I no longer carry crayons in my purse....

We've already established how addicted I am to Facebook. No need to rehash that. As I'm scrolling through the status updates to see what my friends are up to, I see some of the quizzes they've been taking - which 7 dwarf are you? what color M&M are you? Who would be your celebrity boyfriend if only he weren't divorced 7 times and dating 3 different actresses this week? Amusing reminders of how much time I waste. But as I continue scrolling, there it is: what kind of wife would you be?

As much as I wanted to take it, I refuse to go within a mile of this quiz. I've already failed it offline. As much as I tried, as much as I gave, I just wasn't good enough. I begin looking through my purse for a tissue as I feel the tears start to roll down my cheeks. That's when I realize....everything in my purse belongs to ME.


I give up looking for the tissues that aren't there. You see, I'm not a mother anymore, so I'm not prepared for these emergencies. There was a time, in the recent past, when I could dump the entire contents of my purse and only 5 things were mine. It was really the family carry all and I was the designated pack mule. No matter where I was, I was prepared for any emergency. Spilled ketchup on your shirt? Shout wipes, check. Paper cut? First aid kit, check. Bored, screaming children waiting impatiently for a hamburger? Crayons, paper, check, check. She loved the fact that no matter where we were, she knew I had those crayons.

So I sat there looking at my full purse and thinking how empty it looked, how much I miss those pictures she used to color for me and leave for me to find later. My key chain feels much too light without the maternal keyrings of all 3 years of her school pictures, my badge of accomplishment as she grew and learned. And it's all his fault because he took her from me. I know I had no legal claim to her. But what mother stops to think about legalities when she just knows how much she loves that little face that calls her mommy? That little voice that cries for mommy to take care of her when she's sick. That little hand that slips into yours while you're watching tv - inevitably cartoons because mothers have no reason to watch anything else. The little hands that want so badly to help in the kitchen even though they make more of a mess than they help.

And I hate him all over again.


I hate him for bringing her into my life just to snatch her away. I hate him for every time he used her to get what he wanted. I hate him for the time I wasted waiting for him to love both of us more than he loves himself. I hate him for every time she became my only reason to stay. I tried to protect her, but I wasn't strong enough. I endured what no woman should have to endure. But he had so much anger and so much rage and it was going to hurt someone, so I took it so she wouldn't have to. And I would do it again.....a million times I would do it again just to protect her from one hurtful word from him, from one self-esteem shattering insult.


And I hate him all over again.


I hate him for every first day of school I won't be there for. I hate him for the first date I won't get to help her fix her hair for. I hate him because I won't be there when she graduates. I hate him because I won't be the mother of the bride. I hate him because I'm not a mom and I'll never be grandma.


Most of all, I hate him because I don't carry crayons anymore.