The first time wasn’t for love, the conclusion.

If you are new here, you may want to read yesterday’s post to get yourself up to speed…

So, it was the beginning of August, I was 24 years old, three months pregnant, about to get married, and a few weeks away from starting a full-time teaching job.

I had adjusted to my new situation, and the reality of becoming a mother had set in.

My future mother and sister-in-law gave me a bridal shower.

I received lots of wedding gifts,

and even a couple of baby gifts.

At the time, I was the pool director and head swim coach at a country club in Pennsylvania.

I went to work one morning and wasn’t feeling great. My stomach was really bothering me.

Over the course of the day, it got worse and worse.

I just wanted to get home.

Which I did.

But before I crawled into bed and called it a night, I went to the bathroom.

And when I pulled down my underpants, they were full of blood.

I freaked out.

Lost it.

Called the doctor.

Who told me to go to the emergency room.

My fiancée went with me.

We waited in a room for the ultrasound technician to come.

She finally got there, set up her stuff, and proceeded to check me out.

We stared at that black and white monitor.

The image of the baby came up.

I knew immediately something was wrong.

My fiancée was clueless.

He hadn’t been to any of my appointments with me.

But I knew where the heartbeat should have been.

And in the spot where that fluttering light used to be,

there was just a black spot.

The heartbeat was gone.

I’d had a miscarriage.

It was devastating.

I had heard of women having miscarriages before.

I didn’t think it was that big of a deal…it’s not like it’s an actual baby or anything.

Boy, was  wrong.

It doesn’t take long to fall in love with that little person growing inside of you.

And the visions of what your baby will look like, and what your life will be like, start coming right away.

One day you are walking around, your hand on your stomach, a tiny human growing inside of  you,

and then,

poof.

Gone.

I had to wait until the next day to go back to the hospital for a D&C.

That wasn’t much fun either.

On the way home, we bought a pack of cigarettes and some wine.

I started smoking and drinking immediately.

I was pretty depressed.

But it wasn’t just the miscarriage.

My gut immediately told me something else.

The wedding…

I was getting married in two weeks.

To a guy I was really only engaged to because of the pregnancy.

And that new teaching job.

All the sudden, the wedding wasn’t really necessary.

I knew the guy was not the right guy.

But the wedding plans were in place.

Everything was reserved.

And paid for.

I’d even gotten gifts.

What were people going to think?

Every part of my body told me to call the whole thing off.

And then, a week before the wedding,

my pot-smoking, long-haired, direction lacking, Jetta-driving fiancée bought me a wedding gift.

A puppy.

An adorable, little, face-licking, tail wagging, brown-eyed, yellow-lab.

Great.

Thanks for the cutest puppy ever in the history of all puppies.

Let’s call off the wedding.

I couldn’t do it.

I had no internal Number 4.

And so,

we got married.

It took approximately one week for things to deteriorate.

It was my first year with my own classroom.

On top of that,

I was the head coach of a USS swim team with over 200 kids on it.

So everyday after school, I went to the pool and coached 3 practices.

I left for work at 7 a.m., and I got home around 8 p.m.

Every day.

On the weekends there were swim practices too.

And meets.

I was working my ass off.

80 hour work weeks, easily.

And my husband?

Phhhht.

He had a conversation with one of his buddies.

Who talked him into going to a meeting.

A meeting I knew nothing about.

One day in September I came home from practice.

I was exhausted.

I walked into the kitchen, and there were boxes,

and boxes,

and boxes,

of crap on the counters.

And the table.

And the floor.

What the fuck was this?

I walked into the living room.

My husband was lying down on the couch.

Watching tv.

In a cloud of smoke.

Like Brad Pitt in True Romance.

Minus the hotness factor.

“What the fuck is in the kitchen?” I asked him.

And that’s when I found out my husband had quit his job.

He had a plan.

He was going to make millions.

In,

like,

a week.

All he had to do was sell the $6000 worth of shit that he had purchased on our joint credit card.

The water filters,

and vitamins,

a supplements,

and other bullshit he had been persuaded to buy when he went to that pyramid scam meeting with his friend a couple weeks earlier.

I was livid.

LIV

ID.

Needless to say,

that shit, and those boxes, sat in our kitchen.

Untouched.

By the middle of October,

I had had it.

I told him to get a real job.

I said the same thing in November.

If you don’t have a real job by Thanksgiving, I’m leaving.

And December.

If you don’t have a real job by Christmas, I’m leaving.

The fucking boxes were still in the kitchen in January.

So.

I moved out.

I got my own place,

took my shit,

and the dog,

and I left.

HNO (Husband Number One) was a little shocked.

He called.

And called.

And called.

He came to visit.

He cried.

He begged.

He pleaded.

And then,

he got a real job.

As a used car salesman.

When that didn’t win me over,

he pulled out the big guns.

He came over to my house,

and asked if he could just talk for a minute.

He had brought a duffle bag with him.

He sat down on the couch,

unzipped the bag,

and he whipped out,

his bongo drums.

He sat down on the couch and proceeded to “sing” me a song he had written.

Boom. Bada boom. Boom. Boom.

Susie… I love you.

Bop. Bop. Biddi biddi bop.bop.

I want you back.

Boom bada boom boom boom.

I’m sorry…

Boom. Boom. boom bada boom….

He kept going.

For, like, a reeeeally long time.

I was speechless.

It was sad.

And hilarious.

The poor guy.

He was trying.

But it just wasn’t meant to be.

He meant well. He was just young.

We both were.

So our divorce was finalized the following October.

I wish I could say I learned enough from that experience to figure out how to have a healthy relationship with a guy.

I wish I could say I learned to listen to my gut after that.

But it would take another 15 years of mistakes and fucked up relationships to get to that point.

You’ll have to wait for my book to come out to read about those 🙂

In the meantime,

trust your gut,

and listen to your inner Number 4.

When she’s screaming at you,

listen to her.

She’ll always steer you away from the bongo drums,

and in the right direction.

VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!!!

All you need to do is click on the banner above to register a vote for me! 

You can vote one time every 24 hours from every computer and cell phone! THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH!!! I really appreciate your support!

Check out and “like” the not-your-average-mom.com facebook page!

Follow me on Twitter @mom_not_average