Letting Go And Starting Over

Letting go of all your things is crushing and freeing rolled into one--on bettysbattleground.com

Letting go is hard. When my mom was a young teenager, her family left Cuba in disgrace. In 1966, the Revolution was over, Fidel Castro was in power, and many of the changes that would prove him a ruthless dictator were already taking place. My grandparents were both teachers–intellectuals were reviled in communist Cuba because they were considered among the most outspoken against the new regime. Before she left, my mom saw signs posted around the campus where her father taught, declaring him a traitor. The government seized their house, and they were only able to bring two suitcases among the five of them. I’ve never seen a picture of my mom as baby for this reason. On the airplane, she had to surrender her Cuban passport for refugee admissions to the United States. To this day, she has never again set foot in Cuba.

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Eight Everyday Experiences I Am SICK Of Having As A Female

What Females Are Sick Of-on www.bettysbattleground.com

This female had a garbage weekend.

If you have been following my blog at all, you know I’ve actually had a pretty terrible month.

I don’t want to go into ALL of it, but for those of you who have been following: My daughter was in the hospital for pneumonia. I had to take her there right after seeing The Ex in court to have my protection order renewed. The renewal was granted, but I still had to see and hear the idiot. Just because every time I see him in court he says or submits something which ultimately helps my case, does not mean the encounters aren’t triggering. And, after this annoying and triggering court encounter, I took my daughter to the doctor and she ended up being admitted to the hospital for three days with pneumonia. She is out and better now; every one is better now, except for coughs that bring up thick gobs of yellow phlegm, but I am exhausted. And I have a lot of annoyance built up in me.

I had a sorta humorous post planned for today, and although once upon a time humorous did mean phlegmatic, I just don’t have it in me. Sorry…next week…

What I do have in me are complaints. But I’m going to try to at least make my complaints useful.

Here is a list of everyday experiences I am just plain SICK of dealing with as a female; things you all just need to stop doing RIGHT NOW.

Before some guy out there in the vast wide web decides he needs to say, “Hey guys deal with stuff too…” yeah that’s true. But I’m not a guy, so you write that list. I am a female. This is my list.

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The Sick Week: A Tale of Effluvia

The Sick Week: A Tale of Effluvia www.bettysbattleground.com

For impoverished mothers living with PTSD, most blessings are oddly shaped and paltry.  This week, my first blessing came in the guise of my in-laws being here for the first and worst day that I acquired the stomach virus which my daughters lovingly brought home.

But let’s rewind.

The Sick Week began with Penelope, my youngest daughter.  She got the virus first.  I discovered she was sick when I was giving the sisters a bath.  I discovered she was sick by scent.  The scent of diarrhea.  Penelope, not yet two, is known to poop in the bath on occasion.  So, upon smelling feces, I immediately looked to her rump.  I saw no telltale caca blob floating in her vicinity and attributed the stench to a fart.  Nonetheless, I figured a true poop was coming, and turned to gather the towels.  I heard a second fart ripple through the water.  I turned, quick, ready to snatch the girls out if there was fecal matter, and was momentarily stilled by what I saw.  Floating behind my youngest daughter was a thin, translucent waft of light brown smudge.  It hung there for a moment, turning slightly like a leaf adrift in a breeze, before thinning, shaping tendrils in the drift, and then undulating toward the drain in diarrhea-jellyfish formation.

Then it was gone.  As though it had never been.  But for the lingering stench.  I realized that this is what had happened before, except the first time I had missed the ghost-poop-jellyfish.  So I snatched the girls out, wrapped them in towels, and began to drain the tub as quickly as possible.  Of course, as I was bending over to pull out the cloth we use to plug the drain, Penelope, my littlest one, my sweetie-pie, ran to their room, lay tummy-down on the floor before the foot of her bed and, little butt raised high in the air, completed her diarrhea.

This time it was not so mesmerizing.  This time it was projectile, and across the carpet, and the backboard of her bed, and pooling in the Mrs. Potato Head hairpiece that was under her bed.

This was the beginning of the Sick Week.

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