Dirty 30 nearly brought me into a whole new ballgame.

So Daddy was gonna propose to me on Saturday at my 30th birthday party. No, we aren't legally married, yet. We have dated for over 4 years and lived together for all of 2011. We know that this is what we want and what SmartyPants wants too. He is my kid with or without a marriage license and even though I don't always get credit for being the best Stepmommy in existence, I know that I am and those brief moments when someone else realizes it and recognizes me for it are simply. the. best.

So, Daddy didn't propose because he realized that I had caught on and didn't want me to know when it was coming. I even think SmartyPants knew - and managed to keep the secret. I am glad Daddy didn't propose. First of all, I really do want it to be a surprise. Second, we need to get finances under the reins a little better before we start planning a wedding. Third, WHAT THE CRAP am I gonna do when we are married?! I mean, I have been married before and it's not all that different from living together. But that was when I was literally a kid and it was just all wrong. Daddy has never lived on his own except for the military and that doesn't really count since he actually lived on a boat.

Seriously, what will I do when we are married? I really, really want to sign his last name and know that we are stuck with each other forebber and ebber. I can handle the in-laws. We have the same dreams and goals. And where we do differ, we are able to compromise easily. But I still can't let go of this sucking fear. Like, what if I screw up? What if I make this kid hate me? What if I make Daddy hate me? What do we do then? I can't ever leave Daddy and SmartyPants. Not now. I am his mama. I don't want to lose him and I love Daddy more than anyone in the history of Ever. I don't want to lose Daddy anymore than I do SmartyPants. But what if Daddy marries me and it just starts sucking for all of us and then I let everyone down? Geez, I am a wreck over this.

Guess I wont ever know till I try.

Sector secure.

Early bed time for me and Daddy last night. SmartyPants? Not so much. He was up till ten and crabby. It was thanks to the scorching heat and our less-than-capable AC. It was 87 degrees in our house yesterday evening. UGH. I can't even be mad at him for being crabby. All I ask is that we not take it out on each other. Now, stop. breathing. so. LOUD! See? I'm mature about this.

To set the scene: we have two dogs who get gated into the kitchen (doggy door lets them out as they please) and one loud-as-an-F5-tornado floor fan in the hallway to circulate the barely cooled air. Daddy got in bed a little before me and was dozing. Sometime after I dozed off, Daddy's head jerked toward the hallway, all meerkat-like. He had a terribly long, hot day at work and so I announced that I would check for the mystery sound (which I knew what the dogs being obnoxious in the kitchen. He reminded me to double check that all the doors were locked. Uh, duh. I am patrolling the house and realize that the front door was, in fact, NOT LOCKED. Oh schnitzel!

Now my heart is racing and I am on high alert. Of course, I don't want to alarm Daddy and certainly don't want to wake up SmartyPants or get the dogs riled up. So I walk around the house again, checking behind doors and double, triple checking on SmartyPants. I am sure that there is some sort of burglar/rapist/sicko hiding behind one of the doors. I even checked the pantry. A person couldn't get in there. The kid can't even fit in there. Not. the. point. Thankfully the house was free of intruders and I made my way back to bed (but not before tripping over the stupid fan).

When I got to my side of the bed, Daddy uttered a very grateful but sleepy "Thank you" when I announced the sector was secure. Still, I laid in bed for an hour running through my mind every scenario in which someone had breached our loving, safe home. I am pretty sure that no matter where I am should someone dare to break in, I can get to a weapon and go Jack Bauer on the creepo.

I have a kid to protect, ladies and gents.

Wit: genetics or learned?

We took SmartyPants to Daddy's parent's house Saturday night to do a family sleepover. What this means is that Daddy's parents got suckered into babysitting three of their other grandchildren and they needed back up. Cool! We got this. Oh, I forgot to pack the duct tape? Crap.

After an evening of watering and feeding four maniac critter-children and forcing them to play in the sweltering Oklahoma evening heat (so as to tire them thoroughly) we started bath time and made a fluffy community pallet for sleeping on the living room floor. As the evening was winding down and Harry Potter was droning in the distance, hysteria erupted.

Grams bought a gaudy plastic ramp with fake mud pits and suck built right into it. Said ramp came with a monster truck. The eldest grandchild is nearly ten and a girl and entirely uninterested in this awful toy. The three boys, however, are completely interested in this awful toy. And of course, there is only one monster truck and a bunch of stupid micro machines that wont even go down the ramp. So, who wants the monster truck the most? All of the boys. Ugh! After a little screaming, some fit throwing and a snap-decision by yours truly, the monster truck was given to SmartyPants (he was the last one seen with unchallenged possession, therefore it must have been snatched by one of the other two in order to instigate such a ruckus). Upon announcing my decision and being received by groans and whines, I state (loudly) "I am sick sick and tired of that dumb truck! I am going to pull the tires off of it and throw it away!"

To which SmartyPants says (with a smirk) "You're sick and tired of it? You wanna pull off it's tires? Get it? Tired, tires?" And then he laughs like a lunatic. I think he gets it from me.

'Mommy'

What is it about that word that is so powerful? I mean, okay, I'm only a mommy by luck and circumstance and it is still so crippling. I don't know what to do when SmartyPants calls me Mommy. Granted, he only does it out of sheer love or sheer greed, the little sneak!

Mommy is reserved for when I am doing something that benefits him entirely. Say, buying cupcakes for his birthday party at school. I also get called Mommy when he is trying to drag out his bed time. He knows that that one little word complete screws me up. It makes my heart melt and my tummy do flips. And. he. knows. He knows that I don't expect to be called Mommy one bit. He has one of those, even if he only sees her every now and again. But he knows how to throw a Mommy out there to get his way.


Fortunately for us, he hasn't learned that he can use his power for evil yet. Because I imagine one day I will be sitting in front of a judge with a public defender at my side swearing "No, Your Honor, it was me who stole that two wheeled death machine motorcycle and raided the girl's dorm at UCLA. I was totally on a pantie raid and it was definitely me who had the drugs, sir. Definitely, definitely me" like some female Rain Man in Capri pants and flipflops. All because SmartyPants will have called me from a holding cell saying "Moooommyyyyyyyy." Gah! I. am. so. screwed.

The other side of this Mommy coin is that it makes me feel so distraught. I hate that I am only Mommy sometimes. I am a little jealous of the fact The Incubator is ALWAYS Mommy. Mostly I am jealous that she gets that title with zero effort on her part and here I am, pulling my hair out to make sure that he knows that not all women will bail out on him. I spend so much time trying to convince him that she just couldn't get out of work to spend time with him or that it really is possible for someone to have 397million tummy aches in one week and that's why she didn't call. I just wish that we could both be Mommy (full time) and both put in full time work to make sure he has the best possible chance for survival out there.

Because the world is a cruel place. The kind of place where, at thirty when his own kids are going nuts on him, he will be calling home asking for Mommy.

Kinda like I do from time to time.

Pillow talk

We had a rare, kid-free night last night. Just me and Daddy watching silly stuff on TV and eating burned sweet potato fries. We got a chance to be silly without also trying to orchestrate teeth brushing and bed time. All the trips for glasses of water were us. Truth be told, I had a free night on the night before since Daddy and SmartyPants stayed at his brother's house. So, the last 48 hours have been rather... quiet.

The beginning of this week started with a bang in regards to SmartyPants and The Incubator. She stood him up on Sunday. She made a big deal out of texting him for four days telling him she would see him Sunday and she'd pick him up after church and yadda yadda. Before she gave him the cell phone, we could protect him from her BS. She'd ask for him and we'd say yes but not tell him so that he wouldn't be broken-hearted when she didn't show. Now she has a direct link to crush his little heart. So Sunday rolls around and he is in high spirits. He is sweet and positive and ready for the day. Unbeknownst to him, we had a play date scheduled on Sunday just in case. There is no call from The Incubator before church. No return of texts sent. So we tell him about the play date. Swimming - his favorite - at a friend's house. Now we have a dilemma. He's torn between going to play at the pool with his friend or going with his mom. My solution? Invite mom to the pool. If she doesn't want to swim, he says he wants to go with her more. Okay.

More texts sent. This time from all three of us. Me offering a swimsuit if she didn't have one (ha, no getting out of this, hooker). Daddy telling her it's at a friend's house that she knows and how that friend would love to catch up with her. And SmartyPants, begging. Finally, she says yes and tells us to send her directions and she will see us in a bit. Two hours later and she texts Daddy and tells him that she and Mr. Love (This is the term for any boyfriend. We can't remember their names) went out drinking last night and she doesn't feel good so maybe she could see him on Tuesday. What. The. CRAP! Ugh! Then she texts SmartyPants and tells him that her belly hurts real real bad but she loves him and she will call him after a nap. He melts down at the pool. We soothe his sore little soul and get on about the day.

Tuesday rolls around, she sees him for a couple hours then decides to bring him home because she doesn't want to get up "early" and bring him home before work. She is scheduled at 2p.m. <Insert eye rolls here> Oh well, I want her to be a better mom, but if she is only going to do it half-way, then I would rather have him home with us. So, last night he stays with his cousins for the night. It's 9:30 and Daddy and I have managed to not talk about anything that sucks (re: The Incubator). Daddy's phone goes off. It's a message from SmartyPants which reads "I miss my mom." Daddy tells him that he's sorry and offers to go get him from his cousins. He declined. I couldn't stand it anymore, so I messaged him that I love him and told him good night. He sent back "You too." Now I am ready to cry and I am hoppin' mad at The Incubator. I tell him that he should go wash his face with cold water and see if it helps him feel calm so he can sleep. A few minutes go by and I get a response telling me thanks and that he did it and it helped.

Now that I feel like he is gonna be okay for the night I am ticked. I tell Daddy that I am at the point where I can't hold my tongue any more. Being a dutiful girlfriend/domestic partner/wife/stepmom is no longer going to allow me to keep my trap shut. I think The Incubator can sense it because she has stopped texting me to organize pick-ups and drop-offs. That was our common ground. I am tired of stewing over her lack of commitment to her. own. child. I asked Daddy when we would finally decide that seeing his mom is not as important as protecting him from her. Daddy said he wonders if that time isn't now.

I thought that would make me feel relieved. It made me feel sick. I don't want to have to keep them apart. I want her to be a better person. But in lieu of that, and considering that we have given her years and she has been court ordered to stop being a selfish jerkhole, I just want him to not be hurt anymore. I want the cell phone to get "misplaced". I want Daddy (or me) to get a job out of state. At least then he could have a reason to be mad at us for not being able to see her. And also a little protected from the let down.

I guess my plans for a quiet night snuggling and being all goofy and squooshy about each other weren't meant to be. But that's okay, I would trade every night of pillow talk to stand up for our kid. Even if it is from across town and through texts. At least he knows we are never far away.

Step(mothering)ing on toes.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly I can tick off The Incubator.

I'd like to say that "The Incubator" is a term of endearment. It's not. My better half waffles between chuckling at me for calling his son's mother by this name and getting on to me for it. He knows it's true but he doesn't want it to be true. I know it's true and it makes me stark-raving maaad! So I diffuse my seething ire by being snarky about her lack of involvement.

So what you carried him around for nine whole months and so what that you were there-ish for the first 3.5 years of his life?! Did you think that because his daddy stepped up to bat you could just watch the game from the pit? Maybe step in to pitch here or there? It's not really fair to our little boy that you only play when you feel like it. And now that you have a new baby, it's really unfair that you don't go out of your way to make him your everything right along with his new little sister. We do. I mean, like, 180% of the time, he is our number one priority. I stepped up to the plate with unwavering resolve from day one.

I tried really hard not to step on The Incubator's toes or to overstep my bounds as Daddy's Girlfriend. But somewhere between the bedtime stories and the doctor's appointments and the soccer practices (which I paid  for, thankyouverymuch) and the angry fits he throws when you blow him off, I kinda decided I am his mom. I don't ask him to call me anything special. I don't tell anyone that I feel this way. Well, I mean except for right now....but this is anonymous, right?

I know it irks her when I put my foot down with Daddy, or when I am evading her texts about him going with her for the day or a night. I know she gets ticked off when I discipline him while we are at family functions. But you know what? He's 8. He needs consistency. I give him that. She doesn't. All she gives him is false hopes and disappointment. She basically sucks. Sorry, but she need to hear it. I really, really, REALLY wish she would be here for him. I WISH she would call him every night...or even once a week. I'd like to thank her for buying our 8 year old a cell phone though, because all she does is ignore his text messages and force me to find inventive ways to console him without buying him guilt gifts. By the  way, we appreciate all the dollar store toys she sends him home with when he spends a day with you. He holds those over our heads till they break and then it's all our fault his guilt gift broke and that she doesn't bother with him.

In short, I'm taking off my mitt. It's go time and we are playing by my rules now!