Tales of Desperation: Chapter 1

When I was in middle school, I was going to be a writer when I grew up.

Future Mombie, circa 1992.  Planning world domination and the Great American Novel from Day 1.

Future Mombie, circa 1992.
Planning world domination and the Great American Novel from Day 1.

And a psychiatrist. And a veterinarian. And a singer as famous as Beyonce.

But most of all, becoming a writer was the plan.

I would take my notebooks to lunch and write instead of eating, never regretting my empty stomach.

As I went through high school and began to understand the need for sleep, the list began to shrink and morph into something a bit more reasonable. I wasn’t going to be the next Bey, and I was okay with that.

I had visions of myself in front of a college classroom inspiring the next generation to love Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness as much as I did, then going home to my cats and writing the next great American novel with a cup of Earl Grey.

And visions of cats and stacks of essays to grade danced in her head...

And visions of cats and stacks of essays to grade danced in her head…

I still carried my (many) notebooks of writing with me everywhere, asking close friends for their opinions any time I finished a draft.

The official look of a future professor by day, writer by night, according to past Me.

The official look of a future professor by day, writer by night, according to past Mombie.

Then, I went to college, and reality set in.

My notebooks sat on my desk and when I had the time, maybe once a month, I would get them out and stare at blank pages.

Frankendad hates this picture. Mombie finds it endearing. <3

Frankendad hates this picture. Mombie finds it endearing. ❤

In my junior year of college, I got married (10-31-2012 <3). Two months later, I found out I was pregnant.

Itty bitty Ghoulie-girl

Itty bitty Ghoulie-girl

I delivered my Ghoulie-girl one week before the start of Fall semester of my senior year. I had written some poetry over the summer (pregnancy hormones are a monster in themselves, I’m telling you), but mostly I had been preparing for the life I had never seen coming back at lunch in middle school.

The official day look of a future professor by day, writer by night, according to past Me.

The updated official look of a future professor by day, writer by night, according to past Mombie.

I took a creative writing class during each of my last two semesters as a treat to myself.  Somehow, I was able to keep up with my other classes, raise a newborn baby, and crank out drafts (some shitty, some not-so-shitty) without any issues and even made the President’s List both semesters.

(Thank you, Jesus, because I’m pretty sure it was thanks to Him.)

I felt like the freakin’ Wonder Woman of Academia.

My Ghoulie-girl is a bookworm-in-training

My Ghoulie-girl is a bookworm-in-training

Then, I graduated, and the momentum died.

Mombie Graduate with the best Professor and Mentor on the Planet.

Mombie Graduate with the best Professor and Mentor on the Planet.

I found myself struggling to keep my kid from running into all the death traps I never knew existed, clean the house despite the hurricane-on-legs, and make sure my husband had everything he needed done before he left for work every day.

She's mastered the art of stealing mombie's phone and taking disturbing selfies.

She’s mastered the art of stealing mombie’s phone and taking disturbing selfies.

Seriously, mastered the disturbing selfie quickly.

See, told you.

I didn’t write for over a year after graduation.

This post is the first thing I’ve written since earning my degree, and for that, I am ashamed.

At one point in my life, I starved for my craft.

Now, I’m bringing back the hunger.

I’m crawling out of my rut of a grave and I’m coming back from the dead.

Welcome to Night of the Living Mombie.

Mombie in the Flesh.

Mombie in the Flesh.


My little Sour Patch Kid

One thing that kids seem to be able to innately master is how to walk the fine line between sour and sweet, just like in those Sour Patch Kid commercials.

At least, I hope I’m not the only one with a true to life Sour Patch Kid.

Ghoulie-Girl and I have been going through some power struggles involving wearing matching shoes and not pooping in the floor instead of the potty when she knows perfectly well how to use the potty.

And then, in the midst of all this sour behavior and my trying to fix it, she asks me if I’m happy.

I told her the truth. “Mommy may not always be happy, but I will always be joyful because you are my joy.”

You know what that adorable little stinker said?

“No, Mommy; you’re my joy.”

Let me tell you; all poopy woes and shoe struggles were forgotten. She really is my joy, even if she is a Sour Patch Kid sometimes.

Tales of Desperation: Chapter 6

First off, Happy Mother’s Day.

While perusing Facebook today, I noticed so many friends gushing over their mom with sweet anecdotes and kind words of appreciation. With each one, I felt sharp pains in my heart that I can’t post similar accolades for the woman who gave birth to me.

My mother and father divorced when I about 3 or 4 and I spent most of my days with my grandparents before that point. My mom lost custody to my father and ran off to Florida with a guy named JP to get addicted to God knows what and come back to lose herself to schizophrenia and domestic abuse as the years went on. My dad lost custody when I was 7 to my aunt and uncle due to his own failings. I ended up living with my grandparents again until I went off to college.

I remember in middle and high school feeling those same pains. Everyone seemed to have such good relationships with their moms and I wasn’t worthy enough to even see mine more than a couple of times a year (if I was lucky). The moms of the other girls on the cheerleading team were always there to do their daughter’s hair and to cheer them on at the games. Luckily my papa stepped up to the plate on both of those accounts, and while I am grateful to have had someone, I felt like an outlier because I didn’t have my mom.

There was this picture I kept for the longest time of my mother, my father, and myself before the divorce. I would hold it and cry when I longed for what a relationship with either of them was supposed to be. I’ve asked God an unfortunate amount of times why He didn’t see fit to put me with functional parents rather than a dysfunctional disaster. I recognize that my past has made me the strong woman I am today and the great mother I am to my own child, but I still can’t help but wonder what it would be like to fully honor a worthy mother on Mother’s Day.

I still tell her Happy Mother’s Day, but it doesn’t feel like it should. I don’t feel grateful for her. I don’t feel close to her. I love her because I can’t help but love her, but so much is missing.

When I was pregnant, I didn’t have my mom to call because I could never keep up with what number she had. When I had questions about what to do with my daughter when she arrived, I knew better than to ask her. I am thankful for my grandmother, my mother-in-law, and my grandmother-in-law for being there to help me become a great mother without having had one to learn from.

All I can say that I have learned from my mother is how to not be a mother.

To never put anything trivial above my child.
To never abandon my child.
To never give up on giving my child everything she deserves in life.

And to always be there for the little things, and the big things.

I learned this because it was all I ever wanted out of my mother.

Although I am trying to pick up the pieces with my mother and my father and build new relationships with them, it is clear that these relationships will never be the ideals, or even the norms, of parent-child relationships. I’ll never have that closeness that should have been my birthright. I’m working hard on accepting that, but days like today make it hard.

My heart goes out to all the sons and daughters of absent mothers and fathers on days where their absence is most felt. May you find peace in the life they gave you.

Come sit awhile with me.

Tonight’s one of those nights.

Insomnia’s hitting hard and negativity is hitting harder.

Ghoulie-girl and Frankendad are fast asleep, dreaming lovely dreams, I’m sure.

And I have no one to talk to.

I try to distract myself with videos on youtube, but the loneliness comes creeping back.

See, long gone are the nights of yore filled with texting a bestie about nothing just to have someone to talk to.

Most of those besties are gone, moved on to greener bestie-hoods.

That’s a thing, right?

If not, it is now.

Anyway, stuff like that happens when you move, and get married, and have a kid. I’ve done all three, so some major drifting has definitely happened in my life.

So I sit alone with my thoughts, which unfortunately end up revolving around the fact that I have no friends anymore.

I start to wonder if I ever did.

I put myself down for things I might have done, or could have done, or should have done, forgetting all the great things I did do.

I remember that I am a good friend. I’d be there for anyone if they just said they needed me. And that’s not just talk. I’ve given up having my own room in high school so a best friend could achieve their best chance when things were rough for them. I’ve dropped what I was doing on many occasions to be there when no one else could, or would. I’ve lost sleep countless nights helping friends find peace or contemplate their lives.

And I would continue to do so for anyone. Bestie-status not required.

But no one says they need me, so I continue to sit.

To be clear, I’m not writing this as some “pity-me” post. This blog is about helping other Mombies and Frankendads and non-parent humans know they aren’t alone. So please, if you are reading this and feeling down about who you are as a person, I’m here feeling it as I am writing this to you.

I’ve googled “How to Make Friends” tonight.

I’ve given empty space around me a forlorn stare contemplating whos and hows and whys.

I’m feeling this depression hit like a ton of bricks with no one around to help me get back up.

But if I learned anything from my googling, it is that I am not alone. And neither are you. Or you. Or you.

If you need me, I am here.

Just say the words.

The hands of friendship are extended.

Come sit with me if you need rest.




Tales of Desperation: Chapter 5

It’s amazing how much can change in just 3 months.

How much a heart can change from excitement to weariness and pain.

How much responsibilities can change, and shift, and pile up.

How much a two year old can grow, and learn, and say, and beg mommy not to leave.

Call me weak.

Call me crazy.

I don’t care.

Call me what you want, because it doesn’t matter. I’m mommy to the one that matters, damnit.

That, coupled with chaotic goings-on at my job, hastened my departure from the working world.

I won’t go into specifics; agreements were signed preventing that sort of thing.

All I can say is that it feels so good to know the nevers.

I’ll never:

hear my daughter’s heart-break over my leaving for work again.

think money is the cure-all (it’s really just time and patience).

decide that money is worth depriving my daughter of the education I have yearned to give her before I ever even knew her.

quit writing because I’m too drained from working a job, playing catch-up on housework, and trying to be the best mom I can be.

God has blessed me and my family to where I can stay home without being in dire financial stress. I wouldn’t say it is easy, but we’ve been worse off, to say the least.

He blessed me again by giving me the job to teach me an important and valuable lesson about where I am meant to be right now and what I am supposed to do.

The world condemns those who don’t work or contribute financially to itself. If you don’t serve with your all for money, you are called a drain, a leech, a parasite.

But God…

He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God? Micah 6:8.

It is unjust and unmerciful in my heart to give my daughter and husband less of me.

Most of all, my God deserves more of me.

Not saying I can give Him all He deserves, but He already knows that.

I cannot serve God and mammon.

However, I can serve God and my family.

It feels good to be home.

The Mombie has risen again.



Tales of Desperation: Chapter 4

Sorry for the hiatus, everybody. It’s been a busy few weeks, what with me applying for, interviewing for, and landing my first job since graduation in May 2014!

God is so good, guys, and all in His time.

About a year ago I was looking for a job, desperate for anything and getting absolutely nothing. I put it in God’s hands and asked him to lead me in what I was meant to do. For a long time, I stayed home with peace and without worrying about finding work. Frankendad got a great job right around that time that kept us afloat.

Then, the waves started getting a bit rougher. I prayed over my applications Saturday night. Monday morning, I woke up and came into the living room just as the phone was ringing. They wanted me to come in for an interview!

Given my experience from a year ago, I was in shock. I applied for at least 100 jobs then, hearing absolutely nothing back. Now, I put in 5 applications and got a call from one within one business day?

I prayed before leaving for my interview that He would guide my words to suit his will.

I got called back for the final interview the next day.

I prayed again before leaving for the final interview for the same thing.

I got the job.


Now, once again, we have peace in our home and in our hearts.

Like I said, God is good.

That said, the blog may not be as active as it once was, but I will post on here whenever I get the chance! I promise!

Tales of Desperation: Chapter 3

If you ask me how parenthood is, I’ll tell you, “It has the ups and downs of a rollercoaster with similar levels of fun.”

However, some days you have an iron stomach and some days you throw up everywhere.

Or they do. Whatever.

This evening was a one of those great “iron stomach” moments.

Ghoulie-girl woke up from a nap grabbing at her throat and saying, “Ow.” All the red flags started waving everywhere and all the worries started flying around like the money in those money-catching machines.

Is it strep? Is it sinus drainage? Is it laryngitis?

Is it strep? Is it sinus drainage? Is it laryngitis?

It would have probably been easier to milk a cobra for venom than it was to get a good view of Ghoulie-girl’s throat.

There was a whole lot of

That’s her mouth with a whole lot of “nope.”

I still never really got the greatest view, but no white spots were found and it was just really red. Sinus drainage is a pain.

So, I gave her some medicine to help with the inflammation and she screamed and called me “mean mommy.”

But, within minutes, the ball of fury settled down, happily asking to watch “dragons”  in my lap with a cup of juice. Amazing, right?

As if struck by the muses (or the sight of Hiccup, who can tell?), she jumped out of my lap and ran to the playroom. She came running out with what remains of her first snow globe and her Hiccup and Eret figurines.

“Mommy, play!” Anna and Elsa were all up in my face until I conceded and wound up the musical nightmare that haunts my sleep.







Then, all the former agonies of the sore throat scare dissipated at the sight of her making Hiccup and Eret dance to the simplistic version of “Let It Go” played by the former snow globe.

Then, she made them “walk up” to Anna and Elsa and, I swear, it looked like she was making them ask the girls to dance with them.

Too. Stinkin’. Cute.

I’ve been on many a rollercoaster, but parenthood is by far the best one.

September Poetry Challenge: Day 30

Well, ladies and gents, we’ve reached the end of the line.

It’s been quite the ride and I hope you’ve all enjoyed it at least half as much as I have.

Without further ado, here’s the last poem of this poetry challenge.

The Prompt: Write a poem about how a kiss feels.

The Poem:

The Evolution of a Kiss

Timid anticipation
of an awkward
train wreck.

Building pressure,
a high intensity
magnetic force.

Soft clouds
floating and embracing
in joyful union.

Comforting warmth,
assuring that
nothing’s changed
despite the changes.