Pushed Into the Closet

We are affectionate.  S and I.  I was so glad to learn that she is a "touch-er" although I figured as much given her chosen profession.  And as a matter of fact, she even tries to apologize to me for touching me too much.  As if there is such a thing.  I love it.

We are affectionate in front of the kidlets.  Nothing R rated.  Not even PG 13.  Maybe PG if we think they aren't looking.  (I'm just being honest here.)  We think it is important that they see affection and love expressed through touching.  We cuddle them too.  We do sandwich hugs and steal kisses from them via Kiss Toll Booths.  The Boy tries half halfheartedly to get away, then falls heavily into S's arms with a grin on his face.  L will ask for a double tuck in if she gets up to pee in the middle of the night.

I consider us an affectionate family.  I like it.

When we take the kids to the museum, the park, or even the grocery store I hold her hand.  The kids seem un-bothered by such a natural event for S and I.  Neither S nor I have ever thought NOT to hold each others hand.  We've never been closeted.  We have both decided we will never be closeted, and we will never date anyone who cannot be out.  It's simply hand holding - not making out.

This is why I think it is very peculiar... very amusing even... that M asked us to go inside our little closet on Saturday afternoon and through Sunday.  She was having a girl from school sleepover.  I'll update you on the stats.  She is 10... will be 11 in March.  She's in fifth grade.  Her friend is in the sixth grade.  They were going to swim and play basketball at the YMCA and while S was driving M there... that's when M had "the talk" with her.

It went something like this:

M:  "Tonight can you and mom like get a room."

S:  "Whu--?"

M:  "Don't embarrass me in front of my friend.  If you're gonna kiss mom good-bye, get a room." (I was going to work later.)

S:  "Don't worry M, we'll be on our best behavior." (Dying of embarrassment herself.)

S came home and told me that for the next 24 hours or so we have to go back into the closet for our kid's sake.  I said, "Babe, I never really spent much time IN the closet."  I found the story hilarious.  I was actually a little titillated that we couldn't touch at all or steal kisses in the kitchen like we usually do.  I had no idea, until we couldn't, how much we DO touch each other.

So we behaved ourselves.  I took naps before my shifts on Saturday and Sunday.  Thank fucking GOD.  We got to cuddle a little behind closed (bedroom) doors.  I have to admit on Sunday before I took the girl home, the pressure got to be unbearable, and S and I did steal a few squeezes in the kitchen while I was making dinner.  I just didn't care by that point.  However, I think that M and her friend had spent enough time around us, M's two moms, that it wasn't so embarrassing by that point.

Back to the Beginning

Thank you everyone who has sent me private messages, emails, facebook chats, or even commented on this site regarding the ending of Rainbows and Pony Rides.

Some of you "got it" more than others - and that's okay.

One particular blogger asked me, "What is the blog for?"  This question strung a chord with me.  I took immediate pause and went back to the beginning.  I started this blog because I was newly divorced, newly out of the closet, and I felt very isolated in my small community.  There was a certain stigma that I felt from my peer group at that time, that of course I have blogged about (and I'm like... kind of all set with that.  I don't really feel the need to go on about it anymore...).  I understand some of it had to do with ME pushing them away too.

But then there was this other stigma that I felt from the gay and lesbian community that I don't think gets talked about very often -  or if it does, I hadn't heard about it and maybe that was part of my isolation problem.  The stigma I felt was that I was married and had these children with this man.  How could I reeeeaaalllly be a lesbian?  And so on... I even felt some of this from the woman I was involved with at the time.  In fact, after we had broken things off, she had accused me of sleeping with a man.

So, I think I started out feeling isolated and wondering if there was anyone else "out there" like me.  A lesbian, a mother, possibly even someone who may have lived a straight life for a good many years... could there be even ONE other person?  That's all I hoped for.

I was already a reader of Sasha's Card Carrying Lesbian blog.  I admired her candor and honesty.  She blogs about her escapades.  She blogs about being "too pretty to be gay."  And when I read some of her posts about her bipolar disorder, I immediately felt connected to her.  However, she wasn't a mother.  She was never married or divorced.

So for many reasons, RPR began.  Mostly, I was just seeking a community.

And now, I need to embrace what I have found.  I have found what I was looking for.  There are so many of us who did get married, have children, and then "later in life" (*cough*... I'm only 31!) come out.  I started reading blogs of other women some like me and some not, some femmes, some butches, some undefined.  Some of the blogs make me laugh, some make me cry.  Some of the women were born men.  Some of the women pretend to be men.  Some of the women are straight.

But I feel accepted when I read these blogs.  And, when I write my own blog posts, I worry less and less each time about being accepted... because... I think through these last 8 months I've grown to accept myself.

I have started to blog more about *me* recently (not so much about my relationships or my kids or my job...).  Some of it has really left me feeling quite vulnerable and raw.  But I don't want to be afraid of doing it more.  Because I think that what I started this blog out to accomplish has sort of been conquered and now it's time to move in a new direction.

The tag line under the title of this blog used to read "blah blah blah blah .... of a single lesbian mother." Or something like that.  Well, I'm not single any longer (haven't really felt that way in a while now).   I have since changed it.  I am not sure if anyone ever noticed.  Today I asked S if she would ever want to be a "guest blogger" or a "co-blogger" on this site.  I told her she could even write about whatever she wanted... not just the things I tell her to.  (It's okay... laugh.)

I think it might be fun.  To get her perspective on this whole parenting thing... or she could just write about how crazy I am about the dishwasher getting loaded "properly."  Who knows.  It may suck.  But, I mostly think it's going to be great.

No More Pony Rides

My apologies.  I sort of dropped off there didn't I?  The last week of my school term proved to be rather stressful.  But, it was all worth it.  A's again.  And I actually kind of enjoyed my last assignment (a paper) in one of my classes.  I thought I would get straight away to blogging again... but... well... my house, kids, and S all needed some attention.  Plus, I had the opportunity to travel out of state to meet S's parents (The Duo) and spend a little time with my BFF Jess.  I can blog about all that later, I s'pose.

I've felt very pensive lately.  Had quite a few talks with S about this.  And many times she's encouraged me to blog, to write.

She knows how important writing is to me.  She knows that without writing in my life I would not be able to sleep well.  Writing is like the same as breathing air.  I don't even think about it.  I just do.  Well... I do think about it.  And that's where my problem has been the last month.

People Clutter.  People Clutter is hiding my work.  I'll try to explain:

I've had some opportunities where I've felt some boundaries were blurred in personal relationships - friendships - and I've done enough work and value my relationships enough to want to keep these boundaries clear.  My first instinct, of course is to write.  Like many would want to take a deep breath, I want to go to my keyboard and write.  Get it out.  Purge it... and then it sorts itself out.

But, I feel so choked up here on this blog.  I started this blog with the intent to be able to write as if no one were reading my words; that way I would be able to write as honestly and as uncensored as possible.  In order to do this I had initially decided to be as anonymous as possible.  But the ex girlfriend found out about it... then a schoolmate... and of course a couple BFFs... and I'm not sure how I told my sister, but she reads... and then of course my partner S reads....then through those wonderful trackers out there I found an entire slew of people reading that don't know that I know they are reading.  Oh and that guy from where I used to work...

I digress...

After awhile anonymity didn't really seem that important to me.  I felt like I was still able to write as if no one were reading (i.e. uncensored), and I still felt like I was breathing.

I don't know when I stopped breathing.

But I think all of these people are really just clutter that is choking the air out of me.  Maybe I'm just being a little dramatic.

Don't ask S her opinion about my melodrama.

Of course I was discussing this with my friend (or maybe a few friends, shhhhh!)... and I have decided I have a few options here.  I can stop blogging here, on Rainbows and Pony Rides.  I can move to another site (I've been wanting to go to WordPress anyway) and take caution to use extreme anonymity... with exception to S.  I feel completely comfortable with her reading my writing and often I need her to read something before I hit "publish" anyway.  Most of you won't get the forwarding address.

I can keep this blog for just fucking around and use an "old school journal" with a fancy pen (of course) for when I need to really breath.... I mean write.  I don't know how much I like this idea.  Part of the process for me is the keyboard.  Is that stupid?  Part of the process for me is actually having it in print.  Part of the process is having OTHER people read my story and take something from it.  I need that.  So I like this idea least.  I think. 

I think the last option I have is to continue, as I am... but just be brave.  And when I start to feel the People Clutter choke the air out of me... that's when I need to push myself through it... and just come up for air.

What do you all think?  Anyone... any ideas?

Because I'd really like to get to writing about some shit that's gone down this month.

Recognition

The Baby turned 3 earlier this month.  I guess I should call her something else in this blog... but trust me... she really is The Baby in our family.  This weekend S was looking at a scrapbook I made when I was pregnant with her.  The final pages of the book are photos of my home birth and then the transfer to the hospital.  Also included are some of the actual items from that day. 

When she closed the book, she looked up at me with tears streaming down her face and said, "You went through so much so that I could have kids."

That was more gratitude... more recognition... in one sentence... than I had ever gotten from my husband in 12 years of marriage. 

The Baby had a viral infection on Friday that caused her to have tremendous amounts of diarrhea.  I called S on her phone when she was on her way home from the office, she brought home diapers, popsicles, vitamin water...

When The Baby needed to be held that night because she was sick and I had to finish an assignment, S put her in a Mei Tai and attempted to make tacos.

When The Baby needed to sleep with us, S made room.

When The Baby started to puke at 3 am, S got a towel.

The next morning my Karate Kid had a tournament she absolutely could not miss.  In Karate Kid's opinion she cannot miss any tournament.  S took her so I could stay home with the Lysol.

Karate Kid has been working very hard for months on her Kata, attempting to be promoted to blue belt.  I missed it!  The promotion of the year!  But S was there.  I guess my Kid told S that she felt sorry for another boy because neither of his parents ever show up, but she was really happy that S was there.  I asked S if she felt like a parent yet.

She said, "Yes.  I'm exhausted."

And that was only Saturday afternoon . . .

My Dirty Little Secret

I have a mental illness.  If I don't take medication, it's debilitating; however, because I take my pills, like a good girl, I get to be a part of society ... and trust me... when I am medicated you can't tell that I have a mental illness.  A mental illness that I would do almost anything  NOT TO HAVE.

• I seem pretty put together.  I'm a fucking wreck.  The other day I couldn't be left alone because I was afraid of what I wanted to do to myself.  I took S into the bathroom and I told her, "I can't be around people right now, but I don't want to be left alone."  We had two hours left with the kids and she knew just what to do.

• I appear self confident.  I think others are talking about me sometimes... when clearly, they aren't.  I'm paranoid.  It's part of it.  I apologize too much.  Sometimes this means I don't talk at parties or social events, even if I *am* properly taking my little pills... and sometimes this means that others can perceive me as snobbish or rude or bitchy.  I am just not so self confident.

• I starve myself so that I cannot feel anything.  Somehow I forget to eat.  Somehow I know I'm supposed to eat, like, "Hey Elle do you want to have breakfast now?" I say, "Sure..." then I get going in a million other directions at the same time.  I starve myself because I don't think I deserve to eat.  

• And let's talk about deserving... I don't deserve my pills, so I don't buy them.  Which is why I'm in the spot I'm in right now.  Nearly immobilized with panic, on the crash pad couch, tears streaming down my face... waiting for S to return so I can feel safe again.  I feel so fucking stupid.  I know better.  I fucking KNOW better.

• I worry about when S will realize that I am not good enough for her.  Good enough.  Good enough.  Good enough.   I have a good enough syndrome.  And it's getting fucking old.  I'm sick of it.  What if S gets sick of it?  What if she can't handle me?  What if she can't handle this shit?  It's not easy having a girlfriend wife who cannot even drive herself to the goddamn shrink's office.  It's not easy loving someone who crumbles to tears because she cannot figure out the new prescription benefits on the new insurance plan.

• I have cut myself to make myself feel something.  I have a hard time seeing that in writing.  But there it is.  I write it because I know some woman might be reading this, and she may cut herself too, in order to "feel"... and well... I don't want her to feel alone.  I think it's the same reason why sometimes I HAVE to HAVE "fuckmetakemeharderlikethatfuckmelikeyoumeanit" sex.  Because I need to feel.  I need to feel human.  I need to feel inside my body.  When I have sex like that, though, I can feel another person close to me... at least...

To my friends who are reading this... if I have friends who are reading this... I am safe tonight.  S knows how I'm feeling.  We are communicating, always, openly, lovingly, and honestly.

I just need people to know.  I have a Dirty Little Secret.  Mental illness should not be a dirty secret.  I take medication.  When I don't, I get sick.  I'm sick.  Right now, I feel pretty sick actually.  I am embarrassed that S is seeing me this "sick."

We got married again tonight.  We "marry" each other every time we have a talk about our love, our plans for the future, and our promises for commitment.  Tonight, I reminded her that we are both in this for the long haul.  Not just for the happy, feel good times.  But for the "in sickness" times too.  All I really ask of her... all I really want... is to be able to count on her.  I want to be safe.

Playing House (a femme's view on a butch's cock)

She said to me, "I can't wait for my business to get going so you don't have to worry about working anymore..."

(...or something like that.)

But I like working.  

"Just while you are in school... you know full time... so you can focus on your school."

(It was along those lines.)

But I like working.

I like meeting new people who are becoming new parents.  I like talking with women who have never had a nurse explain to them the why or the how of what is happening to their bodies in labor... and delivery.  I like looking at a scared father, mother, grandmother, partner, girlfriend, boyfriend, daughter, sister, friend in the face and saying, "Do you have any questions... at all...?"  I like seeing their eyes scan the room, and look back at me almost in disbelief that I am asking them if they have any questions.  I like waiting... for as long as it takes... for them to reply.  

She said to me, "I want to be able to take care of you... and the kids."

(She's the perfect butch to my femme...)

But I like working.

It doesn't even feel like work some days.  The nights when I am so busy I don't have time to pee... but I make time to swallow lukewarm coffee by the pints... those are the nights it feels even less like work.  Because I know I am busy helping them, the women.  I like showing her husband or mother or sister or partner or whoeverthefuck is supporting her... how to help her, so that they can become a part of this process and not "just" an observer.  I like the thrill and delight that I see on her partner's face when he or she sees that new life slip out, finally free from confinement... then the look on her partner's face when he or she realizes just exactly how amazingly strong this woman, this MOTHER, really is.

She said to me, "That is... if you want me to take care of you... because I know you don't need me to."

(She knows.)

We take care of each other in too many ways for me to list here.  But lately... I've been very interested in our "playing house."  I've been studying S and wanting to find ways to put into words what it is about her that makes her butch.  At first glance, I think it might appear that it's simply so because she is with me, who is so clearly femme.  But... that is not accurate at all, she is not just butch against my femme...

In our playing house I often think about the traditional heterosexual roles in marriage and how I am often viewed as playing the part of the "good wife."  Cleaning, making lunch, and always making sure I have a compliment for my husband.  It makes me giggle.  I was really a shitty wife when I was married to a real life husband, but now I feel like June Cleaver at times.  Yes!  June Cleaver with an immaculate kitchen and a mouth watering roast in the oven.

And S, is my Ward Cleaver.... wanting to take care of hir lady.

But unlike the Cleavers, we do not sleep in separate twin beds.  And unlike June Cleaver, sometimes I wear  the dick.

And bingo!  There it is.  Sometimes I wear the dick.  Sometimes this femme straps on a dildo and fucks her butch.  How very peculiar.  And finally we are not playing house anymore.  Finally we are not merely pretending to be heterosexuals.  Finally we are free to be.

That's the thing... that's what make me her femme... I have to put my dick on.  S doesn't.  She has a cock that is more real that that dildo we "play with" on occasion.  It gets big and hard everytime we fuck.  Some may think or even say that this cock is all in our heads, but it's not, it's very very real and not just in S's head but actually between her thighs and sometimes, if I am lucky she even puts it between mine.

But that's another blog... for another time... perhaps...

Why I Hold Her Hand . . .

I remember the first time I held a girl's hand in public.  It was actually a woman's hand.  We were hundreds of miles away from anyone that would ever recognize me, but it still felt very identifying.  I remember how natural it felt.  I remember it felt like when I was a kid, running around without a shirt on . . . free and easy . . . shameless, before anyone told me that I was "supposed" to wear a shirt.

Then, that same woman and I, held hands in my hometown where anyone could see me "being gay..." where anyone at all could see ME being ME.  It did not make me want to run and put a shirt on, or run and hide.  I had done that long enough.  I was glad to be free and shameless, finally.

I don't believe that woman felt the same way about holding my hand unfortunately.

When S and I are near each other, we really can't keep our hands off one another.  It's her nature, though, she is a "touch-er" and I am craving to be touched.  We really fit well together.  We both touch people everyday for our jobs; we both love our jobs. 

When I am out with S we exchange hugs and kisses, long embraces, hand holding, and sometimes... more.  I rarely wonder what the public is thinking of these exchanges we are sharing.  I rarely even think about the public.  My energy and my focus is solely placed on her.  Most of the time.

I catch the dirty looks.  And that is why I hold her hand.  I hold her hand and I smile back at the Dirty Lookers as sweetly as I can.  Dirty Lookers are often of the male gender.  Their scowl is often accompanied with a disapproving look and a head shake (imagine a finger wagging too).  I want him to see me.  I want him to see S.  I want him to see me smiling at him with love and friendship and no hatred.  I just want him to see how true our love is and then find fault.  We are human, and our love is no different than his.

I hold her hand because the Other Mothers hold the hands of their husbands and why shouldn't I be afforded the same privilege?  Is it really a privilege to hold her hand?  Is it a privilege for them to hold their husband's hands?

I hold her hand because I can.  Because I don't have to campaign or march to hold her hand.

I hold her hand because it's soft and strong.

I hold her hand because it fits inside of mine.

I hold her hand because I want our children to see.  I want them to know love and affection of all shapes, sizes, colors, and flavors.  I want them to see and to know it's normal and visible and equal and fair.  I want our children to feel included... not on the outside looking in.

I hold her hand because of the girl that I saw in Old Sac yesterday who was probably 14 years old.  I'm guessing she was with her father.  She couldn't stop herself from looking at S and I.  We were sitting outside having an afternoon cocktail, sharing laughter, allowing ourselves to dream.  I noticed her.  She was doing more than noticing us.  I remember being her.  I remember studying women who I thought may be lesbian, and I remember studying gay couples that I very rarely encountered in my "real life."  I felt her studying us. 

We payed our bill and as we started to stroll again I felt my hand reach for S's hand... and there it was.  It just fits.

It feels undescribable.

But I will try anyway, to describe what femme feels like...  to me at least.

Femme feels like brand new baby skin.  Soft and a little squishy... almost like a puppy's skin, but brand new babies smell like fresh baked cookies for about a week.  Then the smell is gone.  Forever.  However, while finding my Femme, don't ever worry it will disappear in a week.  It's here to last.  Forever.

Femme feels pulled in a million directions.  Daughter-Sister-Mother-Friend-Lover-Secretkeeper.  Cook-Maid-Nurse-Therapist-Comedienne-Student.

Femme feels hard and soft at the same time. Femme feels like every emotion is right on the surface, but if I let them see, then I might be considered less than.  Femme feels good in the arms of someone strong.  Femme feels good to me. 

Femme feels like a cool autumn night, windows open, crickets chirping, sun-setting earlier and earlier each evening.  Femme feels like the chill on my sweat laced skin as the night breeze rushes through the room.

Femme feels invisible.  Unseen.  Unheard of.  In my very rural community to be Femme is an advantage probably.  Therefore, Femme... is isolating.

I don't know what the fuck Femme feels like, but I know that I'm the expert on whatever the fuck it feels like to me.  Femme doesn't really give a shit and is done wasting time wondering if you do too.

Femme feels like soft, warm skin ... fresh after a bubble bath. 

My favorite part of this is when I can finally stop.  I can stop everything I'm doing and the world seems to stop too, and S is there to make sure of it.  Without fail, she's there...with her oil and her strong hands.  And I can just be.  I can stop.  I can be.  I am Femme.

Femme is wearing that because I like to.  Femme is taking care of myself.  Femme is taking care of her.  Or all of us.  Femme is the smell of the laundry that I've taken off the line... Sunshine.  Femme smells like sunshine.  Femme is doing her fucking laundry every week because I WANT to, not because I have to, or because she asks me.  There is something incredibly satisfying about doing her laundry.  Especially when I can dry it on the line.

Femme is sitting in a salon chair and not a barber chair.  This is complete torture for me.  The two and a half hour procedure of "getting my hair done" requires me to premedicate with xanax or ativan or both.  I'd rather sit in a barber chair.  I have nothing to say to the women there.  They have nothing to say to me.  Usually, I try to talk about my job, because... oddly.... we all birth the same.  (Note that is sarcasm.)  But I like my long chestnut hair and without the said procedure my hair is less than spectacular.  So off to the salon I go.  I dream of the day I can take my son to the barber - just for the experience alone.

Femme wears her girlfriend's cowboy shirt when they are apart.  S's shirt on my skin, nothing else.  I can smell her, and smelling her is remembering her.  Sometimes I wear the shirt out and about and sometimes I wear S's shirt to bed.  She doesn't know this.  Sleeping alone, in that huge bed, feels very lonesome when I can smell her so close to my body.  I shut my eyes tight and make myself come, alone, but in her shirt.  And I wonder if the next time she wears it, she will know.

Femme is wearing heels, all year, and yes... sometimes when the weather determines one might should wear other shoes.  I've worn heels with the usual skirts and dresses, but also with jeans, capri pants, and even shorts.  I've worn heels to bed (and kept them on).  I've worn heels while 9 months pregnant (which probably looked ridiculous... I'll give ya that).  I've worn heels in airports and at at the zoo.  I have high heeled sandals and boots.  I will never own enough high heeled shoes.  If S is smart, she will never question my choice in footwear.

S has asked me, a few times, about how I came to understand the world in certain ways, or how I became who I am based on where I've lived my entire life.  This is a compliment.  Really.  The only thing I can tell her is one of my strongest memories from childhood... is my mother's voice telling me, 'You can do anything you want to so long as you set your mind to it and work hard.'  Other values she instilled in me were that of equality.  Equality between genders... races... etc.  I grew up feeling equal and of value... that I had something of worth to offer the world.  My mother made sure to tell me that there were others that did not believe this were true and that someday I might have to fight for equality.  I learned about others before me, before us, that did fight that fight.  I grew up feeling pretty proud of my mother.  I grew up feeling very goddamn proud of womanhood.  THAT feels like Femme today.

Dear S, (what i couldn't-wouldn't-shouldn't say):

I don't want you to leave.  But you are.  You should.  You will.  When I get home from work in the morning my home will be empty.  Silent.  A shell.  A mere cavity.  I liken it to a skeleton... with no flesh, no muscles, no organs left - nothing - only the carcass. 

A house.

An empty bedroom.  An empty bed.  Two pillows, but I know only one will be moved.  Which side will I climb into?  It doesn't matter because I know I won't be able to stay there, and soon after I'll move to the couch. 

I never wanted to feel this way.  I fought hard to never feel this way.  I had a hard shell up, protecting myself, protecting my little skeleton... so that I might never have to miss anyone.  Sometimes, often times, the protection came in the form of multiple lovers . . . not allowing myself to get too close to one person - and not allowing one person to get too close to me.  But, I fucked up.  I let you in, and only you, and I let you in completely.  Now . . . now there's fear.

An empty house.  Void.

No laughing kidlets even.  Missing you has brought the missing them right back up to the surface.  Opened the wound right back up.  And I'm bleeding.  I'm bleeding all over the place and I don't know what to do about it.  Because this is the kind of blood letting that I'm told is 'good for me.'

Each morning when I wake I reach for you, and I find you.  This overwhelming sense of joy washes over me.  Yesterday morning this was followed by relief, 'She's still here.' Next came the emotion of great sorrow, 'This is our last morning together for awhile.'

Then the tears started.  And I closed my eyes and saw Motherless looking back at me.  (Oh how I wish you could know her.  She is such a wonderful young woman.)  As I had my eyes closed, I was seeing Motherless look back at me, and I was remembering the time she and I spent together in my dream.  Time I can't get back.  Because I'm awake.  I started sobbing.  Full on sobbing.  Do you remember? 

You woke too.  I woke you.  Our day began.  Precious hours.  Time we cannot get back. 

I don't want you to leave.  But you are.  You should.  And you will.

How Children Are Like Dogs (and I think my gf likes them anyway)

Children are like dogs.  Or are dogs like children?  Or are MY children like dogs?  My kids are messy little creatures leaving trails of crumbs everywhere they go.  I have no idea where the crumbs are coming from.  It's like a continuous flow of cracker crumbs... but I never really see them eating crackers.  Nutella sandwiches, yes - crackers, no.  I liken this to dogs shedding their hair everywhere.  Am I correct?

Regardless of their crumb-shedding (and ability to destroy a perfectly staged home in less than 3 minutes), I love them more than than the Skyy Vodka in my high-ball glass.  Here's my motto:  my children mean the world to me, but aren't my world.  Meaning... I have a life outside of mothering them.  It's good for all of us.

My children are like dogs in another way.  

They either like you.  Or.  They.  Don't.

They like S... a lot... and I really, truly believe she likes them.  I mean she just doesn't like spending time with me and they are the bonus feature.  She likes them individually, and knows a bit of each of their personalities already.  It's not just that; she WANTS to know more of them.  And I believe her when she tells me that.  I've been told in the past that a girlfriend wants to "know" my children and I don't think I really believed it in my bones.  I wanted to of course.  I could tell my children didn't really want to know her either.

With S, I've asked the kidlets about spending time with her, referring to her as my new "friend" and they are super enthused about it.  They like her more than me at this point.  Normal.  I get it.  I'm not fun.  I make them do things like push in their chair and brush their teeth, and S takes them to the store and buys them yard toys.  What's not to love? 

I was extremely nervous about introducing them.  But the dogs kids helped reassure me that everything's going to be okay.  I've learned a lot from my kids.  I know I'm supposed to be teaching them super important things... but lately I feel like they are teaching me.

Last night they taught S to play UNO.  I love them.  All. 

I'm ALIVE!

It's been a while gang.  Sorry about that...  I've been busy!  That's a good thing.

So I met the other girl I blogged about, S, and I've been smiling ever since.  No really.  I can't stop smiling.  It's really not even because of things she says or does, or that, "Hey now this really cool chic is hanging out with me."  No, it's just that I'm feeling more positive lately.  I just have a different perspective.

Uhm.  I hate that I'm about to do this.  But I am.  So let's just begin.  When I think about how I feel when I've spent time with T, it's been so totally ... really ... completely ... fine.  Fine.  Just fine.  Not bad.  Not specatacular.  She's a very nice girl that I enjoy talking to, when I can get her to talk.  I sometimes feel afraid that she won't understand my humor and I will offend her.  That's a not so good feeling when you're a crazy ass funny as hell woman like myself.

When I spend time with S... things are totally, completely, superbly... Fine.  You know the difference.  There is fine and there is Fine.  Things with S are so easy.  I feel like we've known each other before.  In another time.  In another life.  I don't feel like we've known each other forever, because things still feel very new and exciting with her.  Something inside me stirs.  With T, it's not there.

Okay... done with that ickiness... I hate feeling like I am comparing them and for some reason that feels so wrong.

You know what else feels wrong?  When your first date lasts THREE fucking days.  But that feels wrong on a different level, on a oh so "good" to be wrong level!  So S, came into town last week and spent a few days at my place and it was just so fun and funny and relaxing and enjoyable... and there really were no awkward moments even during the "longest first date ever."  I kept waiting for it to happen.  It never did. 

We joked about how inappropriate our "first date" was.  Truth be told, I thought it was quite perfect.  All three days.  We made plans to see each other in two days.  I would drive to her. 

I did... and it was more of the same awesomeness.  I spent another three days with her, this time at her place, meeting her friends.

I think I've gotten over the part where I'm searching for the - what's wrong with this girl - answer.  Maybe nothing.  Maybe something.  Maybe something I won't really care about. 

One last thing, because honestly... I could gush on about her... her eyes are the prettiest blue I've not seen since looking into my grandfather's eyes.  They are the color of a happy sky and in the middle there is this bright yellow burst that you notice if you look closely.  They are sincerely the most interesting eyes ever.  Not just the color of them, but the way she looks at me.  The way she looks at other people when they are talking to her.  The way she looks when we are holding each other very close and being very intimate.  The way her eyes change when she is laughing.  Her eyes even laugh.