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Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Mad Max

Yesterday, as I was sitting on the couch (watching TV, DUH) Henry was messing around with me, climbing on and off the couch, jumping on my lap, you know the drill.

About ten minutes tick-tocks by before I realized he was using poor old Max as a ladder, stepping all over his body so he could climb onto the couch. Aside from an occasional glance back to see what all the commotion was about, Max didn't flinch.

10-years-old, long-suffering as hell, constantly dealing with two crazy-ass toddlers pulling his ears, his tail, using him as a stepping stool, trying to ride him like a small pony and groping his genitals in an uncomfortable way and all he does in reply is roll mournful eyeballs at me as if to say: Seriously? Can't you maybe do something about this?