Jersey DMV Rocks... Hard!

By The Girlfriend Mom

I had to give up my New York state drivers license yesterday. I dreaded letting go. It wasn’t so much letting go of New York, as it was the acquisition of a New Jersey license. Jersey? Please.

It was impressed upon me, from a very early age that Jersey was, well, not New York, and therefore inferior. It’s the upper lip curl, or the one eyebrow raise, followed by the evil eye, that happens when New Yorkers hear anything to do with New Jersey. However, no reason was ever given, at least not to me. When I told my parents that my boyfriend wasn’t Jewish and lived in New Jersey, they replied, “Really? Jersey?” I could see the disappointment in their eyes.

It was one of those things that I never questioned, because, I was either living in Los Angeles or in New York. That is until a year ago when I moved to the Garden State. I moved in with my man because he didn’t want to be away from his kids. I’m so sure. What’s the big deal? There just kids. In a few years their not going to want to have anything to do with you anyway. Besides, that’s why there’s Facebook and Skype. I couldn’t understand why he was being so selfish.

Maybe people only see the New Jersey Turnpike with it’s smoke stacks looming over Newark, or they think of Snooki three sheets to the wind, punching someone in the face. I don’t know, but I can tell you that after my experience at the DMV, yesterday, I am liking this hated state more and more.

It was one of those days where I accomplished a weeks worth of work all before noon. It started with a court appearance at 8:30 in the morning because Ponch and John said I failed to yield. I say, you’re just power hungry douces with guns, who weren’t breastfed as babies. That being said (or thought) in order to get the two points off my license I had to plead my case in court. I drove to Neptune City (I’m not making it up) where the courthouse building is also the library and locksmith. I’m sure there’s a connection but it’s lost on me at the moment.

I checked in at the only office window on the floor and asked the nice lady behind the glass, what courtroom I was to go to. She looked at me with a, “You’re not from round here are ya?” expression and I forced a smile. “There’s only one courtroom.” And with that, I turned on my heels and sat down in the only courtroom in the Neptune City Courthouse.

My name was the second to be called, and the judge asked me if I wanted to speak to the prosecutor. Sure, I’ll talk to anyone. In the span of eight minutes, I plead down to a no points charge, (unsafe driving) which will haunt me till my dying day because I am the safest driver out there. Ask anybody. I paid the outrageously absurd (redundant) $441 (Jersey needs the money) and I was back in my car.

Next stop the Eatontown DMV. I’ve lived in three other states, and have needed three different licenses, and in each DMV I’ve finished entire novels while standing in line. And in each one, I’d leave with a temporary license with the new one mailed to me within 7-10 days.

Not here. It took 20 minutes for me to fill out the necessary paperwork, take a picture, which I have to say is pretty good, and leave with my new New Jersey license in hand. It was incredible. I’m not sure why I was so impressed but for this experience alone, people should give the Garden State a break.

I did lie about my height. I know, people usually lie about their weight. I gave myself an extra inch which, given all the Pilates that I do, is not completely unreasonable. And really who’s measuring me out there on the streets?




More About Dani:
Dani is a Virgo, writer, Pilates Instructor, Kindle lover, sleep enthusiast, world traveler and ‘girlfriend mother’ to her boyfriend’s two kids. Whatever the hell that means.

Follow Dani on Twitter @pilatecologist
Click Here To Discover More Of Dani's Talents
Click Here To Read Dani's Blog: Am I Still Talking?

I Know This Much Is True

By Deanna


1) You teach people how to treat you - treat yourself with RESPECT.



2) I just ran eight (8) miles, BOO YA!!!


That's me running, don't I look GREAT?!

3) I love Twitter more than Facebook, case in point: Angela at @ang_c, follow her now, HECK follow EVERYONE!!!

4) I have just enough HTML skills to center a caption. Brilliant.

5) Douchtastic is my new favorite word, courtsey of: Fond of the Silliness

A Tweak here, a Tweak there...

By Deanna

It’s official. My compassion "gene" needs to be tweaked. I think when God was handing them out my ADD must have kicked into high gear and I was off chasing some Angel’s beautiful sparkly wings. Think I’m kidding? Well, it’s true, ask my kids.

The other day the seven year old tripped as he was running up the stairs; as he screamed in pain and fell down clutching his shin tears streamed down his face, I shot from the computer “you okay?”, through his pain and tears he shouted back to me “that’s all you got for me is a YOU’RE OKAY?”. My brain clicked: “DUH, get off your ass and hug the little bugger” I got up (after I tweeted how much I loved Pink’s new song) and gave him a great big bear hug. My son had PROMPTED me to hug him. Not a proud Mommy moment, at all.

Think that’s bad? Two hours later my husband and I were at our relay race in the cold bitter winter, winds whipping around at least 5 miles per hour, cheeks rosy, hands numb – that cold. I bundled my sons up from head-to-toe, figured when the race started we can sit in the warmth of the car in the meantime, the boys were running around all over the place playing in the park, chasing each other, weaving like cheetahs in and out of our legs when the little one fell hands first into a puddle, jacket covered in mud and hands brown as molasses, I bent down and said “you okay” he looked like a pig rolling back and forth when a STRANGER came over and picked him up – as his parents blushed in embarrassment. Not a proud mommy moment, at all.

One would think that I’d learn from these moments? Right? A normal mother would, the ‘Unnatural Mother’ not so much. Two days later we’re on our mini-vacation, we boarded the elevator to head down to the hotel pool when the seven year old acted as cool as his eight year old cousin and pretended to be Spiderman; he wedged himself on top of the elevator handrails squeezing his tiny little tush on a quarter inch piece of metal, as the elevator reached our destination we heard a loud bang – I didn't even react I thought it was the elevator reaching the floor until I saw the seven year old with his head in his hands and in tears – he banged his head against the elevator wall - my sister ran to his aide as I stood in disbelief. She shot me a look as if I was a piranha in a sea of guppies. Not a proud mommy moment, at all.

Three incidents and some self-reflection later leads me to believe that I got work to do – I gotta start working on my compassion, not sure how do to that but maybe someone on Twitter can help me.

Let the Kid Write It

By Dani

I had no idea that I would be reliving some of the ugly and embarrassing events of my childhood through my boyfriend’s kids. And how is that possible? We’re not even related!

This past weekend my boyfriend’s twelve year old son (one day I’ll make up a name) asked me to proofread a paper that he wrote. I read through it, made basic grammar corrections, and suggested deleting a few words to tighten it up, you know, trim the fat. He agreed with all but one, and just as I was about to push it, reminding him of who the writer in the room was, I gave myself a time out. Now for the ugly and embarrassing part of the show.

This scene played out thirty years ago. My father often helped me with my homework, especially when it came to writing papers, and anything about World War II. He was so damn smart and could write brilliantly on the fly. I, could not.

Sometimes, my father’s idea of helping me was to write for me. He’d compose in his head and then dictate parts of the essay, book report or college application that was due, while reading the New York Times, sitting on the edge of my bed (the man was that good) and I’d hurriedly write it down verbatim.

We were both culpable. He didn’t want me to hand something in to my teachers and have them think that his child was an idiot. I was impatient, and a wee lazy, so if he wanted to help, then that meant the sooner I could put on my long scotch tape nails and lip-sync to Cher’s, Dark Lady. And not just the song, but the entire album.

Dark Lady laughed and danced and lit the candles one by one
Danced to her gypsy music till her brew was done
Dark Lady played back magic till the clock struck on the twelve
She told me more about me than I knew myself

And that dear readers is more about me than you needed to know.

I’m no expert. I’m just the girlfriend mom, but doing your child’s work for them isn’t going to teach them much. I’ll tell you what it didn’t teach me; to think for myself, process, bad first drafts, rewriting, patience, confidence, and not to wait until the last minute to finish an assignment because Daddy isn’t always going to be there to rescue me!

This is why I kept quiet and let my boyfriend’s son write in his own words.

He called me the next day, wanting to know if I could input a few more corrections, and then send the document back to him. He originally typed the paper on my computer so he only had a printout.

When he said that there were more corrections, I got a pit in my stomach.What did I miss? Who read it and found more errors? Was it his mom? Great, now she thinks that I’m a writer who can’t spell? It’s not fair. I wanted to be the hero. I wanted to be the one that got him an A+ on his paper. Crap. Now everyone will know that I’m a fraud. Again.

I panicked and went to that icky place. I suck. I can’t even correct a twelve year old’s paper where the biggest word in it is ammunition. I started questioning every suggestion and correction I made. Maybe I was wrong about capitalizing Captain. I’m the person who quit teaching English as a second language in Prague. I had no right helping this child with his paper. Who put me in charge? Where’s your dad? Where’s my dad?

But I did help him and once I took my pureed thoughts out of the blender, I gingerly asked my boyfriend’s son, “So, who read the story and found the corrections?” I held my breath and scrunched up my, overdue for Botox injections, forehead.

“Charley.” “Who?” “Charley?” “You mean your friend Charley?” My boyfriend’s son was cute as he proceeded to tell me that, although he knew that Charley wasn’t a professional, he did find a couple of mistakes.

I hardly know where to begin. First of all, the fact that his friend read his paper and gave him ‘notes’ is adorable and hilarious! Secondly, that he acknowledged that, “Charley isn’t a professional like you”, was quite astute for a twelve year old. He didn’t actually say the ‘like you’ part, but it’s obvious that’s what the subtext was.

The two corrections turned out to be typos. With my reputation intact, I now wait to see what his teacher thinks. Clearly, it’ll be a direct reflection on me... and my dad.


More About Dani:
Dani is a Virgo, writer, Pilates Instructor, Kindle lover, sleep enthusiast, world traveler and ‘girlfriend mother’ to her boyfriend’s two kids. Whatever the hell that means.

Follow Dani on Twitter @pilatecologist
Click Here To Discover More Of Dani's Talents
Click Here To Read Dani's Blog: Am I Still Talking?

Race Two of Twelve: 3 x 2 Relay

By Deanna

It was a cold blustery morning here on Long Island, with winds whipping around so fast I couldn't even shut my car door. No joke. But my crew, or the usual suspects who I always "race" with were up for some running, and why not run the Greater Long Island Running Club 3 X 2 Relay, a quick two miles with the people you love? Right? They did promise hearty soup, delicious muffins, cookies and hot chocolate. So, who cares if it's below 40 degrees, and your children are cold, run, ya gotta run!

The race was at the Bethpage State Park, my favorite place ever, and the relay was suppose to be on the trails but since Mother Nature decided to dump 50 inches of snow on us, this winter the trails were unsafe (perpetual PMS, ya think?). The two mile loop would of been a lot of fun on a trail, but we ran a bitch of a hill that was covered in snow, icy, and mud, through a field where I swear a tornado was going to touch down – the winds were so strong, I felt like I was going backwards, in the parking lot, and on part of the green belt (for more info on the green belt, go to my article: Examiner - Deanna Verbouwens, gratuitous plug!) which was a out an back, and up a long hill.

Despite the winds, hills and cold being against us, it was another fun run. The splits weren’t recorded between each runner but my husband said I definitely ran less than a (9 minute mile WRONG!) a 10 minute mile – which I was very happy about – I know this man doesn’t lie, not only because it’s not in his character but also because he’s too competitive, a ball buster and knows how badly I want to crack a 10 minute mile.

Looking forward to race three in March!



P.s. I was told the soup was hearty...too cold to wait for it!

Juice Box Hell

If I had a dollar for every box plastic thingy I pick up from the floor from a juice box straw I would be a fricking billionaire. BILLIONAIRE. I am so sick of these little thingies sticking to my feet as I walk through my house, or to my ass when I am stretching, or getting stuck in my washing machine because they are tucked in a little buggers pocket, or vacuuming them up under the couch (I shouldn’t complain about this one since this is such a rarity in my house).

I despise plastic juice box straw wrapper thingies. I am so ready to ‘google’, find the bastard/bitch (gotta be politically correct ya know) and kick the ass of the person that invented the almighty juice box straw wrapper. After I kick said ass, I will kidnap them and drag their ass back to my house for an entire week wherein at the end of every single solidarity day I will let this mother f#$%er hunt around my house for every little itty bitty plastic thingie that it is on my floor (hopefully they’ll clean my floors too,) and during the day, while I am at work, I will make sure that this individual uses my kitchen as a lab, and “develops” “creates” “figures out” how to package a juice box straw effectively - of EVERY juice box (Capri Sun, Motts Tots, Fruitables, Hi-C, Juicy-Juice, Apple & Eve, Minute-Man etc..) distributor out there so I can no longer run the risk of having my very own “Tom & Jerry” moment where I slip, fall, twist my ankle on plastic straw wrapper thingy. If I twist my ankle, or bust my ass, or screw up a knee, I’ll be really unhappy but it will also mean that this mama can’t run…and that will make me even more unhappy, mad, and dare I say… angry (not again!) and to quote my college roommate Jeanne “You don’t want to get on Deanna’s bad side”…so watch out all you plastic straw wrapper thingy makers, I'll come after ya, I will, I mean it!

Ahhhhhhh.....I feel so much better! NOW if I can just get these damn kids to actually throw away the plastic straw wrapper thingy....we'll be on our way to creating World Peace.



And I HATE when this happens!

By the way...for shits and giggles, I dare ya to Google "juice box" some interesting material pops up.

The Manners Police is in town ... And I’m the sheriff

By Dani Alpert



Are kids lazy or ignorant? And by the way, neither is acceptable to this Girlfriend Mom. Elbows on the dinner table, watching TV while eating, not clearing dishes, slouching over their food... not okay. And as a Pilates instructor, slouching is like giving me the finger.

We’ve got napkin issues in our home. Plain and simple. It appears that father and son dislike the idea of a napkin in their lap. Or they forget. Or they don’t care. Or they don’t know that it falls under the heading, Table Manners. As a result, I dread eating with them because I know they’ll be naked laps (that sounds dirty) and barely used, crumpled napkins on the table.

Putting aside the fact that we live in a civilized society, and play by its rules (most of the time) what about the fact that, as your dining partner, I don’t want to see dirty hands, and food scraps on the table, next to my food, and it’s selfish for anyone to think otherwise.

It’s not only the placement (or there lack of) of said napkin, but they don’t even use it to it’s full potential. If it’s a paper napkin they won’t open the folded square into it’s larger square capacity. It’s wasteful. Of course there’s the other side of this coin, illustrated by my grandfather who used to reuse his paper napkins. “You think we had the luxury of an endless supply of napkins during the depression?” Waste not want not kid, he’d say as he ate his leftover bagel from the previous morning, which had petrified over night.

Am I the only one who practices obvious table etiquette? We had dinner at home last night and I gently made my boyfriend aware of his napkin coordinates. To which he replied, “It’s a paper napkin. What’s the big deal.” He was making a distinction between paper and cloth. Cloth, paper, metal, rubber... if it calls itself a napkin, it belongs in your lap. Period.

Maybe my boyfriend wasn’t taught basic table manners (the Portuguese may do things differently) and it’s not for me to judge. We’ve all been failed, in one way or another, by our parents and their childrearing acumen, or there lack of. And I don’t know what goes on in my boyfriend’s son’s mother’s house (could there be more possessives in that sentence) so it would be unfair to point the finger solely at him.

However, I don’t remember sitting down and being schooled on napkin arrangement but somewhere in my illustrious career, I picked it up. And now I live it. And now I want my boyfriend and his son to live it.

Now when we’re at the table, I eye my boyfriend’s son gently and mouth, ‘napkin.’ He sees me and although he looks confused by this wacky ritual that his father’s girlfriend is asking him to partake in, he does it. The napkin doesn’t always stay in its place throughout the entire meal but he’s still grasping the concept that, when you’re hands are dirty and you’re in need of a napkin, it’s right there in your lap, where you can wipe in private so no on has to see the greeby short rib sauce on your snausage like fingers.

I’m no Emily Post and I have far from impeccable manners 24/7 but I have an awareness of what is socially acceptable and what is not. Sure I’ve belched at the family dinner table when I was a kid, unintentionally of course (although the seltzer didn’t help) but when my father glared at me and then at my mother saying, “I blame this on you,” I knew it was rude.

I’m strict when it comes to my boyfriend’s kids. Maybe because I wished that my parents were stricter with me. (Kids raising kids remember) There was an acute imbalance between parent as disciplinarian and child as parent in my family. I used to punish myself because my parents were downright lackadaisical. “Trust me Dad, I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll be in my room, not watching TV and not talking on the phone.” It’s probably not best to parent as if it were a do over from your own childhood, but since my boyfriend’s kids aren’t mine, DO-OVER!

Where was I? Oh, yes, table manners. Isn’t this what separates us from the animals. If kids don’t learn from an early age, they’re going to grow up into some of the people I see eating in restaurants, and it’s utterly disgusting. Hey animals, how about some compassion for the customers next to you, who are losing their appetites because you’re eating like a caveman. Huh? What about that?

Which brings me to the improper way to cut one’s meat.

Holy crap! You wouldn’t believe what I’ve seen in my, wait for it, illustrious career. Women, men, rich, poor, sophisticated, unsophisticated, world travelled, only travelled as far as the grocery store, eating like barbarians. And I’m embarrassed to say that some of these barbarians are family and friends. Again, am I missing something? What is so difficult about holding one’s utensils in a way that doesn’t resemble sawing off one’s limb.

Several years ago, I lived in Prague teaching English as a foreign language. After two weeks I realized that English was just as foreign to me as it was to the Czechs, so I quit. However, I did spend time traveling with a woman who also quit the program.

The first time we had dinner together, I thought I was going to be sick. This woman was well read, had seen the world, spoke several languages, but for some unknown reason, no one taught her how to hold a fork and knife. I have little tolerance for those who put on worldly airs and pseudo sophistications and then eat like a rabid dog.

She fisted the fork in her left hand, and stabbed the animal flesh with its prongs like a pitchfork, while her right hand held the knife and sawed in a backward and forward motion. She tore into her Myslivecká hovezi pecene na houbach (hunters beef steak with mushrooms) like a Hyena tears into a Wildebeest. Gore, saw, exhale, repeat. It was like killing that poor hunters beef all over again. I swear I thought I heard a growl as I reached for the pepper shaker in front of her.

It was as if she’d never seen food before. Or she’d been stranded on a deserted island, eating only coconuts and sand. I looked away, vomited slightly in my mouth, and left her lapping up the grease from her fingers, at the corner of Ventúrska and Prepoštská Streets in Bratislava Central Square in Slovakia.

And then yesterday at Starbuck’s my faith was restored. A mother came in with her two sons, and walked over to a table in front of me that only had two chairs. The younger son immediately sat down. The older boy, who couldn’t have been more than ten years old, started to pull a chair over from a neighboring table. “Here mom, let me get this for you.” I almost fell off my chair. Alas a child with manners.

I looked up from my tall half caf, and told the mother that that was the sweetest thing I’d ever seen. She thanked me and turned to her son, “Jack, you’re so chivalrous.” All right lady, let’s not get carried away, because from where I’m sitting, Jack’s got a naked lap.

Dani

P.s. Click here to watch this video for more info. You’re welcome.

More About Dani:
Dani is a Virgo, writer, Pilates Instructor, Kindle lover, sleep enthusiast, world traveler and ‘girlfriend mother’ to her boyfriend’s two kids. Whatever the hell that means.

Follow Dani on Twitter @pilatecologist
Click Here To Discover More Of Dani's Talents
Click Here To Read Dani's Blog: Am I Still Talking?

B.I.N.G.O It’s the J.O.B.O.

Ever since I went back to work just about a year ago,“Angry Deanna” has come back into the rotation of my many moods which also includes: Fun-Mom, Sensitive-Deanna, Scary-Mommy, and Bitch. Besides the fact that I can explode into a tirade of expletives at a moment’s notice, what bothers me most is that I’ve did a damn good job keeping this angry beast tamed for many many years… with therapy, and now running.

Why do I believe work has stirred the angry pot in my belly? Cause I just know, just like I know my seven year old will never lie to me, and the three year old will. And because the last time I was THIS ANGRY I was in my twenties and in a job that I didn’t enjoy. B.I.N.G.O It’s the J.O.B.O.

When I was in my twenties I quit this job and obtained a position that I loved; and that position lead me to so many other positions and set me on a track that was extremely satisfying. But my life changed, jobs changed, my goals changed, my body changed because of these damn kids, and I am now in a place where I can’t just quit. Because as much as I am allowing this job to let the Angry Deanna resurface it’s also gives me the opportunity to be close to home with a decent salary - so I can attain my goals, personal –professional and all in-between.

As of this moment, I am the definition of “in-between a rock and a hard place”. I don’t like being defined like this. It kinda of sucks. So what do I do now? I vent to my husband and anyone who will listen, I try not let the job define me, to view the job as just that a J.O.B and run, run like a bad ass mother runner* that I am.



*This term I believe was coined by these lovely ladies: Run Like A Mother

Parenting it Forward

By Clarice Joos

I had to laugh as I walked into the bathroom and saw the little blue briefs on the floor next to the toilet. There was nothing offensive in them…it was funny because my four year old son, Kevin loves to go “commando”. My husband started calling him “Hef” because he’d wear as little as possible all the time if we let him. I’m lucky he wears clothes at all, because as it is, shoes, socks, and jacket are off and flung across the room the minute he walks in the front door. Then he usually goes to his room, strips off the jeans, underwear and long-sleeved shirt he wore to preschool, and reappears in a tee shirt and sweats or nylon shorts, regardless of temperature. Commando, I presume. I actually find this funny because I guess the feeling of denim is offensive to him, and because his older brother Brian, who’s six, is the polar opposite. That one will keep his shoes on until bath time, and on non-bath nights, I’ve had to peel the conductor’s hat he always wears off his head as he’s getting into bed.

The problem for me is the trail of evidence…the clothes lying on the floor where dropped, the wet shoes in the middle of the living room. And there’s an even bigger problem, one I realized today, when I asked Kevin to come pick up the little blue briefs from the bathroom floor. Then asked again. Then told him. His answer, shouted back, was, “NO…NEVER!”

It suddenly occurred to me how often this takes place, whether it’s about underwear, clothes, dishes on the table, or toys on the floor. I realized that I parent under this blindfold of idiotic optimism that one day soon they’ll just get it. They’ll pick up their clothes, clear the table, clean up their toys and say “please” and “thank you” without a word from me. Realistically, if and when that golden, joyous day actually comes, it may very well not be in my house, but in their own adult homes. So all the work I’m putting in, the gentle reminders escalating to threats, multiple times every single day of motherhood, will actually benefit my future daughters-in-law. I’m parenting it forward so some cute little Taylor and Kaylie of today won’t have to nag my sons to pick up their dirty underwear tomorrow.

Maybe I’ll get lucky, and tomorrow will be the magical day. If not, you’re welcome, girls!


More About Clarice:
Clarice Joos is a Mommy of two adorable boys, a wife to a hot FDNY Fire Fighter, writer, a professional organizer, and a slayer of monsters under beds and in closets!

The Girlfriend Mom

By Dani Alpert

My boyfriendʼs twelve year old son asked me to put his hair in a ponytail last night. He thought it was hysterical that he looked like a girl, as he modeled it for the five friends he was talking to on ooVoo. For those not in the loop, itʼs like Skype. For those not in that loop either, itʼs video chatting. I didnʼt think anything of his request. I was just flattered that he saw me as someone who knew how to make a ponytail. My mother used to pull my ponytails so tight I got headaches and an unnecessary facelift. Not so unnecessary now, Iʼll tell ya.

Iʼm calling myself,The Girlfriend Mom, because my boyfriend and I live together but weʼre not married (hence boyfriend) so stepmom doesnʼt apply. However, I do step mommy things,I suppose, like his sonʼs laundry. Sidebar: I have to say that sometimes, when Iʼm folding his tiny pair of jeans, it feels weird, dare I say ʻunnaturalʼ.Iʼm convinced that it has to do with what I associate being a ʻmomʼ with (which sometimes I find unattractive) and laundry seems to be on the list.

I help him with his homework and I consistently nag him about the television volume. I swear, itʼs like living with the deaf (or my grandparents) How can you NOT hear that?! Well, this just smells of ʻmomʼ (girlfriend or step) doesnʼt it. I feel myself getting uglier by the minute.

So Iʼm not just a girlfriend, whoʼs boyfriend happens to have kids. There are expectations of me, some being easy and ʻnaturalʼ to pull off, like making up his bed,pouring him ice tea when heʼs parched, teaching him how to apply Orajel to a sore, or eating at Chiliʼs for a less than nutritious meal. Other times the expectations feel as ʻunnaturalʼ to me, as doing fractions, or wearing make-up to the grocery store. (Wearing make-up anywhere really) and like folding his tiny fruit of the loom tidy whiteyʼs.

I say ʻmomʼ things, but I canʼt be sure of my modus operandi. Sometimes itʼs because I think Iʼm supposed to say them, but how the hell do I know what to say. Other times, I think itʼs imbedded in my DNA. My boyfriendʼs son got a laptop over the weekend and he took it into our bedroom, which is one and a half flights up from where we were in the kitchen. Oh, no you donʼt. I watch Dateline and Primetime Live. I told him to get where we could see and hear what he was doing. It was a knee jerk reaction. Iʼve watched enough Lifetime Movies to know what can happen if youʼre not paying attention. My request sounded like it came right out of, Mother, May I Sleep with Danger.

I want my boyfriend to know (and Iʼm not sure if he truly can) what it’s like to go from not wanting children and not sure that I even like children, to bringing a 12 and 17 year old into my life. They’re his flesh and blood. He was there at the beginning. He’s watched them grow and journeyed with them. Iʼd imagine with each passing year, a parent adjusts to the plethora of changes, and then eventually, if you’re lucky, you cant imagine your life without them. Me? It felt like two minutes in the microwave and BEEP. Instant kids. Ready! (no) Set! (no) Go! (no, wait!)

I used to hear stories about a great aunt of mine who was a lesbian. She used to be a dancer (loved her immediately) and she had been with her girlfriend since WWII. I think they invented Lesbianism. They traveled the world, had several homes, and no children. Their life was exotic to a kid from Yonkers and it had a profound affect on me. The effect in this case being the possibility of a fulfilling life without children... not the girl on girl part. Although... My point is, I got the message that I had choices, and it was okay not to want what others wanted.

I’m not sure I can directly attribute my ambivalence towards kids to my Great Lesbian Aunt (that sounds like a superhero) I’m sure that my own parents made a contribution, unbeknownst to them I’m sure. By the time my parents were 24 years old, they had two kids under the age of 2. My mother wanted to have children, at least thatʼs what she tells me, but she wasnʼt your typical mother. Personally, I think she was in way over her head. Kids raising kids people! She rarely made breakfast and by the time I was twelve,I was babysitting, taking the train into the city alone and doing my own laundry. (What is it with laundry?)

I can spend another lifetime researching and analyzing why I feel the way I do, or how can I feel the way I do, but I donʼt have that kind of time, and Iʼm not sure that it matters. What matters to me now is being honest about my feelings and not judging them. They are what they are, and since feelings change from one moment to the next, I think itʼs unwise to give them too much power.

Instead, Iʼve decided to forge a relationship with my boyfriendʼs kids, based on who I am now, and who they are, as individuals, with all of our unique personalities. Weʼre not going to be defined by shouldʼs, supposed toʼs or societal constraints. And I have to say, so far, so good.

“Can you PLEASE turn that television down?!”

More About Dani:
Dani is a Virgo, writer, Pilates Instructor, Kindle lover, sleep enthusiast, world traveler and ‘girlfriend mother’ to her boyfriend’s two kids. Whatever the hell that means.

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Race One of Twelve: 5k

I ran my first race of 2011, a 5k on a cold Sunday morning, at the beach. What the hell was I thinking? I wanted to kill this race, I wanted to PR, I wanted, wanted, wanted, wanted (enter the whines of Veruca Salt) but it didn't happen. I ran a 5k in a pathetic 33 minutes. I was so upset and disappointed with myself - I was so close to breaking a 10minute mile in October and I got lazy, lazy about my training and this is exactly why I didn't PR, add to the fact that I overdressed, and so over heated and had major wardrobe difficulties. Like a dumb-ass I wore two long sleeve technical tee's and a jacket, a hat, and gloves. The jacket was heavy, and I couldn't tie it around my waist, it kept slipping, and slipping, and slipping. Damn it was annoying, so annoying.

Oh well, moving on, I have 11 more races to get it right, right?

Click here to find out more about this race on my Examiner page