Christmas Card Photos (and an Update). December 24, 2010

An update.  The current plan is this: The kids are at their dad’s apartment for Christmas Eve and they will wake up there on Christmas morning.  I will go over there and we will share Santa time together, but at his place.  The Girlfriend will make herself scarce, but I’ve been informed this is the last time she will do so.  It’s not ideal, and Avery is still mad at her father for his refusal to respect her wishes, but it will be ok.  My kids will be with both parents on Christmas morning and The Ex and I will play nice and we will all ignore the elephant in the room that none of this is the way it is supposed to be.  Thus concludes one more fight, one more negotiation, one more carving out of the way this life now looks.  One more realization that there are oceans of resentment and anger and distrust and disgust between The Ex and me and that most of that will never be resolved.  One more sigh of “It is what it is.”  One more sucking it up.  One more step forward.  And so it goes.

But on a lighter note …

A few weeks ago, my sister Caroline came over with her good camera and her good photographer’s eye to help me take this year’s Christmas Card Photo.  Y’all are familiar with the dreaded Christmas Card Photo, right?  That age-old tradition designed to capture the annual joy and happiness and growth of a family … and it only takes hours of yelling and tears and threats to get there.  My mom made my sisters and me take Christmas Card Photos every year of my life save one:  and that year, relatives told her that if she wasn’t going to send a photo, she didn’t need to bother sending a card.

Growing up, someone always cried.  Always.  My dad gritted his teeth and lost his patience, my mom threatened and got her feelings hurt that we wouldn’t “do this one thing!” for her.  We hated it.  But today, I love each and every one of those photos.  They are the benchmarks of our childhood and they heralded in each holiday season with all the tension and stress and frustration is so rightly deserved.  Today, my sisters and I laugh about the drama of taking the Christmas Card Photo.  Today, I make my kids take one, too, and we get such gems as this:

and this:

and this:

and this and this and this and this:

Like that of the generation before, my photo session contained tears and laughter and gritted teeth and threats and bribes and guilt and the eventual exasperation of “I give up! Surely we got SOMETHING usable in there!”  Afterward, my ever-patient-with-my-kids sister posted on Facebook: “There’s not enough wine in the world …,” which pretty much sums up the yearly Christmas Card Photo experience.

The end result, however, is worth it.  From my family to yours, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Joyous New Year to you all.

A Brief Respite. December 22, 2010

Things aren’t great here at the moment.  Five days before Christmas, The Ex decided that he didn’t want to “do” Christmas in the shared manner we had agreed upon, the way we did it last year, the way the children want to do it again this year.  He informed me of this in en email, and then refused to take my calls for about 12 hours.  He is within his legal rights to demand to have the children on Christmas Eve night and Christmas Day morning this year, but in my opinion, pretty far outside the appropriate moral and good parenting zone.  The last 48 hours or so have been stressful, to say the least.  I am upset, the kids are upset.  The Ex thinks I am manipulating them because he can’t fathom that they would ever on their own think he was a bonehead.  He refuses to listen to them or give weight to their wishes, which is a common problem, and so it has escalated.  Avery and Owen are now communicating things to him they have been holding back, which is good in a way, but not very fostering of a feeling of Christmas.  Things are tense.

Divorce sucks during the holidays.

Yesterday afternoon I decided we all needed a break.  It was an unbelievable 80 degrees here.  First day of winter, my Aunt Fanny.  So we took a walk.  A LONG walk.  We walked and we talked and we got some fresh air and some exercise and we played on a playground and we fed some ducks.  A brief respite from the stress and storm.  I can’t protect these kids from every pain, and I’m sure I even cause a few of them.  But I can be here and I can listen.  And I can give them moments like this, so that they can listen to themselves.

Weekly Wrap-Up: School, Strep, Soup and Songs. December 20, 2010

Haven’t done this in awhile, so …

What a week.  It was the kids’ last week of school, so there was a flurry of pajama days, Christmas holiday parties, snacks to buy for said parties, teachers’ gifts to purchase/wrap/take, books and puzzles to buy and wrap for the classroom gift exchanges, extra childcare to arrange because Amelia’s preschool got out three days earlier than the older kids’ elementary school, etc.

There was Avery’s holiday music program at school, which was adorable, as usual, and from which The Girlfriend fiasco sprung.  I’m over it now, and it was probably a necessary kick in the nuts to happen eventually, but that was one un-fun situation and a reminder that the pain of my divorce and the awkwardness of my relationship with The Ex just may never completely go away.

There was a wine night with girlfriends.  A fabulous group of women—some new friends, some very old long-term friends—that ran way too late on a school night.  Do you know the feeling that happens once in a blue moon when a random collection of people come together and it all just … gels?  Personalities click and guards come down and senses of humor align and the result is just a really relaxing, really funny, really rejuvenating way to spend a few hours?  That’s this group for me.  I really, really like these women and if it weren’t for near-impossibility of recovering from a 3:00 a.m. wine night in the middle of the week, I’d want to get together with them a lot more often.

And then there was strep.  Amelia got it.  I got it.  As a mom, I’m not really allowed to get sick, so I usually just don’t.  But this knocked me flat—sick to a degree I haven’t been sick in a LONG time.  I’m still slowly crawling out from underneath it, but thanks to a booty-shot of penicillin and so many pills each day that germs are running from me in abject terror, I’m on the mend.  The unexpected upsides of the sickness nightmare:

• I didn’t have the kids this weekend.  I hated not being able to take care of Amelia when she was sick, but seeing as how I was practically incapable, it’s nice that I didn’t have to.

• The Ex stepped up.  He canceled a deposition, took Amelia to the doctor, and flexibly shuffled previously-scheduled kid arrangements so that I could just be sick.  And then he came over and spent a good half hour rummaging through my attic, looking for (but unfortunately not finding) the source of the dead thing smell that is currently plaguing several rooms in my house.  Sometimes he is such an ass is astounds me.  And sometimes he works with me to make our lives easier.  Here’s hoping the scale tips in that direction more often.

• I saw my cute doctor.  I looked like hell and was sick as a dog, but he’s always a nice reminder of a light at the end of the tunnel for me.  In the midst of my divorce, when the world had shifted on its axis and I was stumbling around in the dark like it was The End of Days, when I needed to find a new physician for a quick once-over before I lost my health insurance through The Ex, I ended up in the exam room with a super cute and super kind doctor who made a huge difference in my outlook at the time.  He was my age, had a bunch of kids, and had gotten divorced about 18 months earlier.  He took the time to talk to me and to be encouraging, to make me feel like I and the kids were going to be ok.  I walked out of his office that day with a more forward-thinking perspective than I’d had previously, feeling like it was a possible to be ok on the other side of this thing; I just had to figure out a way to get to that other side.  His best advice:  Go out there and carve out a new life for yourself.  I think I have and still am.  Every time I get sick and go back into his office, I’m reminded of the change he sparked in me that day and I’m grateful for how my life looks now compared to how it looked on the day of that first visit.

• A very sweet someone brought me chicken soup.  Hand-delivering food to someone who is sick is such a kind gesture.  I had more than one person offer to bring food or pick up prescriptions or help with the kids, etc., and it all just made me feel very loved and very cared for and very not alone.  Good stuff.

Finally, after the soup and a lot of sleep and about 36 hours of penicillin, I felt well enough to attend the Kelly Willis and Bruce Robison Holiday concert.  If you’re from Austin, you know how badly I needed to make this show.  If you’re from somewhere else in Texas, you might understand.  If you’re from outside the Lone Star State, suffice it to say that this singer/songwriter couple is Austin royalty and every December puts on the most feel-good couple of hours of music you never want to miss.

Saturday night was no exception—fantastic seats, make-me-happy music, great company—all capped off by me hijacking them for a photo after the show, like the annoying fan I am.

And now I can try to get physically and emotionally ready for next weekend.  To help you get in the mood for what’s ahead, here’s Kelly and Bruce from a prior Dallas show (which I also attended), singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside”:

Happy Christmas Week, everyone.

Death vs. Divorce. December 14, 2010

I am aware of the can of worms I’m opening by posing the following question, but I’m throwing it out there anyway:  Would it have been better if The Ex had died instead of divorcing me?

Several (and I mean SEVERAL) times during my divorce, I heard from women who had been through it themselves—some recently, some decades ago—all plainly stating that they would have greatly preferred their husbands’ deaths to their divorces.  At the time, that made perfect sense to me.  I felt that way.  I would have been plenty happy if The Ex had been hit by a train, and I’m pretty sure I recall saying as much to him.  I’m also fairly certain I expressed a desire that The Girlfriend be in the car with him when it happened.

Nasty and petty and immature, admittedly, but pain usually doesn’t bring out the best in people.  A year or so ago, I would have given ANYTHING if The Ex had died instead of exiting the way that he did. My thinking went like this:  Death is a part of life everyone must face eventually.  When kids are forced to deal with it too soon, it’s horrible.  Godawful horrible.  But it’s a lesson they’re eventually going to learn anyway, and at least a death wouldn’t serve to destroy their faith in people.  With divorce, or at least with my divorce, my children saw that men lie and cheat and leave—even the supposedly “good” men.  Did they learn, as I did, that no matter how good it is, no matter how sure you are, no matter how wisely you choose a partner, it’s quite possible that it’s nothing more than a house of cards?  Did they learn that it’s ok to cheat?  That it’s ok to go when the going gets tough?  Did they learn that there is no real downside to doing what you want, when you want, regardless of the effect your actions have on the people who love you most?  I think they probably did, and it’s one of the lessons I doubt I’ll ever forgive The Ex for teaching them.

And so.  I understood all too clearly those women who said it would have been easier if their husbands had died instead of divorced.  Easier because death allows a sidestepping of the weighty asset/custody/interpersonal issues which, when children are involved, shackle you for the remainder of your post-divorce life.  Easier, too, because divorce, at least if you’re on the receiving end, is a death; I honestly doubt The Ex’s death would have been any more painful for me than his betrayal was.

For the most part, I’m fairly well over feeling that way about The Ex.  I know my children need their father and no child, ever, should be wished to suffer the death of a parent.  Still … times like tonight, being sucker-punched and surprised and righteously pissed off by The Girlfriend’s galling appearance at Avery’s third grade music production?  Times like that make me realize how hairy and problematic and confusing divorce is for everyone involved (everyone except the responsible parties, that is) and I’m right back to wondering whether there aren’t fates worse than death.

Religious Instruction. December 12, 2010

Owen had his first sleepover at our house Friday night.  He invited a sweet little boy from his kindergarten class—one of those great kids that doesn’t cause any problems, has nice manners and plays well with others.  Earlier in the evening, the friend mentioned that he was going to temple the following day, “Because I’m Jewish.”  Owen ignored that completely, but hours later, as they boys were brushing their teeth, I overheard the following conversation, verbatim:

“So, what does Jewish mean?  Because it sounds kind of odd.  Jewish.  Jew-ish.  I’ve never heard that word before [yes, he has].  What does Jewish mean?”

“Um … I don’t know.”

“Well, then, what does Hanukkah mean?  It sounds like one of those instruments.  You know, that you blow on with your mouth? It sounds like that but it’s just not.”

“I think it means … lots of festivals and celebrations because the Jewish people won the war.  And lights.  And miracles.  And stuff like that.”

“Ohhhh.  Here, you can have my Spiderman.  Merry Christmas.”

In that single conversation, they either unraveled centuries of Judeo-Christian relations or advanced them to the point of irrelevance.  Either way, I gave them each an extra goodnight hug for being so amazing.

Santa Challenge. December 7, 2010

Not to be outdone, Owen prepared his Christmas list.  I will spare you the frightening phonetics, but one of the items listed was (or was intended to be) “Gingerbread Man.”  Which prompted the following exchange:

What do you mean, “Gingerbread Man”?

You know … a GIN-GER-BREAD MAN! [Thanks.  Because the enunciation clearly was the root of the confusion there.]

Do you mean, to eat?

Yeah, sure.  To eat.

Assuming that there wasn’t a mere cookie on a list that also included a puppy, a gun (!!) and a mom who’s nice all the time (obviously, the list was ABSURD) …

Does the Gingerbread Man do anything?

Yeah.  He sings.  I want a Gingerbread Man that sings.

Have you seen one that sings?

Nope.  I just want to see if Santa can bring it.

Gauntlet thrown.

Challenge accepted.

Somebody find me a Gingerbread Man that sings?

Avery’s Christmas List. December 1, 2010

Avery presented me with her Christmas list yesterday, written in marker colors as shown.  Behold:

A light blue cover 4 my phone.

A friend 4 Callie.*

Blizzard maker & Dippin Dots maker & Cotton Candy maker & Easy Bake Oven: light blue.

Barbie video girl.

Chris Angel magic kit.**

Science kits.

A brother who’s nice.***

Justice clothes.

Perfume, makeup and hair dye.

Owl pellets.****

Tic-Tacs.*****

Nintendo dsi XL

Pink pocket knife.******

Anything else.  Y’all do a good job.  Usually.

* The one remaining live guinea pig.

** I really and truly hate commercials.

***If wishes were horses, darlin’ …

****Reflecting her recent first foray into science class dissection.  I’m proud.  And also grossed out.

*****Thanks for the gimme.

******And … welcome home from the visit with the former in-laws.

She doesn’t realize that I’m already done shopping for her Christmas, and her loot only includes two of the things on this.  Luckily, she allowed me the “anything else” final item—good thing I USUALLY do a good job all on my own.