Introducing your kids to your new partner doesn't have to be scarier than farting in yoga class. Here's my second post about how I handled the Big Intro. If you missed the first part, you can check it out here.
Introducing your kids to your new partner can be one of the most nerve-wracking experiences. Ever.
When I was first single (post-separation), I was not thinking about dating. I didn’t once consider myself "available," I wasn’t getting out there, and sex was never on the forefront of my mind.
Those topics felt surreal and off-limits to me, somehow.
My daughter is out of diapers. She is in a great school and has a great routine. My ex-hubs and I are amicable and have worked out a really solid approach to co-parenting.
I have a dog.
I have a small business with ever-changing demands.
I have a new, supportive, and amazing relationship.
I have friends that I can visit with, and events that I can say "yes" to, confident in my child care routine.
After many years, my life is finally coming together.
Yesterday was Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day and it took all my strength to be vocal about it on Facebook.
I sat there glibly, scrolling through feeds, eyes darting around, the familiar anxious gurgle of heart burn bubbling away in my chest.
“You should totally post it. You want to. You need to.”
Tick tock.
I miss clocks. I miss the gentle ticking reminder that a task is waiting. The elegant sound of gentle pressure, and a reminder that we are in a moment. And then another.
I’m selling my family home as part of the divorce.
My rational self knows the outcome is going to be great for both the Ex and me, but getting through it this far has been exhausting. It’s been sort of like stepping into an inviting, buttercup-frosted meadow only to be blown sky high by emotional landmines.
Earlier this year I fell in love with a pair of underwear.
They were fancy, lacy, adorable, sexy—and being held hostage at an adult store.
I sat there in the parking lot of said store, with my heart slamming inexplicably in my chest, palms glistening and sweaty, as I drummed up the courage to go in.
When Baby Girl would ask about me having another baby, I’d look at the crib in her room like it was some kind of oracle. Like it was somehow going to tell me if I stared at it long enough.
“Mummy, I want another sister, ok? Maybe a brother. Maybe both. I really love babies and you’re a great mummy. You should have some more. We don’t really need a daddy. Maybe you can ask your friends to help you...”
Hmm. Oddly convenient that the crib decides to stay quiet at times like this.
