderful hands, but I’m scared. I don’t know what I would do without my Mommy. I don’t even…no…I can’t even think about it.

December was madness. I was broke, it was Christmas time and I have a Christmas baby. I had to plan her 5th birthday party, use my credit cards to purchase gifts, fought with my daughter’s father (we’re STILL married! Longest divorce ever!) about money every single day, decorate the apartment, schlep a tree into my tiny abode, send out birthday invitations and  my Christmas cards (I never miss a year, though according to the ratio of the amount of greetings I sent out versus the amount I received, I think they might be going out of fashion–what a shame.) December wasn’t so cold temperature wise, but I just didn’t feel so jolly. I couldn’t wait until January. 2104. A new year, new beginnings, no resolutions, just hope.

My most sincere apologies to T.S. Elliot, but you’re wrong. January is the cruelest month. I can not remember a January as cold and miserable and snowy as the one that just passed. I’m talking sub-zero temperatures, blizzards once a week, cars iced into their parking spots for days. I’m truly trying to think about one good thing to say about this past January, and in all honesty–I can’t. Complete misery. Layers upon layers of clothing, hats, gloves, long johns, snow boots. Oh, how I want to burn my snow boots! Just throw them in a fire and watch them go up in flames. My apartment is old, so the radiators rattled, banged and finally started spraying boiling water all over my kitchen and bedroom. I still have the towels stuffed under the valves to protect my belongings from water destruction–and the worst part about it? You would think that mopping boiling water from your kitchen floor would leave it with a sparkling shine. Not true. The snow in New York is dirty. Trudging through my hallway into the kitchen wearing the boots I want to burn left them forever scarred. A reminder of the cruelest January I can remember.

February, in my mind, was a joy–only because it has twenty eight days and would make the winter months disappear into spring just a bit faster. I was wrong. Still freezing, still snowing still depressing. My daughter had an entire week off from school and, of course, I had to be a full time Mommy. I had no choice but to put off all of my doctor appointments until she went back to school and before I knew it, the symptoms of my cancer, which has been in remission since late September started coming back. I didn’t get to see my Oncologist until the last week of February and when my blood results came back, they weren’t very good. I’m anemic again and started iron infusions this past week. I have to get another PET scan to see if the cancer spread and there is a very good chance I may have to start treatment again. More waiting… But before I write February off as a complete disaster, there was one warm and wonderful day I will never forget. February 14th. Valentine’s Day. It was the best Valentine’s day of my life. I spent all morning into the mid afternoon underneath my warm covers with an amazing lover and all night with the love of my life. My daughter.

And now it’s March. Oh March, please be good to me. The month started out pretty well. My STILL husband and I signed our custody agreement–joint custody (meaning we make all major decisions about her school, religion, medical conditions etc. together) but I am her physical custodian. I remember just a few months ago, warring with her father and thisclose to giving him custody. But I pulled myself up by my foul winter boot straps and stayed strong. It means so much to me knowing that I won this battle and it’s not about the money he’s going to have to pay me for child support in addition to my alimony; it’s a victory. It’s a sign of my strength and my unending love for my daughter. I may never have another child again, but I have her and she makes me strong and happy and useful and loved. Watching her grow up into a little girl is the most beautiful experience I could ever imagine. I won! My cancer may be back, but with her love and excitement and growth, I gain the strength to keep fighting. Everything.

Today was a beautiful day in Brooklyn. Fifty degrees. No jackets required. Tomorrow will be sunny and forty one degrees. The snow is melting, leaving dirty puddles everywhere, but slowly, my coldest winter ever is coming to an end and Mr. Elliot, I can’t wait for April!