We all woke up sick and feeling lousy that day. After struggling though breakfast, I put the girls down for a midmorning nap. We were feverish and grumpy and needed the rest. It was bad.

Once they were drowsy, I climbed into my own bed, exhausted. Through the soft hum of the baby monitor I heard Ellie quietly practicing her diction as she dosed off, per the usual. Mahmee. Ab-bee. Doghee. Kit-thy. Ah-gone.

And then I heard him through the baby monitor, clear as a bell. The man in their bedroom was speaking softly and quickly in Vietnamese. And then once again I heard Ellie, enthusiastically giggling.

Before I could even process what was happening, I was out of bed. I said a rushed prayer as I darted toward their room. Who was this intruder? Why was he in my house? And, boy, would he regret messing with this momma bear. I was ready to open a can of whoop@ss.

I swung the door open and looked around, ready to fight. Both girls sprang up in their beds, rubbing their tired eyes, pink cheeks and sweaty little heads. They were as confused as I was. No kidnapper or chatty serial killer. I checked every nook and cranny, every inch of every corner. Nothing.

I looked down to realize that I was clutching the James Thurber book that had been on my night stand. I guess it grabbed it on my way out to use as a weapon. What was my plan, humor him to death?

And then I had one of those flash-forwards, where I knew I’d look back and realize THIS was the moment when I started to lose it. This was my breaking point. The voices in my head had officially taken over and made their way right into the baby monitor. I was a goner. Somebody order me a straight jacket.

I kissed the girls and put them back down, then headed back to my room. Confused, but grateful that this misunderstanding was caused by my newly self-diagnosed mental illness and not an actual intruder.

As I settled down under my cozy duvet, I heard him again through the baby monitor.

And it was only THEN that I realized the channel had been changed on the receiver and I was picking up a frequency from someone else’s house. Some other dad in some other house with some other baby.

No intruder. No mental illness. Just a sleep-deprived mom.

My girls love Pirate’s Booty. No, it’s not some weird inappropriate thing–it’s a cheese-flavored puffy snack. If I didn’t know better I would swear it’s dusted with crack. My kids are addicted. They shovel fistful after tiny fistful into their mouths.

They go crazy as soon as they see this bag, screaming “BOOOOOOOTY” and demand that I hand it over. It’s like Mutiny on the Bounty, toddler style.

Not for nothin’, it is really good. But I think we are going to have to scale back for a while. It was all so traumatic.

We were at the grocery store this weekend when I heard Abby’s blood-curdling scream.  She had run ahead of me to the checkout stand that’s where she saw it.

Her precious Pirate’s Booty was spooked-out to promote the Disney’s new Pirate’s of the Caribbean movie.  Instead of a friendly cartoon pirate, there was this, in all its hologram-iffic glory.

Her eyes welled up with tears and she clamped onto my leg.

“Noooooooo, mommy, nooooooooo, why is booty so scary? Help me!”

Everyone was looking. Staring. Judging. I pried her off my leg and set her down into the shopping-cart-turned-racecar built for crazy people with two little ones like me.

“What’s wrong with his teeth?!??!?!?!?!”

I turned the massive limocart away from the display and tried to get away from the enourmous promotional display.  Then they both screamed, and this time louder.

“Boooooooooooty!”

So I turned around, desperate to hush them up, and shoved the crinkly silver bag into the cart.

“Noooooooooo! So scary! Nooooooooooo! Pud it back!”

So back onto the shelf it went.

“Noooooooo! Booooooooooty!”

I realized it was a lose-lose.

I bought it, but had to keep the bags face-down in the cart under the paper towels. And when we got home, I had to put it all in a storage-sized Ziploc bag and throw the bag away in front of them. Because my kids are weird like that.

That evening, or should I say very early the next morning, I woke up to the sound of Abby sobbing from her room. She was still scared of that dang pirate. Crying about his teeth. I slept in bed with her that night.

Have you seen the new packaging? Is it too much?

Yep, that’s me there. At 16, in all my retainer-wearing, unplucked-eyebrow glory. I dug the photo up when Suz Broughton asked me to participate in a Vloggersation about what I would say to my 16-year-old self if I had a chance.

I thought I’d share my thoughts here too. So I’m dedicating this one to THAT girl.

First of all, for the love of God enjoy the body you are in and stop worrying so much about how you look in that little cheer skirt. You look amazing. Trust me, I’d kill to have that flat stomach again.

You know that dumb boy that called you “CHUBS,” even though you were a size 7? You’ll see him at your 10 year high school reunion. And now weighs over 300 pounds. Karma is a, well, you know.

Oh yeah, and don’t spend so much time caring about what other people think. Stop trying to hide your nerdy-ness. Trust me, the “cool” kids that teased you for being smart still live at home and work at TGIFriday’s.

In general, the right thing to do is usually the hardest thing to do. Anything worthwhile takes a fair amount of work. There aren’t any shortcuts.

And when somebody shows you who they really are, believe them. You’ll learn that one the hard way.

And lastly, go thank your parents.  They seem so strict now, but trust me, it really is for your own good in the long run. And someday you’ll actually be friends with them.

Good luck, kiddo, you are going to need it!

To see the whole Vloggersation, click here.

I had been debating it for a long time. Every single day, for years on end, I made lists, weighed the pros and cons, and thoroughly examined all of the options. 

Then one day I did it. I left him.

Honestly, I thought he would be relieved that we were leaving. I thought he would help me pack and hold the door for us on the way out. It’s hardly how it went down. But that story, I suppose, will have to wait for another time.

In the beginning, it was pretty black and white. I was awarded custody. Even his initial minimal visitation seemed like a marked increase from the amount of time he spent with them when we were all living under the same roof. Dropping them off with him and driving away was guttural and painful in a way I can’t even begin to describe. Even when visitation was supervised, I was worried sick. And it broke my heart. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep and I was a mess.

I was reassured by EVERYONE that he wouldn’t be able to keep up it up. That by the time the divorce was final, I’d still have full custody and no more messy, emotional exchanges. No more drama. Just last month, it was settled.  We were able to reach an agreement—which included a carve-out for him to have more custody. Well, earn more custody, really.

I was relieved, but exhausted. I had been in survival mode.  I could stop paddling away from the sinking Titanic in my teeny tiny row boat with my teeny tiny girls. And when I stopped frantically paddling, that’s when the fog set in.

It was a deep, dark, heavy sadness unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. It hit me a couple weeks ago when the girls were with him. I had come home from work and walked into a completely quiet and motionless house. Silence had never been so loud. And unbearable.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to step up and be a part of their lives. It had never been that way, so I never even factored this in as a possibility. It wasn’t on my radar. It had snuck up on me.

Then another crushing blow: I realized that when I left him, part of me left them, too. As a working mom, my evenings and weekends with them are precious. And in the blink of an eye, that critical time had been taken from me. I was angry and very, very sad.

It was an unintended consequence of my decision to leave him.  I had made the ultimate sacrifice without even knowing it. Time with my daughters—the loves of my life, my whole entire world.

The truth is that I am really proud of my ex and great strides he’s making toward being the dad he promised me he would be. The best thing for my girls is for him to be an active part of their life, to be a loving and caring father—to the kind of involved father that my dad was (and is still is) to me.  Although it’s much too late to save the marriage, it’s not too late for him to have a meaningful, life-long relationship with the girls.

But even when they aren’t here, I’m constantly stepping over sippy cups, stuffed animals and crayons. Or I’m finding one of Ellie’s signature piles of torn-up paper in one of my shoes.  I’m surrounded by painful reminders of the way it SHOULD be, but isn’t.

Never in a million years would I have imagined that there would be so many nights that I didn’t tuck them in bed. That there would be so many things they would learn how to do when I wasn’t there.

But now I’m here, alone in an empty house. In mourning. Grieving the loss of my family, of the mom I thought I’d be. Trying to ignore the deafening silence.

BIG NEWS! Find me on twitter @singlemomsmarty. Love, TBFKA4LM (the blogger formerly known as @4lettermom).

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Ethel said her first actual word over the weekend. She pointed at Lucy’s sippy cup and uttered “aab.” I should have been thrilled. But I wasn’t. It felt like I got punched in the gut. You see, “aab” is Farsi for “water.” But I don’t speak Farsi, my sitter does.

It’s guess it’s part of the suitcase-worth of guilt I drag around with me each day. It was a really hard decision to make to go back to work, and one that I didn’t take lightly. I did was right for me and my family. I truly believe that I am a better wife and happier mom because of my career. I mean, I LOVE my job. Every day, I have the opportunity to do exactly what I am best at–while supporting a cause that I believe in with all of my heart.  

But once in a while, a moment will sneak up on me like this. One that breaks my heart a little. I can’t help but feel a bit territorial. First words are for mommies, not sitters. And it reminds me, again, what I’ve given up for my career.

I have a fantastic sitter, who loves my girls as if they were her own. To be totally honest, I really am so happy that my girls are leaning English and some Farsi at the same time–especially while it’s so easy for them to learn. Lucy often times asking for “shir” instead of “milk.” I know that I asked her to teach them. But for some reason, it still stings.

I was recently interviewed by OC Family magazine (see it here on page 82) about being a working mom. My pull-quote was “Don’t worry about home when you are at work, and don’t worry about work when you are at home.”

Sounds like I need a dose of my own medicine.

To be honest, I’ve always had a running a mental list of what would make me happy. If I only had (fill in the blank) I’d be happy. And over the years, that (blank) has changed. It was a complicated moving target.

But something happened when I became a mom. You’ll see what I mean.

Five Things That Made Me Happy Before Babies:

1. A relaxing mani/pedi on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

2. Happy Hour(s).

3. Sporadic trips to DC and/or NYC. Riding on airplanes on a whim.

4. Sleeping in.

5. GordiePug sleeping in our bed.

Five Things That Make Me Happy Now:

1. When I am able to carry a small purse, not full of baby-related accouterments.

2. Sleeping, slightly sweaty babies.

3. Washing travel mugs and pre-loading the coffee maker the night before.

4. Getting to work without spit-up on my clothes or in my hair.

5. Finding out, the hard way, that maybe I AM cut out for this motherhood business after all.

Wanna be part of Five for Ten? Click here.

P.S. April Fool’s!