My mother's decision to swear my siblings to secrecy regarding her condition put me in the position of having to deal with the dilemma of whether I can actually trust them to tell me the truth.

I now know that having someone tell me that they're "fine" could mean anything but that. For all I know, the next time I get a report of "fine" from a family member, there might be another lying in ICU. That's a comforting thought to take into finals with you.

Just when you thought this type of disjunction only happened between unhappily married people, life reminds you that it can happen between people who love each other unconditionally.

I'd actually forgotten how it felt to deal with the fact that a loved one might not be telling you the truth — that they might even think that they're doing you a favor by concealing certain pieces of information from you. I'd also forgotten about the feelings and emotions expressed by all parties in a situation like this.

It seems that I've been operating in a binary world for so long — work/school = the absence of any real connection to human emotion — that I've forgotten the rules of engagement in for operation in this sphere.

It's funny — or not — how there's never a subtle reminder as to how to navigate through these situations. For now, I suppose I'll have to get through the end of the semester first, and deal with family after. That is, after all, what they wanted me to do.

This year was somehow different, as my longing to go home for Thanksgiving was foreshadowed with a sense of urgency, though I knew not why. I just had this nagging sense that if I didn't make the trip back to Florida that something bad was going to happen.

Turns out I was being completely irrational - I made the trip home and bad things happened anyway.

Actually, they happened before I got there - about three weeks before. I just happened to find out about it when my brother picked me up from the airport.

"Mom had a stroke and she has diabetes."

"WHAT!?" I wanted to jump out of the car.

"Well, we think it was a stroke. We have to get the results back. She didn't want us to tell you because she thought it would get in the way of your studies."

That's fantastic. Now my family is second rate to my education. I love the fact that I am 31 years old and other people are still calling the shots.

While I understand the rationale behind their not wanting to tell me about her condition, they fail to realize that withholding that type of information does not make the situation better. These are not the behaviors of a healthy relationship.

Never in my life have there been so many attempts to get me connected — to a man, not the internet — though I would prefer immediate access to the latter. Internet access wherever I go, whenever I want? How is that not one of the coolest things ever?

Anyway, the last hook-up attempt came on my trip home to "Deliverance country" where I thought I would spend the majority of my time chasing around one of the seven children (three cousins and four nieces and nephews) that happened to invade my mother's house.

The worst offender of late was my younger sister, who upon finding out about the neighbor was smitten with me decided to "pimp me out" — no joke. She insisted I go out with him. I resisted as best I could.

She called me chicken for not wanting to go out with him. I told her it was disinterest, not fear, that kept me from going out. That and the fact that is does no good to start something with someone so geographically distant. Gotta love the common sense factor.

Her last comment was the most shocking and disgusting thing she could have said to me.

"Just go out with him, let him drop some cash on you and have a good time."

Go out and "have a good time" with someone I have no interest in — while he spends money on me? Am I just insane or does this sound like something else to you?

When I think of Thanksgiving, I am mostly reminded of the days of yore — the smell of a phenomenal dinner 24 hours in the making, sitting around my childhood home with my four siblings waiting for the food to hit the table, fighting over who was going to get the turkey legs, turkey-induced food comas, temporary peace treaties (four siblings = lots of sibling rivalry), and the like.

At this point in my life — being on my own in New York City — I am reminded of how much I love and miss my family. I'm reminded of how wonderful they are, and how lucky I am to have them — no matter how much we may piss each other off from time to time.

I am also reminded of the six years I spent in the US Army — this holiday in particular always hit me the hardest. Thanksgiving is the only holiday my family really celebrates. Christmas was no big deal as I was not raised Christian. Most of the family was able to get together during this time, and I was always left to my own devices — usually in some less-than-desirable portion of the country.

My heart goes out to all those who continue to serve, and I hope that one day soon they will all be able to return to their loved ones.

Call your families. Tell them how much you love them and how grateful you are that they are there — I know I will.

In the stroller was your standard adorable toddler, but this time, it produced a slightly different reaction from me. I felt something — a flip of the switch or some equivalent. For a second, I actually pondered what it would be like to have one.

I mean really think about it, to the point where even my sexual fantasies— remember the 30-something power surge is in full effect right now— were permeated with the idea of conception. Motherhood — childbirth included — figures nowhere into my grand scheme of things. It was never even a blip on the radar.

Why I'm having these thoughts here and now, I can't help but wonder. It always seems as if life has decided to interfere with my progress at the most inopportune times. Here I am, halfway between thesis hell and the next step — whatever that may be. I have no viable income, no significant other (and no insignificant other, for that matter), with this strange tick and no idea what to make of it.

Nothing. That's what I suppose I'll make of it. Maybe if I ignore the twinge, it will go away. I should also try to imagine myself pregnant, or better yet — I should envision the childbirth process. I'm sure that will quash the thoughts. Onward and upward...

As I took my seat on a flight from New York's La Guardia to Milwaukee on Friday afternoon, I was warned by a set of parents seated behind me about their child's tendency of kicking the seat. They alluded to the fact that they would do what they could, but that most of the time, this only made the kid do it more.

I waived it off and thought, "OK, so the kid accidentally kicks the seat a few times — it happens."

After an incessantly long wait for take off — 45 minutes — accompanied by "Baby Beckham" assaulting the back of my chair with the mother's passive, "Ryan, no" as her only form of intervention, I snapped.

"Oh my God," I exclaimed as I turned around in a huff.

The mother simply looked at me and said, "Well, what do you want me to do?"

What did I want her to do? How about be a parent and get the kid to stop kicking my damn seat? I was livid by this time, and told her to refrain from bringing the child in public if she wasn't willing to exert more control over him.

I made a decision not to have kids, nor do I want to deal with other people's — especially when they are unwilling or unable to be effective parents. After being married to an unruly child who had two children of his own, I have no desire to deal with anyone's ill-behaved offspring.

A week ago, I had a very bizarre dream. From what I remember, I was being held captive my some balding, middle-aged man (yeah, I have no idea what that was about). I was scantily dressed and had to hog-tie the guy to make an escape.

Next thing I know, I was running my tuckus off and being chased by three men, one of whom was my brother (the other two were unknown). We were running on the top of a moving train and the three men were gaining on me with my brother leading the charge. Why my brother was involved at all is a mystery to me.

Before I could devote too much time to trying to figure that out, my brother tripped the other two men, allowing for my escape. Before I leaped to safety, I turned to look at my brother, we exchange knowing glances, and then, I woke up, feeling more exhausted than before I went to bed. I'd just spent the entire night running! I know that since my divorce, I've had a desire to push the envelop just to see what I can handle, but is this a sign that I'm trying to do too much?

Hello First Wives World community! I'm a relative newcomer to the blog but no stranger to the experience of divorce. I've been divorced for four years...was married for five. And at 31, I'm a non-traditional college student attending school in New York City and working toward my B.A. in Sociology. I'm going all out-going to school full-time-to complete my degree.

My story has a lot of twists and turns and bumps, and I'm sure that's like a lot of women's stories. I guess you'll discover all the bumps and detours here on the blog. I was raised in Gainesville, Florida, but born in Cincinnati where I lived for the first six years of my life. My roots are distinctly southern and Florida is my home; I am a hillbilly! I was raised almost exclusively by my mother who also juggled my four siblings; my father wasn't a contributing factor in my development. When I was 14, my parents finally divorced, a long overdue move by that point.

I left home four years later to start my life and tried the college route. Three semesters later, the attempt proved to be a bit premature. So shortly after leaving Florida State University at 19, I enlisted in the U.S. Army, where among other experiences, I met and married my husband at 22.

Without going into too many details about our split, I will say that if ever two people did NOT match up, this was IT! I wasn't who he wanted, though he tried in a very warped way to make me into that person, chipping away at who I had already become by this point and leaving a very brittle exterior.