If I’d Married My Stalker
Weddings, Weddings, Weddings. They are everywhere this time of year. But don’t feel sorry for me because I am without an intended. I could be married now if I wanted. Really, I could. I could have married the man I now refer to as my stalker. Of course, he hadn’t completely evolved into a true stalker when we were hanging out. The true stalker nature of a person is only realized after the relationship has ended. But I’ll just say that based on the events that transpired since we stopped seeing each other, well, I have reason, good reason, to call him my stalker.
Still, had things gone differently, had I been desperate for matrimony, had I lost my mind, I could be calling him my husband. We talked about it. Well, actually, he talked to me about it. He also talked to a priest about it, and he talked to his invisible friends about it, friends I never met. To be fair, I admit that he didn’t formally get down on one knee and ask me, because I was, at the time, still legally married (little issue), had not expressed any interest in remarrying anyone (bigger issue), and had not professed love for him (the biggest issue of all), but these little complications did not deter him from making plans for our life together, in holy matrimony.
So, since the wedding season is in full swing, the following is a fanciful fictionalized account of what could have been if I had said ” I do” and become . . . Mrs. Stalker. 
- My house would be clean. Really clean. He had OCD (I believe) and liked to clean. Yes, things would be clean. Really. Clean.
- My dogs would be well-groomed also. What am I saying ? My dogs would be gone. He couldn’t handle such four-legged walking germ festivals.
- I would have sex, often and for prolonged periods of time. Then I’d have to talk about it.
- I’d be clean, hands washed as if for surgery, often and for prolonged periods of time. We wouldn’t have to talk about that — so long as he saw me doing it.
- I would have savings and new clothes. He liked me to look nice. He’d buy me pretty dresses.
- I would have an escort for everything. He’d never let me go anywhere alone.
- I’d be Episcopalian, because I’d have to be. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
- I’d have a storage unit, possibly more than one, because he was incapable of throwing anything out. And we would visit our things stored there, often and for prolonged periods of time.
- I would know I’m loved because he’d tell me, often and for prolonged periods of time. And then I’d have to talk about it.
- I’d be having surgery and/or looking into surrogacy and/or freezing eggs to see if someone could bear a child he could call his own.
- I’d have someone to shop with, since he loved to shop. And no, my would-be-stalker-husband is not gay, but I’d spend a fair amount of time attempting to convince others of that— knowing in my heart of hearts that I could not be successful.
- I’d be on time, because he’d never allow tardiness. To that end, would call me in 15 minute increments to make sure I was ready for whatever we had planned.
- My computer would have the most up-to-date, state of the art, anti-virus software, because, you can never be too careful.
- I may or may not have mother-in-law issues, because I’m not sure whether “mother” is still with us. Don’t ask, it may have been a Norman Bates situation.
Norman’s mother in the Hitchcock’s classic, Psycho
- To make him happy, I would have to answer these questions, often and for prolonged periods of time:
“Are you happy”
“Are you thinking of me?”
“Do you love me?”
And, the ever popular question that every girl wants to hear,
“Do you think that’s wise?”
Well, it was wise to end that relationship. Even though it took quite a while and an exchange of letters from lawyers for that ending to take effect. Actually, I only just recently received a post-Rapture text. Sigh.
In conclusion, while weddings are nice, and it’s good to feel loved and partner up, I didn’t want a husband that badly (or not at all, really). I don’t care that Mr. Stalker was good on paper, well endowed with stamina to back it up, wanted to be a provider for me and my brood, and that he really, really, really, really, really . . . loved . . . me. None of that matters, because if I’d married him for the sake of being married, and allowed myself to be swept away (swept, being the operative word), well,
. . . that would have been bad —- clean, but very bad.
And, if you’ve found my blog, Mr. Stalker, and are reading this, I want you to know:
No, I do not love you.
No, I don’t want to be friends.
No, I do not want to know if you are thinking of me.
No, my lack of love for you cannot be explained by alleging that I have lingering feelings for my Ex-Husband. I don’t love him either.
No, I will not be paying you back for any money you spent on me.
and . . .
Are you sure I’m really talking about you?
And, by the by, I just played with my dog and I haven’t washed my hands in like an hour.
Just Me With . . . no rings on my only moderately clean left hand.
Related, sadly, “He Lives With His Mother?”
Those Beautiful, Lousy, Good for Nothing Kids Clapped for Me!!!!
Last night I went to a jam session. I took my kids and one of their friends. I have hopes that someday my kids will participate. They take lessons, they have some chops, but they don’t have the confidence or drive to get up there. So last night they were there to listen. Still, something beautiful happened. They clapped . . . for me.
I played multiple times, I took solos, and after each, they clapped . . . for me. (In case you’re wondering, they weren’t the only ones.) But as I look back on it today, the fact that I got applause from “those people I made” is something I really needed. They were there, in my element, watching/listening and clapping at the appropriate times. They showed genuine appreciation for the music, for me, and for the other musicians. They may never get up there. But they know their mom can, does and loves it. They know I have credibility with other musicians — something which has nothing to do with them or being their mom.
I’ve had a hard time with my particular situation, the demands on me, my current place in life and the journey that brought me here. I’d been feeling a bit beat-down lately. Periodically, or sometimes consistently, leaving the “me” behind to meet the needs of my children and be there for them had been taking a toll. I’m a sensitive person, but you gotta have a thick skin to raise people, and sometimes, it’s well . . . hard. But last night, things were different, so different things were almost upside down. I wasn’t one of the many supportive parents taking pictures and cheering my kids on at a school performance or sporting event. They were there watching, clapping for and taking pictures of — me. And it was good — to play music, it was good to have a respectful audience, it was good to back burner the “mom” nameplate yet still have the children with me. In short, it was good to be Just Me.
After a while it was getting late, and they were ready to go, as was I. As we got up to leave I was asked to play one more set. The kids didn’t seem to mind that much. I played. They clapped. No complaints. At the end of he night I thanked them for coming. (Mind you they did get some food out of the deal.) But the lack of eye-rolling, whining, fighting and squirming — and their applause . . . they don’t even know how much I needed that.
Sometimes a girl just needs a little applause. I may call my mom and just clap for her.
Just Me With . . . my music and my kids . . . . just being me.
Bye Bye Wee Wee
My diapering days are long gone. But they were substantial. Four in diapers in the day, five at night. But there are some things I will never forget and my tween and teen children and others seem to enjoy Baby B’s potty training fiasco. So here it goes.
At the time I had four in diapers. The older twins were nearing potty training age and showed signs of readiness. I, however, was not ready to potty train toddler twins with infant twins in tow and an active 3-year-old. My mom, though, bless her heart, kept nudging me, “They’re ready. They’re ready. When are you going to train them? ” She was insistent. I caved.
My way of potty training is not my mother’s. I never did sit a baby on potty at certain times and wait until something comes out. No offense to my mom, and kudos to her –but she never had more than one kid in diapers. She and Daddy were smart or lucky enough to space their children accordingly. No, my method is to wait until the kid is really ready, then take the diaper off. Now you can’t go out much during those first few days. And there will be mess and laundry, but the kid will get to the potty eventually and get something in it. Just one of the twins was showing the readiness signs so I thought I’d train one at a time (I figured it would quiet Mom down some even just doing one kid).
Bye Bye Wee Wee! Someone had lent us this little cartoon video on potty training “Once Upon a Potty” where the little one walks around naked learning how to use the potty. Sometimes the wee wee and poo poo were on the floor, but when the kid got it in the potty it was like a Mardi Gras celebration. The child is depicted as so, so proud and makes a big deal out of waving goodbye to the wee wee and poo poo as it is flushed away. It was cute. And it went along with my potty training method.
Now this is where I must have lost my mind. For some reason we left the house. We hardly ever left the house, potty training or not. I mean two sets of twins, it’s not fun to go anywhere. That day my mother had come over to help me with the kids and for some ill-advised reason — we left the house. I must have blocked on the reason.
The singleton was at pre-school. We only had the girls. Maybe that’s why we left the house. Why, why? Often if I had to go somewhere and I’d get my mom and she’d sit in the car with the kids while I ran in the store, etc. But why did we go out that day, during the grandmom pressured potty training?
Whatever the reason, we were out. And, of course, the older twins got hungry. I was unprepared, ill-equipped for this inevitability. Did I say we didn’t go out much? Plus all my babies were breast-fed and I never got used to packing up bottles or snacks if we did go out. (Got Boobs? Okay, we can go.) So we stopped for fast food (again, not something I was accustomed to, so for the kids it was a rare treat).
Of course — the grabbing of the crouch and the simple word from Baby B,
“Potty?”
Damn. Now, of course, I know this is all a scam. Children at this age just like to see bathrooms in other places and will always ask to go to the potty when they are anywhere else but home. Still, any person around a potty training child knows that you’ve got T minus 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . . to get to a toilet — that is if they really have to go, which you don’t know until you try. So, I had to take her. She didn’t have a diaper on, remember? So I had to take her to a public bathroom, a public bathroom at McDonald’s. And it wasn’t particularly clean (surprise). And this is a GIRL! I tried to check the seat for errant piss. I did the toilet paper on the seat thing in record time and then . . . . (tinkle, tinkle, tinkle) — would have been music to my mother’s ears but she was sitting out in the comfort of the restaurant area — not in the small sticky stinky dirty McDonald’s bathroom. I was just — well, pissed. (Pun intended.) I did the “Good Job!!” cheer and implored her not to touch anything. But I was pissed. Pissed that the primary motivation for my doing this was the softly consistent and disturbingly effective pressure from my mom — and all the moms that came before me (or so it seemed).
My baby girl (well, one of them) was proud and playing and dancing around the bathroom. She was still so toddler-ish. I washed her hands and while I was trying to keep her from sitting on the McDonald’s bathroom floor in front of the toilet, I washed mine. In my head I was making plans for bath time when we got home (for both of us).
Then, my little girl turned,
put her hands ON the toilet seat,
stuck her head INTO the toilet
and yelled “BYE BYE, WEE WEE!!!!”
I was horrified.
I was disgusted.
I was done.
Clearly in my mind, if the baby-child is not old enough not to put her head in a public toilet, then perhaps she is not ready for potty training. When we got home and washed up, I put a diaper back on my girl. I was flustered and annoyed at myself for not trusting my own instincts.
There have been times in life where I will freely admit that I should have listened to my Mom. This was not one of them.
At that moment, as far I was concerned, Baby B would wear a diaper until she took it off herself, drove to Victoria’s Secret and bought herself her own panties from money she made from her job as a Superior Court Judge.
Bye Bye, Wee Wee. Bye Bye, Poo Poo — Hello Diapers! 
In the end, it was only a few months until both girls were ready for potty training and they were trained quickly, without incident (but with. of course, the requisite accidents along the way). We were eventually able to leave the house.
Lesson learned? The time has to be right — for everybody.
Just Me With . . . NO kids in diapers.
Just Me With . . . 
