As far back as I can remember my mother surrounded me with rainbows and her encouraged whoever she was calling her friends at the time to do the same. Needless to say I had pictures and posters of rainbows all over my room. I was forced to wear rainbow-color clothes and jewelry, and little plastic rainbow pendents and barrets. When I was old enough to dress myself, she still insisted on buying only the most colorful clothing she could find, and most of it looked like it had been stuck in a time warp from the sixties.

By the time I turned seven I had had enough and took a stand. It was my birthday that I decided enough was more than enough. I declared that I would not answer to the name Rainbow anymore and if anyone had anything to say to me, they had to address me as Kiki. I ripped all the posters from my walls, except my two Monkees posters, and threw all the plastic rainbows she had draped and dangled on me into the garbage disposal. For a solid year I refused to wear clothing that was not black, white or gray. My grandmother managed to get me out of the phase. She gradually re- introduced color into my wardrobe, starting with the darker shades and within a year I was wearing pastels.

My grandmother, Rose as she preferred to be called, is one woman I admire more than anyone. She has always been a fiesty, head-strong, woman with the class and elegance of a bygone era. Since I was little I wanted to be just like her. Fortunately, my mother was always too busy pretending to work or partying like she was still seventeen to notice.

Every now and then she would ask why I dressed the way I did and always seemed so cranky around her. I could have given her a million reasons why I was the way I was. Her laid-back, things will take care of themselves, life is groovy attitude would be one thing. She seemed totally oblivious to the passage of time. Not having a father would also be at the top of the list. I never knew my father, in fact I was never even told his name. She never married either, so I never even had the opportunity to complain about a wicked step-father.

This does not, however, mean that I grew up without a male influence. There was Rick, Bob, Tom, Mike, Joe, Carl, Lloyd, Barry and Pete, to name a few. None of the stayed more then a year, if that long, and Mom was never single more than three or four months. I could not honestly say there was anything wrong with any of these men, aside from a moment of bad judgement. That moment was usually the one they used to ask out my mother.

She was flawed, which is putting it lightly. But even with her flaws and all the mistakes she made, I do love my mother. I can't deny that she always tried to give me what I wanted and needed, although some of her attempts were misguided.

About the only thing my other introduced to me that actually stuck was the Monkees. For some reason, that is one thing I genuinely like. I couldn't stick to the yoga and thought the tofu and vitamin diet was a lost cause. But the Monkees could always make me laugh and are apart of some of my earliest memories of my mom. I couldn't really say why I like their music or the show, it's just one of those things that offer a moment of security. Even now, when I hear "Daydream Believer" or "Sweet Young Thing" or "I'm A Believer" I have to smile and wonder where Mom is now.

Two weeks after I graduated high school, she packed a bag and drove off into the sunset. Of course she called a few days later to let me know she was alright, but the idea of becoming a grandmother "freaked her out." I couldn't really blame her, the idea of becoming a mother at eighteen scared the hell out of me. But I had Josh to help me.

Josh St. Matthew and I had been dating for two years in high school. He was my first, and the father of my baby. Josh was always a sweetheart to me. He was the kind of guy that would send flowers for no real reason. More importantly, he didn't run away screaming or deny the baby was his when I told I was pregnant. He had a good job working for his father's construction company and I worked as a sales clerk at a department store in the mall. Financially, we weren't rolling in the cash, but we weren't living payday to payday either. A week after graduation, we got married at his parents house. It was a small ceremony with just our families and closest friends their. For me, it was perfect. My best friends Gwen and Joni were my brides maids and my uncle Mike gave me away. I was glad I wasn't really showing yet and don't look like a whale in my wedding pictures.

Six and a half months later, we had a baby girl. After being teased and tormented throughout my youth for having a less than average name, I decided not to make my baby go through the same thing. Josh and I settled on Jane Marie St. Matthew. Of course I know by the time she hits high school she'll hate the fact that her name is so average. But I have thirteen years before that happens.

Josh and I had one of those "too-good-to-be-true" marriages. At least that was what Gwen called it. Everything seemed to be falling into place and for the first time I could ever remember, I was actually living the life I had wished for myself.

But this Cinderella story doesn't have a "happily-ever-after" epilogue because this one took place in reality. I never wanted to believe my best friends, Gwen and Joe, when they said that "as perfect as Josh seemed, there had to be something wrong with him." I'm still debating whether it was love or ignorance that was blinding me at the time. Or Josh was just damn lucky. Whatever it was, it wore off.

I came home early from work one day because I was sick as a dog and Jane was getting over the sniffles. As luck would have it, Josh was already home. I thought he would take care of me in the same loving way he always had before. Instead, I found him in the arms of another woman. And not just any other woman, but Joni, my best friend of six years.

To say the least, I was shocked and mortified. With Jane in my arms, I walked out of the house, crying. Not knowing what to do, I went to Rose's house. She took in Jane and me with open arms. The next day I filed for divorce.

Josh was amiable about it. He didn't contest the matter, considering I only asked for my share of our saving account, minimal child support and granted visitation on a weekly basis. I think he truly felt sorry for what he did. But even if he did, I don't think I could ever fully trust him again. Rose, along with my lawyer, think I should have raked him over the coals, but I didn't want to. I guess more of my mother's hippy-laid-back attitude is in me than I really admit.

The divorce was finalized about seven and a half months ago. Jane just turned two and her and I are still living with Rose. Rose says that Jane will be the only one ever allowed to call her �grandma'. They are my family now.

I hear from my mother every two weeks or so and Josh picks up Jane every Friday night loyally. I have my job and going out with my two best friends, Gwen and Joe, is the closest thing I have to a social life. Both of them say I need to start dating again. But I really don't want to. But Josh did hurt me down the soul, and I'm not totally sure I want to put myself in a position to get hurt like that again. Of course, being the caring friends they are, they try to set me up with people. Whenever Gwen starts in about introducing me to a friend of hers, I tell her biker's and one-night stands aren't my type. Then Joe will tease me about it, and I tell if that if he were straight, neither one of us would be single.

So that's my life. Or at least the major highlights so far. I think I can deal with what fate has dealt me so far. No matter how pathetic I think it is sometimes, I just tell myself, "Trust me, Kiki, it could be a helluva lot worse!" And I know that's true.

Gwen told me that keeping a journal of my life and feelings is a great form of therapy. She even went so far as to buy me a book of blank, lined pages. I took it as a subtle hint. Maybe, in twenty years, when I dig this out of a long forgotten box and flip through, it will all make sense. Someone told me once that hindsight was the key to clarity in life. I guess in time I will prove (or disprove) that theory that theory and for now I will volunteer my dysfunctional life as the proverbial guinea pig.

On the upside, the things that I go through could happen to Jane. And with a journal, I would a written record that I do know what she's talking about. Or maybe it will serve as a reminder to myself when I help a friend through a problem and I can make them feel less alone. In either case, it wouldn't take hindsight to make my life seem somehow worthwhile.