Sometimes there’s no eloquent way to say “Life blows” and “Fuck this shit.”
Yesterday was one of those days.
You would think, wouldn’t you, that being asked to paint a 101 Dalmatians mural on a yet to be born babe’s nursery wall would throw One into pleasant hysterics. I must admit I was flattered and excited that a coworker trusted me enough with such a task without ever having seen any of my artwork.
Sadly, my day began badly when my Rockstar decided to go to work without presenting me with the obligatory kiss goodbye as I slumbered merrily on. I awoke to hurry on my way to begin my Disney masterpiece, with a irritated text to my Rockstar asking him exactly what he wanted from me, since we seem to be in the exact same place as we were three years ago. (Minus the three-times-a-day- mindblowing sex and the endless back and forth flirty texting.)
I had one Dalmatian puppy nearly complete when I received a reply- “I can’t get you to engage with or act like a stepmom to my kid, so you figure out what the hell you want.”
Clearly, the man is delusional and must be immediately incarcerated in a comfortable and well-monitored padded cell. (The padding is for his own safety, as the ass-kicking he so rightly deserves from me is near to fruition.)
In the last three years, I have cooked for my Rockstar and his child; I have entertained her when I’m not at work so he can sit on his ass and watch NASCAR or the retarded Vikings; I have attended every school program and awards ceremony her school has had; I have drawn pictures with and for her, written stories for her to practice reading with, bought her an endless supply of books she could not possibly get through, explained (in short) where babies come from, and I have taken the time to listen to her tell me what she so secretly has written in her diary, and that she prefers the name Jessica over her own given name because it sounds more “grown-up.” It is true I have not always treated her as my own child (mainly when she is reminding me that she is NOT my own child and doesn’t have to listen to me) but I have been around enough to realize she is very like me- a fact that she herself has been quick to point out. If these things are not “stepmom-ish”, I do not think this ten year old child would have just a few weeks ago asked me to “be her mom, because my mom sucks.”
I am stubborn; I promise you that you have never met someone more stubborn than I. So it is not a small thing that I fully and completely have given up on my Rockstar. It is crystal clear that in his eyes, I will never be the “perfect” stepmom he thinks I should be. (Or the perfect cook he also thinks I should be.)
I am sad enough about my decision that I broke down in the middle of my one-on-one meeting with my boss this morning (to which his response was “Do you need a hug?” The man knows me well.) Yet I do not doubt that my decision is the right one. I am amazing (at least a little bit), and I do not have to prove my worth to any man, woman, or alien.
I am sad for my former Rockstar, for he has reached that stage that so many burnt out Rockstars reach- that of finding out what it’s like when the party is over and they are left all alone. All I have to say is it was once an awesome song.
Sparklebumpsthebookwhore 