Maybe it was the extra strong Skinny Girl Margarita I made last night. Maybe it was the emotional reaction Daughter had when her father’s ex-girlfriends name was brought up. Maybe it was the glazed over / eye drop look Daughter gave me as she handed me the phone, knowing her father was on the other end cancelling another promise. Whatever it was I was angry. I sat for quite some time last night, alone in bed as Hubs took over five-year-old-night-terror duty. I really try to be a cheerleader for my ex-husband. I wait and hold my breath at every stage in his life. I brace to hear the deets on Daughter’s meets with the newest current girlfriend. My heart drops when the latest one isn’t the most welcoming. I am hopeful when he courts a girl who talks nail art and One Direction with her. But each time, he fails me. HE FAILS HER. The constant parade of the flavor of the moment is, even for a tween, unhealthy. She is forever fearful the newest flavor will be laced with spiteful tendencies towards her or me and take out her frustrations on her, physically, as a past one has done. The anticipation I feel, is multiplied many times over for her. She wants so badly for him to want to be a father. And, well, since he fails to want to do that a single gent…we both hold out for that one woman who will flip the tripped switch in the fatherhood fuse box. Until that day, I know my hugs are the best medicine for her. And for me, with this whole trying to eat better thing? Well, I better keep good tabs on the current stock of my home bar.