Category: kids

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And Then What?

Every morning I wake up, look myself straight in the mirror and tell myself in no uncertain terms that today, TODAY, I’m going to just keep going and keep doing and not spend a bunch of time getting lost in my head and crying about things I can’t control.

Every morning I tell myself this and every day for the past week or so it makes no difference. I cry on and off anyway. Turns out I’m not that great at lying to myself on purpose, only inadvertently.

Is it lying? When you don’t look or recognize the truth? When I made the decision to leave my first husband, it was the scariest thing I’d ever done in my life thus far. I knew it meant leaving my children but I thought it was just for awhile. I told myself that going away for a time, getting well and then coming back and being able to be a mom was the right choice. I was wrong about the consequences of that decision when it came to my kids. I severely underestimated the impact it would have on the dynamics of our relationships. Of course, I didn’t know any better. I made a choice that saved my life and made it possible to be their mom at all. And that same choice pretty much ensured that I would never be their mom, in the sense that I longed for and made the choice for in the first place.

It’s like the worst case of ironic turn of play ever and I still haven’t quite come to terms with it. I expect my face will be blotchy and my eyes will be swollen when I wake up for the next few weeks like they have been for the past few weeks. I’m in mourning for this thing, this Mom, this idea of what it would be like that will not ever come to pass. By the time my children are old enough to make decisions about how they want our relationship to be, it will be something new and not what I imagined. It will be fine. It will be perfect and just how it should be. Just not what I was hoping, planning and working for.

I’ve missed out on so much of their young lives and I’m going to miss out on much of their teen lives. Here’s hoping I get to be included in more of their adult lives.

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So Much Less Than It Should Be

I’m not sure where the weekend, Monday or today went, but suddenly it’s 5pm on Tuesday. I’ve been doing stuff. New projects (would you expect anything less) job interviews, new writing gigs etc. I hate doing the flirt, dash and run update but I’m afraid that’s all I have in me at the moment.

Look, it’s my daughter:

al3b

Umm, look! It’s Ants on a Log:

one of joe's favorite snacks

Look! It’s my genetic eyebrow showing up in my son:

the eyebrow he gets from me

Do you feel cheated? Do you still love me? Are you still coming over this weekend with a 6pack of Red Stripe?

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Acceptance

On Wednesday, the kids go back to their dad’s home. I get them back a few days later for about a week. It’s all even-steven around here this summer. And that will be my last week for a long time and we’ll be back to Wednesday after school ’til 9pm and three weekends out of four a month.

At the beginning of the summer, I told the kids that we would try this half-and-half thing out. Just see how it goes. Just see if they like it. Just try it! You might like it! They reluctantly agreed. And I’ve been keeping an eye out for problems. Issues. What have yous. And for the most part, I think it’s worked. But that concern, that heavy sigh on trading day, that frustration at not having the right gear at the right time – it’s not gone away for them, despite my planning. You just can’t plan and remember everything.

I watch my boys grabbing clothes, sports equipment, Mp3 players, computer games and other things that you don’t think about. Daily use items that it’s not really possible to have at both houses. You can get two of things to a certain extent but there are some things that you just have one of and you only need one of and only want one of. I watch them try to think of everything so we don’t have to go back or make a special trip. And we always forget a few things, even when we make lists. Carrying everything back and forth is laborious enough without the forgetting part.

Finally, a few days in, things start moving smoothly and everything that’s needed is at our home. And then it’s trading day again and we do the same routine in reverse. With deep sighs.

My daughter is a bit different. She’s older, more mobile. If she forgets something, she just takes her car to go get it. There is an occasional sigh or two but it’s not as audible. It’s different for her because she’s never really moved in here like her brothers have. Yes, she is the first to decorate her room, but her heart doesn’t live here. She refused and has held her ground. She’ll stay a few nights but just as often she’s sleeping at a friend’s home or back at her dad’s. She comes and goes as she wants, which I suppose is fine and age appropriate. Her reasons are different than the boys. For her, it’s less a stress of logistics and more the fear of our relationship changing. We talked about it again just the other night. Me giving her curfews and talking to her as a mother would – no go. She wants us to be friends and she wants me to be the one she can confide in. If I’m her Mom, she can’t tell me all her secrets because I become The Mom. But if things between us don’t change, she tells me everything and I stay in the loop. I hardly know what to fight for anymore. Perhaps I need to stop fighting all together. What does John say? “Love more, fear less. Float more, steer less.” It’s the fighting part that gets me so tired.

School starts in a few weeks and things will go back to how they were. It’s not best for the boys to be stressed about where their stuff is. It’s not best for them to not have a centralized location, a place where they instinctively call home, a place where they are expected and needed and don’t have to think about – it just is home. I wanted so badly for it to work. For there to be two equal homes. Two places where they blend in and feel needed and fit and don’t have to think about, but that is not the case and something has to give. And that ends up being me.

It’s kind of like when the company goes through the firings during downsizing for the good of the company. Last one to be hired is the first one to go. The Kids At Their Dad’s Regime has been standing the longest, or at least as long as any of them remember. The Kids At Their Mom’s Regime came along later and thus is what gets cut. To hear them tell it, I just up and left one day and then another day, later on, decided to come back for whatever reason. It’s been ingrained in them and no matter how many times we talk about it or they ask me and I tell them again what happened, it’s just in their heads that way and it doesn’t change. That is their reality. And that is what I have to work with.

This is all the underneath stuff. The guts of the thing, if you will. The underpinnings that somehow allow the top layers to work and function. And the upper levels are all fine. The kids come over and sometimes stay the night. We laugh and hang out and play games. I run them places. We tease each other and hug and sit on the couch and eat popcorn. All the top layer things in our lives are fine. As long as I don’t want to be their mother, things are fine. As long as I remember to shut that part up and not resent that I don’t get to nurture them and do That Thing, whatever it is, things are fine. They shouldn’t be ashamed to feel how they feel. It’s my job, as their mother that loves them, to make it fine for them to be how they need to be and accommodate our relationships so they are comfortable and get everything they need. I’m the adult and must be selfless to some degree and allow them to call their dad and his wife ‘My parents’ to their friends and talk to me about their step mom as ‘my mom’ and not show how much it stings and eats away at my heart.

As long as I remember that the most important things are that they feel loved and have their needs met and are safe, everything is fine for them. But most of the time, it hurts me like hell.

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Somethin' Funky Up In Here

After every time-consuming or effort-extracting event, I go through a letdown. I’m not sure if it’s organic, chemical, physical or psychological or probably a combination of them all, but it’s as if my body says, ‘Whew! Ok, let’s hibernate and possibly get sick for a bit!’ after which I cry for a few days and endure a cold or other illness. Is it possible I actually DO catch a cold or other illness? Or am I just incredibly spent and want to sleep so my body invents an ailment? Inquiring minds wanna know.

Warning – this may be one of the most painful entries ever as far the segue goes. My brain is cloudy and I can barely remember how to speak ACTUAL WORDS such as CAR and PAINT and CLOSE WINDOW when someone comes to the door. Leave now or forever hold your peace.

In the airport coming home, when for some strange reason I decided my hands were invisible and therefore not functional, I neglected to take out my camera so you could all see Miss Arizona USA (not to be confused with the ol’ regular Miss Arizona) sitting and waiting for the flight to, you guessed it, Arizona. Do you know how I know? She had her sash on. Her required sash for all the free airline travel she gets. And if I heard her say it once, I heard her say it a million times (or at least the actual 6 times I DID hear her say it), she is NOT dating Bill M., Preston C., James F., Tony S., Tony L. or Tony Z. I don’t care what those silly men say, she is NOT. (smiling SMILING smiling)

There was a youngish man, guitar out on his lap, sitting next to her and, I kid you not, playing and picking those strings for the entire 90 minutes we waited for the flight. 90 minutes of Johnny Cash and Waylon Jennings songs, a few of which he hummed along with, not so badly. He was so earnest. So very, very earnest and I wanted to stop reading my book for a minute (yes, my hands reappeared and functioned for my book) just to tell him I would enjoy his music more if he would only play a little Dave Matthews or even Patsy Cline, but he would never have heard me, so completely wrapped up in her he was. His adoring eyes never left her face, not even for the Gypsy Kings segment.

The friend referred book I was reading is called God Is Not Great. I’ve struggled with religion since I was a child and it’s only now that I’m realizing it’s alright to say out loud that I might not believe in God. At least not the type of God I was instructed to love and obey as a child. In the scriptures is says ‘By their fruits ye shall know them’ and my problem has always been that what I mostly see is hypocrisy and ways to keep people out in every religion I’ve studied. But not in all my 36 years and not until I read this book did it dawn on me that I didn’t have to keep searching to find the one I wanted to belong to. Because I don’t want to belong to any of them. And man, I’ve had such a sense of peace and relief with that realization.

Speaking of politics (weren’t we? I did warn you…), I’m trying to figure out how to support any candidate that is Christian. After all the wars done in the name of different Gods, the number of people persecuted for being different and the (what I consider to be) faulty reasoning behind it, voting for someone that I know holds those beliefs would be just plain wrong, wouldn’t it?

A number of people I know are having babies, just had a baby or actively trying to have a baby. (Still with me?) I’ve been trying to have a baby. So much so that it took medical intervention to get me to give it a break already. So many miscarriages in so little time are not a good thing and there have been a few not mentioned on this blog. Today, after reading Schmutzie, who I realize had a totally different reason for writing what she did, I had the sudden realization that maybe The Universe has been trying to tell me that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t be trying to have another child but I couldn’t hear it yet. And then I thought maybe I’d get my tubes tied. And then I almost cried because it sounded like such a wonderful idea. I’ve not ever considered this option before and I’m not in any hurry to go and get it done, but it’s an interesting turn of events, is it not? Life is so fascinating.

My sister comes out with her husband in a few weeks for an entire glorious weekend of nothing to do put poke our toes in the sand. If I tell her I don’t believe in God, will she still love me?

My daughter is 16. (Did your brain just crickety-crack trying to keep up?) Completely and utterly 16 and everything it entails. I would not go back and be 16 for every, single, solitary fat-free and guiltless cheeseburger in all of China, of which there are none, but even if there were. She routinely hurts my feelings to the very depths of my soul as only your daughter can and it’s continually my job as her mother to love her just like she is, right where she’s at, and not make her feel ashamed. Being a parent is one of the frackinist jobs of all time. And yet, I wouldn’t trade it for anything and actually went through hell just to be in this position but I’ve got to learn to give myself permission to have a bad day without self recrimination. Wow, that was an awfully and probably unnecessarily wordy paragraph. Sorry, Mrs. Beasley.

This freelancing and doing the stray article now and again has not brought in the amount of cold, hard cash one might expect. Or, maybe it’s exactly as much as one might expect. All that to say – not much. And I’m feeling the itching in my fingers and in my brain to do something more substantial. There was a job a few months ago that I was excited about but ended up not getting and ever since then, I’ve just not really looked. But I think it’s that time, friends. It’s THAT time. So, Hello Universe – I’d like a winner job, please. Oh, and thanks.

My husband is awesomer than I ever imagined or dared hope.

And also, mashed potatoes with tiny bitso cheddar cheese just might be the best thing since Kindereggs. (Thanks, Jen.)

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Family At The 50th

It can be rough hanging out with family. I get excited and nervous. I look forward to it and dread it at the same time. I’m sure I’m not alone in having mixed feelings. Everyone’s childhood was a mixed bag and along with the happy memories, there are usually things you’d just as soon forget entirely.

While I anticipate getting to reconnect with my siblings, the mere fact that there are 7 of them makes it hard to fit it all in. And you sometimes end up with these little rushed Howareyous, I’mdoingfinethanks and Whatareyoudoingnow-s that can start to feel a little less than genuine by the 4th or 5th time. Add to that the fact that not many of them understand the whole internet-blogging-writing thing and it strains the conversation a bit. Or brings it to a startling halt. Whichever.

The 10 Of Us

I love them all to pieces but I find that I don’t have a lot in common with many of them. We can talk about parenting to a certain point but then it starts to break apart since I’m part of a divorced/remarried couple and the only one of my kind among My People. I don’t have the luxury of feeling free enough to complain about the strains of parenthood since part of me feels like if I dare to utter anything along those lines, I’ll jinx the time I get to spend with my kids. Like, I should be so grateful that I have them as much as I do, complaining about anything would show a distinct lack of gratitude. So when another parent starts to roll their eyes a bit and vent about so-and-so at a certain age, I try to identify with it but really, in my head I’m thinking about how lucky I am if I get to see that particular personality trait at that certain age or I’m thinking about how sad I am that I missed that when it was happening with my child.

And of course, religion. Some of my family feels like I must still be mentally ill because if I was really well, I’d have rejoined the Mormon church. They can’t fathom not wanting to be Mormon. This subject goes so deep that it’s sometimes hard to figure out where the emotional part ends and the factual part starts. I don’t believe I’ll ever join any organized religion, least of all the Mormon church, but that doesn’t mean I can’t understand why they want to belong to it.

Politics are most definitely out.

Which really leaves nutrition and diet. You might say my family has a slight obsession with talking about those subjects. Fiber, sleeping habits, blood results and breakfast. Oh yes, we know how to have a good time. At some point, one of us should write it all down and sell the book.

There is one part of every family get together that I truly do look forward to and that is the singing get-together. We have a folder thick with old sheet music and almost everyone knows the words or at least the tune and can hum along. They are the songs we sang on long car rides from our home to my grandparent’s home every summer. I have the best memories of my father’s voice singing tenor and my older brother singing bass, my mom and sisters singing soprano and alto and me trying to figure out where my voice fit. The Green Eyed Dragon is one of my favorites as is I’m Gonna Sit Right Down and its counter harmony It’s A Sin To Tell A Lie. Singing with my family always makes me teary and emotional. Sometimes I’ll just have tears streaming down my face and no way to control it. I’m not sad, exactly, but nostalgic, maybe, for what I wish my childhood could have been like and thankful for this small way to connect with all of them. It’s hard to always feel slightly on the outside.

This year for the family talent show, Alex sang Fever and the boys and I sang backup. We had a good time and no one in my family had a heart attack from the explicit meaning of the song. Here we are in all our glory:

Fever

We ended the evening with a dance. We try a dance every few years and my boys never fail to suddenly disappear. This year, my mom was the MC and she did a great job switching things up. We did the Broom Dance, a Two-Step Cakewalk and the Virginia Reel with her calling out the steps.

Virginia Reel 1

Even with all our issues, I wouldn’t trade my family for any other. Especially now since they said we’ll never go camping again. I’m voting 5 star hotel with masseuse and basement arcade complete with soundproof walls.

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Various Updates

Of which my blog is one.

I love how I was so insane that I couldn’t even add the S on the end of ‘seconds’ to this post title. What a tool I am.

Here is what the sunset looked like last night through my sunglasses. Tony took it. I like it a lot. I guess the song is real.

This is one of my favorite moments from the weekend:

kids1

I haven’t gone through the reunion photos yet.

So many video interviews posted while I was away!

Video of Catherine Connors from Her Bad Mother
Video of Eden from Fussy
Video of Melissa Summers from Suburban Bliss
Video of Leah from A Girl and a Boy
Video of Angela from Fluid Pudding

UPDATED: JenB from JenandTonic

You should go watch them because they represent a large chunk of time from last year’s Blogher and also because these women are great!!

And now I have to go shower because I hear tell that cleanliness is something that the people around you appreciate. Whatever.

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Let Me Tell You

Let me tell you a little story: The last post I did? I actually posted it a week ago but it was somehow set to PRIVATE and I didn’t know it and then I realized it and then I marked it PUBLIC and now you can see it. Cool story, huh? There is no moral or arc. You’ll just have to get over it and accept it for what it is, whatever that is.

Let me tell you a big secret: I’ve gained 15 pounds in the past 2 years. Add that to the 20 pounds I gained when my thyroid started going out 4 years ago and the gazillion pounds I gained on medications for 6 years and you’re talking about a-LOT-o weight. And now I look like this. I look at that person and can’t believe it’s me. I don’t feel like that on the inside but I sure do feel like that when I get on the treadmill. I can’t exercise more than about 20 minutes without getting so sleepy, achy and wiped out that I don’t move for the next 12 hours. The doctor said that within 7-8 weeks on the higher thyroid dose I will start to feel an improvement and be able to workout longer. ‘What a relief’ said my knees. She also said my appetite should improve once my body starts functioning again like a real person and that I would actually GET HUNGRY and then WANT TO EAT and that in so doing I would LOSE WEIGHT because I would have energy to MOVE MY BODY. She also told me that I will have a harder time because I used to have eating disorders. And also not to get pregnant for the next two years. (SADFACE)

Let me tell you a little something about time management: I have three large boxes with approximately 447 photos to scan and crop and resize and put on disks for my entire family before the reunion later this month. I have had these images since last July and have not cracked them open or done a little scanning each day to cut down on the overall effort. After the reunion is Blogher and I’m supposed to have some really funny and entertaining things to say. Who thinks I can do it?

Let me tell you a very short sentence about moving boxes: STILL THERE.

Let me tell you about my kids: They stayed here for 9 days. Now they are at their dad’s for 10. And then they’ll be back for 5 and then at his for etc. etc. and on through August. You ask, Do they like it? Are they sad they have to do 50/50 time? And I answer you with the only measuring sticks I have available –

  • Alex said she hopes we stay in this house until she graduates in 2 years and also that she likes being able to be here whenever she wants. I think my curfew for her is 30 minutes later than her dad’s. Is that bribery? I wasn’t aware of it before hand so I must vote no. But it doesn’t hurt.
  • Ty trusts me to get him to his daily practices and games on time and prepared with the necessary sport accessories. His face no longer looks strained or worried an hour before we leave. He called this house his Home at least 3 times in phone conversations that I overheard.
  • Tony’s room is as messy over here as at his dad’s. He does not put clothes in the hamper or away in his drawers. He also makes snacks at midnight and doesn’t clean up after himself. I’m taking all these things as signs that he is as comfortable here as there.


Let me tell you a tiny nerd anecdote: Tony’s friend came over and asked if we had the Pink Floyd movie, The Wall. I told him he could check the shelves. He asked where it might be and I told him they were in alphabetical order. He breathed out, ‘Coooool!’

Let me tell you a post script: LA Angst is coming up on July 11th! Reader spaces are filling up quick this time if I believe the 17 people that told me they want to read. Get off the fence, duckies! I only have room for seven six more of you.

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Photabulous, The Recap

sd33

I threw clam chowder up once and I couldn’t eat it for about 6 years and that was a onetime vomit deal. Nothing like the incredible amounts of awesome pain I’ve been in with our old friend Blue Cheese. You’d think I got ran over by a truck and then wrung out like an old dishrag. Picture me lying prone, moisture-less and wrinkled up like an old prune, arm extended slightly up and meekly calling for water. Additionally, I’ve had about 10 narcoleptic naps the past few days and as Joe will tell you, normally I can’t fall asleep anywhere except in the bed with about 15 pillows moated around me, the lights out and the fan on low to lull me into unconsciousness. Sometimes there is chanting going on in the background and incense rolling out in tufts over the headboard. If he so much as breaths wrong, I stiffen and have to start the whole relaxation process* over again, starting with my toes. Man, I’m a party in the sack.

The first and only time I ate blue cheese prior to this past weekend was in high school. Someone dared me to taste it so I tongued a chunk, gagged, and then spent my hard-earned 5 dollars on a new Duran Duran cassette tape. I probably had an eating disorder and I threw up on purpose so I could fit into my super tight button fly stonewashed 501s, so I don’t think you can count it as a really sad episode in my life. Plus, Double Duran? I scored. (Simon! I waited for you for so long!)

Joe will routinely get salad with blue cheese. I still kiss him but I have to admit that it’s not high on my list of Things Joe Eats That Make Me Lust. It’s higher than onion and garlic but lower, much lower, than say, strawberries or chocolate.

Last weekend I took Alex to San Diego with me for a get together with the photabulous women I shoot photos with occasionally. (I can say occasionally now that it’s happened twice, right?) Anyhoo, we started the wonderful day eating brunch and then walking downtown looking for things to take photos of. We only annoyed a couple of people. Quite a successful feat for us. I must say that what Ocean Beach was lacking in silicone it more than made up for in body odor. BO in OB. GET IT?? And also? Unfortunate clothing choices.

While we waited for our food at Hodad’s, I heard my name called through the open window. And lo and behold, there was Joe’s Aunt Joan! Fun surprise. We chatted through the window until the angry man (ASShole!) sitting in between us “asked” us to stop.

At the beach we saw a dude with friendly parrots who used a very unique call to get them to come back. I believe it went something like, “Hey! Get back here!! NOW!!” And the weird thing is that they did.

Margot, Susan, Alex and I went to Old Town to the Living Room to eat fish tacos for dinner. And then Margot went home. (sadface)(hello, matt!)

On the way to Susan’s home, we stopped at Aaryn’s home. The minute I walked into the door her husband Sam put me to work folding towels. Just kidding. I love to fold clothes so I pushed my way into the Folding Circle. I just don’t like putting them away or hanging them up. Their home is quite lovely and we had great conversation but we missed seeing Ruby in the flesh. What? Kids don’t stay up past 11?

We finally made it to Susan’s where we found hand written notes scattered along the kitchen counter intermixed with plates and bowls of food. Twas a veritable smörgasbord and all fixed lovingly by Mr. Susan, Doug Myrland. Yes, Doug had given up on us ever really making it to the house and had long since gone to bed, but he left behind him the very best parts of himself and we consumed the delectable chicken wings and veggies and fried zucchini and fried olives. (Olives? Really?? Yes. They were yummy.) And herein is where we meet our old friend Blue Cheese because what would you dip all the wonderful crudités in if not blue cheese dressing? And it wasn’t just an ordinary blue cheese dressing. This was a Doug Myrlandized blue cheese dressing with additions that I can only imagine. Probably magic and fairy dust because it was the most delicious thing I’d ever had on raw carrots and celery sticks.

About a half gallon later, I went straight to bed where my stomach proceeded to not digest a single, solitary iota of any particle of food. One of the fun effects of stupid hypothyroid is slow digestion, which makes me never really feel hungry and I forget to eat because the food just sits there. It also means I’m pooping out chicken and blue cheese today from 3 days ago even though I emptied my stomach through the top vent by throwing up the entire drive home. Yes, I loved the blue cheese the first time but not the next 17 times. But, Doug! Thanks for being so sweet and next time we’ll get there sooner and eat with you. But I’m afraid I must bid the blue cheese adieu.**

I saw my old/new doc the other day and she upped my dose by about a kazzillion percent, was astonished at the lack of care I’d received during the year and a half I had been away from her and was righteously angry on my behalf as I told her all about how ridiculous and obtuse that dumb doctor was. I felt validated and safe. And then I cried real puppy dog tears and thanked her from the bottom of my heart for being so informed and saying all the things I needed to hear. After feeling my throat for what seemed like ages, she determined that the nodules are actually getting smaller. Instead of going crazy with some kind of invasive procedure, we’re going to wait and see. I like that. She even hugged me on the way out and gave me a two-month supply of Synthroid at the new, higher dose to save me money. You can’t beat that. As bad as the old place was, the new/old place is that great in contrast and I’m so glad to be back with them. There is a reason they don’t accept HMOs. It allows them to keep their level of care so much higher.

*My relaxation technique was given to me by one of my therapists where you start with either your head or your toes and consciously think about each body part relaxing while steadying and deepening your breathing. It usually works for me but it takes a dang long time.

**Alex just came home and told me that her stomach feels terrible and that she might start ralphing. I wonder if we caught a bug and that it had nothing to do with blue cheese at all? If that is the case, I’d like to apologize to Doug’s Blue Cheese Dip. Aaryn, did you say you got sick, too?

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Can't Wait For The Movie

My friend Susan and I play this game sometimes. It doesn’t really have a name but the basic rules of the game are – have the worst life/circumstances of everyone around you. But you have to laugh about it. Ya, I think that’s it in a nutshell.

For example, if I got a ticket for illegal parking but she broke her arm, she wins. If she got stung by a bee but I broke the heel on my Manolos, I win. Actually, that might win a lot of stuff. Unless she is allergic to bees and has to go to the emergency room and almost dies, then I guess that would win. Maybe.

In any case, Susan’s mom died recently so she totally won, for like, days and days and maybe weeks. I mean, you can’t really top that, right? The things that could happen to trump the death of a parent are pretty far and few between. Except now. Now I think I might win for a bit.

But the second part of the rules, the laughing at the situation part, I’ve been unable to do until today. Today it just seems hysterical in a sad, yet funny way. I mean, imagine this last chapter of my life as a movie. Mom goes to mental hospital. Kids and father move. Mom spends the next four years job after job and house after house inching closer in a very dramatic and pragmatic fashion, always repeating some mantra like, ‘This will all be worth it someday when my kids are living with me again!’ and throw in some arm shaking and maybe background music. Oh, I think Climb Every Mountain or Ain’t No Mountain High Enough would work great. There would be close-ups of sweat falling from my temples, little ringlets of hairs coming out from my bun all misty and dewy over the kitchen sink.

Hey, I know! Let’s put me in a covered wagon – the preferred mode of transportation of My People. I can wear the Bonprons I made and some bloomers made of scratchy, low-grade cotton so my knees will get irritated as we go along. I’ll walk and walk and walk and walk aaaaaaand walk. I think there better be falling down in crevasses and storms of many kinds.

And then, as the smoke clears and a slight wind rustles my hair, you’ll see the determination set in my jaw line as I go those last few feet on my hands and knees. My fingernails packed with dirt from pulling my limp body (did I forget to say I got paralyzed from the waist down somewhere along the line? Probably a freak accident with an Emu.) along the muddy grassland, clump by clump.

Then let’s fast forward past the part where I built the cabin after wrastlin’ the miners for the plot of land that was my great grandfathers and rightfully mine. And past the part where I spin the wool and make fabric and then sew curtains for every room. And past the part where I planted the garden, toiled in the fields and then bottled 1,364 bottles of corn for the winter. And past the part where I send the telegram to the children and tell them the homestead is finally, FINALLY ready for them.

Let’s just go straight to the part where they get the telegram and go, ‘Meh. No thanks!’ because that, my friends, is comedy gold. And I do believe it’s a comedy. Anything that depressing has to be a comedy just to sit through it.

I know I’m winning more than just Susan. The past few days when people call on the phone I’ll say, ‘Hey – I heard about [whatever-I-heard-here] and how are you doing with that?’ And they’ll say, ‘Oh, Leah, no biggie. We didn’t lose the farm and no one got hurt and my kids still want me to, you know, be their mom…’ at which point their voice kind of trails off.

Thanks for the kind emails you’ve sent. Mostly they were very thoughtful and I appreciate you taking the time to write me. However, I’d like to point out that, as one friend said, teens are in the height of their asshole stage and I have four of them and I know this. I was the Queen of Bitch during my teen years. I realize this and recognize this and being their mom, I’m allowed to say it. But please refrain from expounding on that idea in emails or comments. No matter what they do or say, they are my children and I love them with a fierce passion that will cause me to cut you if you attack them with your words. Personal stories of how YOU were an asshole are fine, though. And, please feel free to send love and candy! I like candy. And yarn. And tiny dogs.

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Less Time Thinking and More Time Doing

I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.

Excuse me while I wax slightly melodramatic. I’ve spent years of my life with one purpose, my only purpose, a sole purpose, to now find that it’s not needed in the slightest. I am, in fact, unnecessary. Can you imagine? Spending years of your life believing one thing and working towards something with every fiber of your being in every way that you possibly could? To believe something as a solid truth only to find out that you were completely wrong?

I’m crushed. I’m saddened beyond belief. I do not, in fact, even know the words to express my pain. I’m screaming with my hand over my mouth. If only you could hear me! If you were in my head you’d know. You’d feel the reverberations so deep, your bone marrow would vibrate. The tune hasn’t been written, but only touched upon by the dark and soulfullest strains of the blues song you’ve never heard, barely skimming with its tawny, skinny finger along your cheek.

Ah, yes, you think. There she goes again. Going on about the kids and her feelings and the dreadful inadequacy of it all. Believe me when I tell you this is different. At least for me it is. For you, you could be entirely correct. If that is the case, feel free to spend your time accordingly and move on to the next reading spot of your choice.

My husband is going through one of the hardest moments of his life thus far. I support him and love him the same as always and even more because of his deep sadness and fear. He keeps his feelings reigned in, on my behalf, I suppose. He cries by himself, afraid that I’ll come apart at the seams if he isn’t strong and all put together. It hurts me. Oh, how it hurts me to hold him and have him keep his sobs silently inside, with only his shoulders heaving slightly, a smile on his face when we pull away and barely a tear in his eye. Careful not to get any of his sadness on his wife whom he thinks couldn’t handle it. He didn’t ask me if I could take a little of it for him, rest it on my back like a mantle for a bit and give him reprieve. He doesn’t dare. He knows what he knows and he has his tight-knit family for the sad-sharing. They know each other. They take care of each other. I’m glad they do. I’m glad he isn’t worried about how I feel. All their energies have much more important things to do at this moment and I support that 100%. Even more, if it were possible. Even more, if he would let me in. In the meantime, I’ll have to do with the cursory reports of progress.

There is a natural and opposite reaction to every action. The counterpoint for his is mine, namely, my kids. But, really, who’s to say which came first? Perhaps I met him like this. As much as he won’t allow me into his family, I don’t allow him into mine. He can forge relationships with all of the children that will let them, which by my estimation is roughly 2.75 of them collectively. I can try to nurture his attempts but on the outset, it’s his journey, as I have remained a neutral party for my children’s benefit. I’ve been a safe harbor for them to come to at any moment, including a disagreement or confusion with him. And I’ve repeatedly told myself that this was oh-so-very necessary. A duty of love from their mother. My never-ending job, to be there always and unfailingly for them, my beautiful offspring. First and foremost, failing nothing.

So odd when your perception shifts. You’re looking through the lens in one direction and then suddenly you’re off balance and falling to the floor on one ear. The way you’ve seen things suddenly turned 90 degrees and the first thought to your head is – Of course! Why haven’t I seen things this way the whole time? Why didn’t I know this – this – thing? Why? Am I daft?

My children don’t need me. They don’t need me in the way I’ve been projecting for ages to myself and to the world. In fact, they have a mother and a fine one at that. My ex and his wife are entirely the perfect parents. It could be completely true that I need them far more than the other way round. Because without them, who am I? But, without me? They are still themselves in a complete family unit lacking nothing. I, on the other hand, am only part of a half of a relationship where deep feelings are kept to the person who feels them. I can’t say a solid half because no one sees me that way, let alone myself. So, only a part I remain.

I’ve been so stubborn and self-centered. I haven’t listened when they’ve tried to tell me. They are happy the way things are! I’ve been supposing that I had things to offer, things that could be had no where else but I was deluding myself. One of them was finally brave enough to tell me how they all felt.

Oh, the planning I’ve taken. The silly and thorough planning. Working the entire day around one of them popping in for less than five minutes. The miles I’ve traversed to see an hour of a football game or pass off a book left behind. All because I thought in some way I was important in their lives. Well, to be fair, I am important as much as a beloved aunt or friend of the family can be. Just not in the way I thought I was: a Mother.

I think of my attempts at being their mom as so sad. I’m embarrassed. How awkward for them, to have to pretend I was doing somewhat of a good job at it. There were clues along the way. Their reluctance at putting personal items in their rooms here. Their indifference at whether I’m in attendance at a school or sports activity. I thought it might be a way of protecting their feelings. But I was wrong. It was the reality of the situation I was afraid to look at. And now, the Universe has cracked a bit and the sound is hurting my head.

Do I sound bitter? I suppose I am. But not at them. Really, they’ve done the best they could with what they had. When you go through years of hearing that someone is a mental case, it’s hard to see them as anything but. They’ve managed to become a family with close ties to their father and their step-mom, which is so much better for them than the opposite. I suppose I’m just nursing my wounds at being on the outside again and wishing I were on the inside for once with my kids. A family where I’m the mom and they are my children.

At some point I’ll have to figure out what’s next. What is the next step? Certainly less time thinking and more time doing is the order of the day. I want to do something and I want to do it well. I need something, anything, to fill this hole in my heart a mile wide.