Eat, Pray, Love. January 30, 2010

Short post today, because I’ve spent the whole of my noncustodial Saturday being terrifically lazy in bed and now must get ready to go to a dinner party.  Poor me.

Anyway, I’m currently reading Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I’m a few years late to the party on this one and am only reading it now because I recently read a review for her new book that referenced her old book and decided I needed to start at the beginning, because that’s generally the best place to start.  For those of you who are as out of the loop as I am and do not know of this book, it’s one woman’s chronicling of the time period after a fairly brutal divorce—she spends months in Italy, India and Indonesia, finding herself and finding God.  There are parts of the book that are way too hokey for me and at times it’s a little too navel-gazing for my taste.  BUT … there are parts of the book that resonate deeply with me.  Or rather, parts of it that blast me over the head, sledgehammer-style, and have actually prompted me to pull out a pen and UNDERLINE certain passages in the book (and I haven’t done that since reading To Kill a Mockingbird in 6th grade).

The first such passage was this—when writing about the end days of her marriage, the author says: “We’d been fighting and crying, and we were weary in that way that only a couple whose marriage is collapsing can be weary.  We had the eyes of refugees.”

WHAM.  Out came the red pen and I underlined a passage in a book for the first time in nearly 30 years.  I couldn’t not underline it.  Because by God, I knew that feeling.  From the time I was 7 months pregnant with Amelia until my divorce was final some 17 months later, I was WEARY.  I was doing everything I could to save the foundation upon which I’d built my life, and it was crumbling beneath my feet.  I felt haunted and hunted.  I was fighting an unseen foe and it was gut-wrenchingly, life-drainingly, soul-suckingly exhausting.  I was weary in that way that that only a person whose marriage is collapsing can be weary.  If you’ve been there, or if you’re there right now, you know exactly what Elizabeth Gilbert means.

The thing is, I wouldn’t have given up that fight.  For the sake of my kids, for the sake of my marriage, for the sake of the husband and best friend I’d made promises to, I’d have kept fighting.  That’s not to say I don’t understand people who can’t fight the fight anymore and it’s not to say I judge those who choose to walk away, but that wasn’t an option for me.  I’d have stayed and I’d have kept trying and I’d have remained weary.

As it turned out, the choice wasn’t mine to make.  When I read that line in Eat, Pray, Love I realized, gratefully, that I am no longer weary.  Whatever challenges come from single-parenting and being single in general—they’ve got nothing on the uphill battle I was waging at the end of my marriage.  My life today might not be as great as it once felt, back when my marriage was good, but it sure as HELL beats the end days when things were bad.

I have no real point today, unless it’s this:  Sometimes, the thing you most fear happening isn’t the worst thing that can happen.

Or maybe this:  A single well-turned phrase that really hits home can make reading an entire book worthwhile.

Or this: Tonight, instead of crying myself to sleep and begging God to save my marriage to a man who has obviously given up, I’m going to a dinner party.  With lobster.  And wine.  And laughter.  And I’m not weary at all.

Ciao.

This One’s a Keeper. January 28, 2010

I used to keep every single piece of my eldest daughter’s artwork.  When she was in preschool, if she even breathed on a piece of paper, it went into a special folder because every single pseudo-creative expression of hers was deemed to be worthy of awe and adoration by future generations.

Then there was more than one preschool year.  Then there was more than one kid.  Then the special folders threathened to overtake our house, our neighborhood, and the entire Central Standard Time Zone.  Now, only the really good stuff gets saved—the things with handprints or footprints, the “firsts” (first drawing that actually resembles a person, first writing of the name, etc.), crafts that incorporate photos, or artwork that I like so much I could actually see framing it and hanging in some kitchy-cool gallery of kid creations worthy of display in a Pottery Barn catalog.  And I also save things like this:

I know you can’t really read it because the picture is crappy.  But here’s the gist:  In Avery’s gifted and talented class this week (that’s right, I worked that in there for no apparent reason–the gifted and talented part is not germane to the story … I just wanted to brag) they filled out one of those “My Favorites” questionnaires.  My favorite food is ….  My favorite sport is ….  My favorite book is ….  Six lines in is My Most Admired Person is … and Avery wrote “my Dad.”  The thing is, if you look closely you can see where she originally wrote “my Mom” and then erased it.  The pencil tracks of “Mom” are still visible underneath “Dad.”  Three lines after that, My Favorite Person to Be With is … “my Mom.”

I asked her about it and she told me she wanted to put “my Mom” in both spaces but then got worried that her Dad might see it and it would hurt his feelings so she changed the first one.  I told her that was very thoughtful of her to be considerate of other peoples’ feelings, and I of course told her how much I admired her and liked being with her right back.

My sweet Avery.  She’s 7 (and a half), and right now I am the person she most admires and I am the person she most wants to spend time with.  Seriously, how much does my life rock?

Old Friends. January 27, 2010

 There’s a going away party tonight for my friend Tommy.  I can’t go because: (A) I make it a practice to try not to go out on nights I have my kids, since I’m forced to be away from them 5 nights out of 14 as it is; and (B) my sitter has the stomach flu anyway.  Tommy got a job promotion and is moving to Ohio.  (I can’t say this word without thinking of the end of the opening credits theme song for “The Drew Carey Show”: OHI-O!)  We talked for a long time on the phone last night, about the changes that are coming in his life, about the changes that have been happening in mine, and about how long we’ve been friends.

Tommy sent me this photo today:

That’s Tommy on the left, that’s our friend Chris in the middle (remember Chris?  http://nowisgoodblog.wordpress.com/2010/01/21/thursdays-the-new-friday/), and me.  I have never seen this photo before today, and it makes me want to laugh and cry all at the same time.  Apparently, we were at some party our senior year in high school (Mom, pretend you don’t see the top of that beer bottle in the foreground) and apparently we all had major problems with really bushy curly brown hair.

All of our lives changed pretty drastically after that.  I went off to college.  Chris took some classes locally and then went off to college.  And Tommy had a daughter.  Roughly a year or two after that photo was taken, I think.  He was just a kid himself, and due to unexpected circumstances (as these kind of circumstances tend to be) he pretty much raised his daughter alone.  She started college last fall, and she’s lovely.  She’s beautiful and smart and polite and respectful and really, really close to her daddy.  Tommy did a great job.

Tommy’s life was pretty much on hold from age 19 to age 38, and now his daughter has moved away and he’s taking a big new step in a new job and a new town and a new life that isn’t 24/7 single parenthood.  I’m excited for him and know he’ll do great, but I’ll miss my friend being around.  He and Chris both have been a huge support to me this past year–they’ve called and checked up on me, they’ve offered their ears and their shoulders, they’ve shared their own divorce stories, and generally they’ve been my much-needed cheerleading section.  They never fail to make me feel good about myself and they always, always make me laugh.

That picture above was taken 21 years ago.  This one was taken in September:

Safe travels, Tommy.  Come home and visit often.  Chris and I will keep the beer cold for you.

Just Don’t Call Me Pollyanna. January 26, 2010

I couldn’t get to sleep last night.  Yesterday’s post weighed on me and I tossed and turned with the rank taste of cynicism in my mouth.  (Which is odd, because it’s always tasted like chocolate to me before.)  The things I said yesterday felt negative and just a tiny bit bitter.  They were honest, and they definitely reflected the way I was feeling when I wrote them, but they weren’t really representative of where I’ve been and what I’ve been feeling the past few months.  As a result, today I feel the need to clear up a few things.

Since my divorce (and to be honest, for a year or so before the proverbial shit finally hit the fan), I’ve felt sad.  I’ve felt angry.  I’ve felt bitter, offended, humiliated, a little scared and a lot confused.  Those feelings have come and gone and come and gone and I expect them to continue to visit me on their own timeframe.  But oddly, over the past few months, more often than any of those things, I’ve felt … hopeful.  Hopeful and positive and like it’s all going to be ok somehow, sometime.

Those of you who know me well know that this is not my usual M.O.  I have always been a firm realist with a tendency toward pessimism.  I am not the kind of girl who has bluebirds flying about her head and who sees the good in people and who finds the silver lining in every situation.  And yet, something that by rights should have had me in bed with the covers pulled over my head hasn’t really slowed me down all that much.

I have no idea why.  I’m grateful for it, and maybe a tiny bit proud of it, too, but I have no idea why.  I’ve discussed this with a select few family members and close friends, and I get different reactions and responses.  Essentially, they fall into the following groups:

• From the faithful Christians:  “People are praying for you and God is looking out for you.  He has a PLAN (the way it’s said, that word requires caps), and this is all happening for a reason.  Eventually, you’ll understand the why and be grateful this all happened.”  (I wish it seemed this simple to me.  I’m not sure I buy this, but the faith and confidence behind it is comforting and I respect it.)

 

• From the non-Christian spiritualists:  “Bad things happen.  We are all tested.  Be strong and don’t let it break you.  Learn whatever lessons you can from this experience, build on it and take it forward with you into the next stage of your life.”  (I really like this.  I’ve come to like the idea that we continue to learn and evolve and that negative change can result in positive change.  I feel like this is opening some doors for me.  Or at least very tiny windows.)

 

• From the bitter divorcee’s:  “Most men suck.  Your ex sucks.  They’re all bastards and to have expected anything else is to have expected to be disappointed.”  (Ummm …. allrighty then.  Let’s not get together anymore on our free Thursday nights, mmmkay?)

 

•  And from the realists:  “Get over yourself.  So your husband lied, cheated and left.  There are far worse things in the world.  Just put on your big girl panties and get on with the business of living your life, you big baby.”  (Ok, to be fair, nobody’s really said this to me.  Unless you count the little man inside my head.  And sometimes he’s kind of an ass.) 

Whatever the explanation, I’m grateful for the uncharacteristic positive outlook.  I’m finding out I kinda like walking on the sunny side of the street.  Life’s good and change is ok and those things I’m still (justifiably) cynical about?  I think they’ll work themselves out … all in good time.

Whew.  That’s better.  Now, good night blog world.  I feel a sound sleep coming on. 

 

Romance is Dead, Long Live Romance. January 25, 2010

Recently, when discussing romance, I was told I was cynical.  Very cynical, in fact.  More cynical than the cynic calling me cynical, I believe it was said. (With me so far? I think I may have said “cynical” too many times already and it’s starting to lose meaning.  Cynical, cynical, cynical, cynical….   There–it’s back.).  Anyway, this particular conversation started out being about how people in the South seem to have no qualms about the concept of “marrying up”–i.e., having the specific goal of marrying someone in a higher social or economic strata than yourself in order to improve your own station in life,–and it ended in a weird place where I was told I was cynical about romance (I think based largely upon the fact that I pretty much said, “Seems like criteria as good as any by which to choose a spouse.”).  To be fair, the speaker acknowledged that I probably had a right to be cynical about romance (which I most freaking certainly do) given recent events, but the thing is–it’s not true.

I am not cynical about romance.   I LOVE romance.  Romance is the good stuff.  The goosebumps, the butterflies, the fun of knowing someone is thinking about you, the gestures that say “you’ve gotten under my skin”–those are the things that put a smile on your face and help you look forward to tomorrow.  I say, Bring on the romance!  The more, the better.  I am not cynical about romance.

I am, however, cynical about romance that lasts.  Or about having any grand illusion that it’s going to provide a stable basis upon which to build a marriage or a family or a life.  Because from where I sit, it just ain’t so.  Romance doesn’t last.  Life gets in the way or people get lazy or maybe we just run out of creative thoughtful little gestures to remind the objects of our affection (and actually, to remind ourselves) that we are lucky to have each other.  The end of romance doesn’t automatically mean the disintegration of a relationship, but it sure doesn’t help matters, either.

My marriage was really good for a really long time.  There was ample romance plus all the other good stuff, too–friendship, respect, fun, laughter, shared interests, common goals, etc. etc. etc.  I believe we had a better shot at success than most–and it still all went to shit in the end.  And it’s not just me–I look around at my friends’ marriages and I see a lot of restless people; unfulfilled at best, truly unhappy at worst.  And the ones who are happy?  That’s where my real cynicism kicks in.  I put no stock in that.  I was happily married two years ago; I know how quickly things–everything–can change.

So ….

I’m not sure how to end this.   I still think that those who choose to “marry up” (because that’s the conversation where this all started) may have as good a chance at making it work as those who use love and romance as the criteria by which to choose a partner.  But honestly–I just don’t know, about any of it.  Is it all a crap shoot?  Is it an impossible aspiration?  Do you just eventually get to a point where you know it’s asinine to believe in it but you chuck reason and logic out the window and jump in with both feet anyway (and honestly, my brain would bitch-slap me into next year if I even tried to do that at this point)?  I thought that by writing this out I’d reach some conclusion, because that’s usually how my brain works–I write from Point A to Point B to Point C and end up somewhere that makes sense (at least to me–I don’t expect any of the nonsense I spout to make sense to anyone else!), but here I am at the end of this and I’ve got nothing. 

Hopefully in time, the puzzle pieces will fit together into a more rational picture for me.  Until then, romance is more than welcome–pay compliments, send flowers, surprise me, sweep me off my feet, make me feel special (and let me do the same in return).  I’m not at all cynical about romance.  Just about where it ends up.

Warrior Me. January 24, 2010

Heard of the Warrior Dash? Me neither until a week or so ago.  My (much younger and more adventurous sister) send an email trying to drum up interest and I checked it out at www.warriordash.com.  Holy cow:

“The Warrior Dash is the ultimate event for thrill-seeking athletes.  This running series is held on the nation’s most demanding and unique terrain.  Participants will conquer extreme obstacles and celebrate their feat with music, beer, warrior helmets and muddy shorts.”

 Um, ok.  So.  First things first:  I am NOT a “thrill-seeking athlete.”  (Or any kind of athlete whatsoever.)  Secondly: it’s a running race (3.5 miles), and I’ve never run a race before in my life.  Thirdly: the “extreme obstacles”?  For the Texas race, those are “14 obstacles from hell” (their words, not mine), including scaling muddy river banks, traversing planks across ravines, climbing cargo nets, swimming through mud holes, army-crawling through mud under barbed wire, and fire jumping.  Yes, people … Fire!Jumping!  They bill it as “America’s most insane race.”  No argument so far.

And guess what?  I signed up.  I must have lost my ever-lovin’-frakkin’ mind.  I convinced one of my very dearest friends (actually, she didn’t need much convincing–she’s pretty game that way) to travel halfway across the country to race with me.  I’m pretty sure I can’t do any of those obstacles (I have freakishly poor upper body strength, for starters), but the music, beer, mud and sheer insanity of the thing called to me.

The clincher?  The race is on May 1, 2010.  My former wedding anniversary.  My first May 1st since getting divorced.  My thinking is this: instead of sitting around and mourning the day that will never be again and grieving over everything lost, I will be fire-jumping.  While covered in mud.  And drinking beer with a best friend.  I will be (way) outside my comfort zone, doing something a little (ok, a lot) nutso, and hopefully, hopefully, hopefully I will finish the damn thing.  On May 1st, my plan is to be a victor, not a victim. 

I want to be a Warrior.

The Power of Yogurt. January 23, 2010

My kids had a school holiday earlier this week.  I sign them up for an afternoon gymnastics camp, and the camp lets out at 5 pm.  Which of course means that at 5 pm, I am rushing out of work, fighting traffic with a cranky toddler in the backseat, unsuccessfully looking for a parking place anywhere in the same zip code as the gymnastics facility, and mind-racing my way through getting home, coming up with something that passes for a healthy dinner, giving baths, supervising homework, getting things ready for school the next day, etc., etc., etc.

I get the kids buckled in the car and the oldest asks if we are going to go get frozen yogurt.  Me: “Not tonight.”  And the whining: “But you SAID we could get yogurt after gymnastics.”  Me: “I don’t think I said that.”  And on and on and so forth and so on–one of those table tennis conversations with your children wherein they want something that you just absolutely are not going to ok, but they continue to whine and wheedle and use their fledging powers of logic to try to change your mind, all the while sort of grating on your nerves in the process.

So I’m mostly ignoring the whole thing and continuing my mental evening’s checklist until I catch a glimpse of my son’s face in the rearview mirror.  He is crying.  Not pitching a fit, not screaming, not yelling about how mean I am, not begging.  Just sitting there and silently crying, with the saddest look on his face that I have seen in a long time (and obviously, given the events of the past 7 months or so, I’ve seen some not-too-happy looks on that child’s mug).

I caved.  We went and got yogurt.  They were happy.  I was happy that they were happy, and it delayed the To Do list only by about 10 minutes (mainly because I made them take the yogurt in the car instead of lollygagging around the yogurt shop for an hour as we usually do).  No biggie, right?

Except that later that night I hear my daughter call her dad to say good night.  After the hellos, the first question he apparently asks is about the post-gymnastic yogurt.  And the response … Yes! Yes! And I got this flavor, and Bubba got that flavor and there were toppings, toppings, toppings!  And it was all awesomely delicious and super crazy fun time!

And omg but I wanted to fall to my knees and offer up a silent prayer of gratitute for that damn yogurt, whether it ruined their dinner or not (and it kinda did).  Because what I hadn’t realized at the time, but what became startlingly clear when listening to that phone call to my ex, was that I had narrowly missed taking a REALLY wrong turn with my kids that day.

What I remembered of any potential prior yogurt conversation:  “When can we go get frozen yogurt again?”  ME:  ”Sometime soon.”  IF they asked about “could we go after gymnastics camp,” I probably responded with a “maybe” or a “we’ll see” (which as we ALL know, means “no, but stop asking”).

What my children remembered of a prior yogurt conversation: “Can we go get frozen yogurt after gymnastics camp?”  Me:  “Absolutely!  Yes!  I promise!  And I will not ever, ever let you down in any way, otherwise I am a totally crap parent and do not love you!”

They thought there had been a promise (and my gosh, who knows?  maybe there had been).  They hadn’t mentioned it again to me, they hadn’t talked about it, they hadn’t reminded me, they hadn’t said how excited they were about it.  But they had apparently talked about it all weekend at their dad’s–so much so that during that night’s phone call, it was the very first question that he asked them.   In their minds, We Were Getting Yogurt After Gymnastics Camp.  Mom had PROMISED.

At the time I had no idea how important that event was to them.  Truth be told, they may have already forgotten about the whole experience.  But I am crystal clear on what happened this week–I almost broke their little hearts without even knowing it.  And that thought has brought me up short ever since.  I’ve been trying to make up for that near-miss all week; it’s like I’m trying to build up a stockpile of goodwill and good memories to make up for that next inevitable time that I accidentally disappoint them.  I visited both big kids at school this week.  I ate lunch with them.  I stayed for recess and played with them on the playground.  I took cupcakes for my daughter’s half-birthday (don’t get me started on that nonsense).  I raced my son and his friends across the blacktop, again and again and again.  We’ve played board games and had family movie night and cuddled and laughed and loved til our hearts are sore. 

I can’t wait til we go get yogurt again.

Thursday’s the New Friday. January 21, 2010

If you’re a divorced mom in Texas with the standard custody agreement, Thursday is your Friday (unless you were divorced in Texas prior to 9/1/03, in which case Wednesday is your Friday).*  You remember Friday night, right?  Way back when, when the school or work week ended and the fun cranked up and you never knew what was going to happen or who you might meet or how much fun you might have?  Friday night was Possibility.  Friday night was Freedom.  Friday night was Letting Go.  Friday night was Fun.

The first Thursday night my ex took the kids overnight, I thought I would die.  I cried as they pulled away, and my heart felt like swiss cheese, so full of holes it was.  I drove immediately to my friend Chris’s house, to bitch and moan and drink beers and share a lovely meal with his family.  Being forcibly deprived of my children for 24 hours was torture, and I couldn’t imagine ever getting used to it.

Fast-forward 7 months.  I need my Thursdays (Fridays).  Yes, I still miss my kids when they’re not here, and yes, my heart still twinges a bit as they drive off in their dad’s truck.  BUT.  But…every week, come 3:00, I stare down the next 17 hours and know that the time is mine.  To do Whatever.I.Want.To.Do.  Sometimes I see a movie.  Sometimes I catch up on my recorded tv shows (uninterrupted).  Sometimes I date.  Sometimes I have a girls’ night out with a bunch of fabulous ladies whose support keeps me afloat.  Sometimes I go to concerts.  Sometimes I read trashy gossip mags in a bubble bath with a glass (or two) of red wine.  Sometimes I go to bed early.  Sometimes I stay up late.  Sometimes I head out of town for fabulous last-minute getaway weekends that surpass my every expectation (See this: http://nowisgoodblog.wordpress.com/2010/01/19/acapulco-baby/).

We moms rarely take enough time for ourselves.  To be ourselves.  And if/when we do, we feel immensely guilty about it.  For a long time (truth be told, since I started dating my ex in 1995), that kind of (Thursday) Friday wasn’t part of my world.  It was too much work or too predictable or seemed too selfish, and it just disappeared from existence.  It’s back now, courtesy of events beyond my control, and I have to admit I kinda missed it when it was gone.  Divorce Perk #4 (because I’ve decided to catalog them): Thursday’s the New Friday.

If you’re a divorced mom in Texas, enjoy yourself tonight.  Do what YOU want to do, whatever that is.  Listen to yourself.  Indulge yourself.  Spoil yourself.  And if you’re lucky enough to still be happily married, carve yourself out a (Thursday) Friday sometime soon.  You deserve it.   

* Tangent, but I often silently thank the legislators for this change (and not for much else, b/c getting divorced in Texas BITES for the moms–these good ol’ boys are not kind to us on the monetary support front).  If divorced kids are always with their dads on Thursday nights, how am I supposed to date their divorced dads?  With this change, pre-2003-divorces’ and post-2003-divorcees’ can coordinate date nights.  Gracias, legislators.  It’s the little things.

Dinosaur Butt. January 21, 2010

Last night, my 7-year-old happily announced that whatever she was eating tasted like “dinosaur butt, with just a dash of paprika.”  ???!?

Acapulco, Baby. January 19, 2010

I didn’t really start this blog and then quit it after a week and a half.  Not that that isn’t something I would do, because it is, but I didn’t.  I’ve been MIA for the past week or so because I just spent a gloriously lazy few days in Acapulco.  It was a spur-of-the-moment trip (Divorce Perk #1) on a noncustodial weekend and I couldn’t have enjoyed it more.  Four days of sun, a little rain that didn’t dampen my mood one bit, delicious food, excellent company, boat drinks and beers, reading BOOKS, people–remember when there was actually time to read for pleasure?? (Divorce Perk #2), and more geographical beauty than my eyes were able to take in and register. 

It occurred to me during this trip that I hadn’t had a purely lazy, irresponsible, please-no-one-but-myself kind of vacation in about 8 years.  Coincidentally, since I was pregnant with my first child.  If you have kids, you know what I mean–family vacations may serve as welcome getaways from the daily grind, but they are rarely actually VACATIONS.  There are little mouths to feed and fights to referee and boredom to assuage and baths to give and lost toys to find and always, always the vigilant watching to make sure someone doesn’t drown, die, or disappear.  There can be immense joy in those trips, but there is no real recharging of batteries. 

In Acapulco I recharged.  I poured a little beauty, a little sunshine, a little selfishness, and a little tequila back into my soul.  And I came home stronger and steadier and ready to face it all again.  After all, how bad can life be when there is this:

and this:

and this:

Acapulco, baby.  (Divorce Perk #3.)