The Peace Within. September 30, 2011

A friend sent me the quote below in a chain letter this morning.  For what it’s worth, I *hate* chain letters.  99.9% of the time, if you send me a chain letter, I’m deleting without reading.  Consider yourselves forewarned.

I’m glad I read this one, though.  This one touched a sweet spot in me today … a spot that was feeling raw and restless and not quite good enough.  I’m pretty sure I’d be hard-pressed to find a day where the sentiment below didn’t result in at least a moment’s peace for me, however.  So, wherever your heads and hearts lie today, I hope this gives you even the briefest momentary acknowledgment of the peace you have within your grasps.

Today may there be peace within.

May you trust that you are exactly where you are meant to be.

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith in yourself and others.

May you use the gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you.

May you be content with yourself just the way you are.

Let this knowledge settle into your bones. 

Allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise, love.

It is there for each and every one of us.

Happy Friday, all.

Wonders. September 27, 2011

Amelia’s school ends an hour earlier than the big kids’.  Which is just enough time to be inconvenient—it’s not long enough to go back home and get anything accomplished and it’s not long enough to really knock out any errands, but it’s too long to just drive from one carpool lane to the other.  Since the beginning of the school year, it’s been an hour in my day that has felt wasted … and most days I really don’t have an extra hour to spare.

Yesterday, though, I realized what that hour really was … or what it could be:  an hour for insight into my baby’s head and heart in a way that doesn’t typically happen.  Amelia’s the youngest, which means the already too-busy lives of her older brother and sister monopolize the lion’s share of our afternoons and weekends.  She gets toted along for the ride, but it’s not really her trip.  Generally, Amelia has to yell the loudest to be heard, whine the most shrilly to get attention, and entertain with wild abandon in order to grab her share of the spotlight.

Except for that one hour each day.  In that hour, it’s all her.  It’s her time.  And it’s high time I started appreciating that for the gift that it is.

Yesterday we were driving down the road en route to a quick store run-through between the school pick-ups.  My mind was on the work waiting at home to be finished, the deadlines I’m not sure how I’ll meet, the unfolded laundry, the bills, the coordination of schedules and appointments and lessons and meetings and everything else.  From the backseat, Amelia asked,

“Mommy, do you have any wonders?”

–What do you mean, wonders?

“Like, when you look up at the sky and you just fink [think] about fings [things]?”

—Sure I do.  All sorts of things.  What are some of your wonders, Milla?

“My wonders are trees.  And leafs.  And mamas and daddies and stop signs.  And grass and mittens and houses and schools and stuffed animals and movies and peoples and The Brady Bunch and car seats.  Oh, and sustructions [instructions].  Those are all my wonders.”

Mostly, yesterday?  My wonder was Amelia.

Stating the (Not-So) Obvious. September 20, 2011

Owen is a funny little dude.  My sister Caroline came over last night to spend the evening with the kids and me and to help ease a bit of my single-mama load.  We were sitting at the dinner table catching up; the kids were eating and watching TV (a usually forbidden treat during the family meal, but a necessary one last night to enable the grown-ups to have some chat time).   I didn’t think the kids were paying us any attention.

Caroline asked how a friend of mine was doing.  I said he was fine, although he’d been through some tough times.  “His dad died last year, you know?”  I said.

Not missing a beat, Owen looked at us sympathetically, nodded his head in grave understanding and asked the obvious question:

“Nazis?”

*Apologies for the photo quality and if I've posted this pic before. It just seemed fitting.

Let Go. September 16, 2011

Over the past two years, I’ve turned often to E.M. Forester’s familiar words: “We must be willing to let go of the life we had planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”  Simple.  True.  Necessary.

But sometimes, so very, very difficult.

Letting go isn’t easy, but aided by time, it gets easier.  It seems to be a process—a slow, steady, incremental process.  Letting go doesn’t happen all at once, but in tiny little bits one after another.  Chunks of the past break off the main and float away, changing the whole incrementally.  What was, no longer is … although for awhile (sometimes a long while) it remains recognizable as the thing it used to be.

To think of letting go is to think of release … of reducing resistance … of resting.  But while the after part of letting go may be marked by relaxation, I’ve found that the during part is often defined by the opposite state.  Letting go creates tension, maybe because it seems so contrary to prior vows made and the lengths some of us were willing to go to make it all work.  Letting go requires a conscious effort, dedicated focus and seemingly superhuman strength.  I have to remind myself that letting go is not giving in and giving up.  Letting go is merely acceptance.  Letting go is a worthy cause—there’s no way to embrace what comes next if my arms are still wrapped around the things that came before.

A couple months ago I opened an email from Lindsey of A Design So Vast (I’ve undoubtedly linked to her before and will do so again, as she is a daily must-read for me) and found a link to Bella Wish and the necklace above.  I ordered mine that very same day and I’ve worn it over and over and over again since—it serves as a physical reminder to set down those burdens I carry when they become way too heavy.  I may not be able to always do it successfully, but I can always remind myself to try.  It’s now a mantra (yes, I have more than one): Let Go.

Let go of plans.

Let go of the past.

Let go of pain.

Let go of old dreams.

Let go of anger.

Let go of “Why?”

Let go of resentment.

Let go of revenge.

Let go of feeling threatened.

Let go of believing in fairy tales.

Let go of who he used to be.

Let go of who I used to be.

Let go of marriage.

Let go of love.

Let go of promises, both made and broken.

Let go of lies.

Let go of friendship.

Let go of competition.

Let go of fear.

Let go of forever.

Let Go.

A Growing Boy. September 14, 2011

Bacon and Cheese Omelette.

Bowl of Cheerios.

Cereal Bar.

Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich.

Baked Doritos.

Fruit cup.

Goldfish.

Club Sandwich with bacon, cheese, turkey, avocado, lettuce.

2 Containers of Yogurt.

3 Slices of Cheese Pizza.

Peas.

Ice Cream Cup.

That’s what Owen ate yesterday.  And in between the multiple meals and snacks above, the boy was hungry.  “Staaaaaaaaarving,” by his account.  He is only six, y’all.  That seems to be a lot of food for six.  I was warned that a growing boy would eat me out of house and home, but I guess I thought the onslaught wouldn’t happen til the teenage years.  Wrong again.

For some reason, this is always the post-football practice pose.

Butterflies. September 12, 2011

Yesterday was Grandparents’ Day, according to the Hallmark gods.  The Ex let me come pick the kids up to spend a couple of hours with my parents.  (In exchange … because there must always be an exchange … he will be picking the kids up for a few hours next weekend so that they can attend a birthday party for The Girlfriend’s niece.  Apparently we are back to playing nice.)  We went to a butterfly festival, where we discovered that butterflies will pretty much land and hang out anywhere you’ve smeared a little sweet watermelon juice.

Avery and Owen thought it was “awesome” and “cool.”

Amelia wasn’t having any of it.  No bugs for her, thank you very much.

It was a nice end to a pretty hard weekend.  A close high school friend passed away unexpectedly last week.  Saturday was spent attending the funeral out of town and it was all just so, so sad.  She was my age.  A mom.  A wife.  A sister.  A daughter.  A friend.  She left too many people too soon.  About 15 of us went to lunch afterwards.  We toasted our friend.  We told stories.  We laughed some.  We cried some.  We all felt that this life is too fleeting.  We all felt the need to hang on a little tighter.

I won’t get all heavy-handed with the butterfly metaphor, because … well, OBVIOUS.  But I will say this:  sometimes things are obvious for a reason, because otherwise you might be too blind to see them.  [Edited to add:  Upon re-reading, this statement makes no sense.  What I mean is, sometimes things are so apparent and so plain right in front of your face that you don't notice them or think about them because they aren't extraordinary.  They are so obvious that they are ignored.  They aren't eye-catching, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't be seen.]  The butterflies were a pretty good reminder that there’s no pretty without the ugly.  There’s no happy without the sad.  There are no pleasurable results from change without first going through the pain of change itself.  “Without change, there would be no butterflies.”  Each moment counts; each is there for a reason.  And in the end, in hindsight, I think each will have gone by way too fast.

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.  ~Rabindranath Tagore

That’s The End of That. September 8, 2011

I should know by now that the (happiness) fates giveth and the (ex-husband) fates taketh away.  It’s like The Ex has some Spidey sense that tingles when yours truly is feeling happy and content and not giving a rat’s ass about him and his, because every time I’m in a good place, he swoops in and does his level best to shred it for me.

I’ll admit I started it, if “started it” means I texted him and asked him a question about something the kids mentioned yesterday.  I didn’t accuse (or so I thought) and I didn’t whine (or so I thought).  I just asked.  And he responded with a nasty answer.  Which, in the playground games we tend to play on these occasions, merely engendered my own nastier answer.  And then we were off ….

The remainder of my evening (heartbreakingly, my last with the kids for the next four) was spent in a vicious text war with The Ex, neither of us pulling any punches and both of us going for the jugular and poking sharp sticks in each other’s respective well-known spots of weakness.  There were accusations and threats, assumptions and conclusions, and much, much nastiness.  I’ve written before about how, although I feel the root of my anger toward him is obvious and apparent, the source of his vitriol toward me remains a mystery.  Is it because he pays me child support (the state-required minimum, and he a partner in a law firm, I should add)?  Is it because the children occasionally express anger toward him and he just can’t possibly fathom that they aren’t merely echoing what they must have heard me say to them?  Is it because his precious new life isn’t turning out quite as easy and perfect as he’d imagined?  Those are my thoughts … but I’m sure he just thinks I’m a crazy bitch.  (In my experience, both out here on the Web and in real life, that is generally what most men think of their ex wives.)

In any event, when we get going like that, we each only see the other’s worst qualities.  We inject all prior harms and grievances into every current situation being discussed.  We do not, cannot, seem to step back and see the good with the bad, the parts of each other we once loved, the parenting skills we still appreciate.  During those times, only the negative shines.  It’s terribly counter-productive.  And it is so, so, so draining. I’ve felt hungover all day from the effects of our argument.  The only saving grace?  Although the kids knew we were arguing, it was done via text and not verbally in their presence.  Not much of a grace, but I’m grateful for it.

I thought about it all day today and then I decided, “I’m just not doing this anymore.”  So I sent him an email, saying I didn’t want to fight.  Saying that was never my intention.  Saying I knew we blamed each other, but I thought we both needed to try to deal with this co-parenting endeavor as an arm’s length business transaction whenever the emotion of being ex-spouses ran too high.  Saying I would try.  Asking him if he would try, too.  I told him there were a couple of big issues I’ve been wanting to discuss about the kids (mental health and physical safety issues, having nothing to do with The Girlfriend, for those keeping score at home).  I told him I was concerned and wanted to discuss, but didn’t want to fight.  I asked.  He didn’t respond.

I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop with The Ex … for the court summons, for the bombshell news, for the hurt and despair of a child ignored, for the explosion of anger I never saw coming.  I’m walking on eggshells and it’s a horrible feeling.  Nevertheless, here’s what I’m going to try.  Here’s my new leaf, my vow, my resolution, my effort to take charge of the things I can control:

I will not let him bait me.

I will not take a cheap shot, even when one is taken at me.

I will not accuse (I will only inquire).

I will not taunt.

I will not discuss his marriage relationship (unless it affects the health, safety, or emotional welfare of our children).

I will not engage in text or email wars with him anymore.

I will not call him names.

I will not question his parenting (unless, again, it affects the health, safety, or emotional welfare of our children).

I will not let him take his anger about his self-made situation out on me.

I will not question him about the barbs and complaints and criticisms of me that he makes to the children (and which they relay to me).  I will discuss those with the kids, but not with him.

I will not let him bait me. (Yeah, that’s twice on that one.  But it’s a weak spot of mine so worth repeating.)

I will not.

That’s it.  90-95% of the time so far I’ve done that already.  But, oh, that other 5-10%.  Within that other 5-10%, I’ve fallen way short of where I want and need to be.  That other 5-10%?  That slice is ugly.

So, here and now, I’m putting an end to that.  My life is good.  I am happy (or doing my damnedest to be).  And I will be happier still if I don’t waste any more precious evenings fighting a fight that can never be won.

I’m done.

Fabulous 40. September 7, 2011

I’m not gonna lie … I’ve been sweating my rapidly-approaching 40th birthday.  Not because of the number, per se, but because of where I am in my life right now.  I had no issue with turning 30—I was happily married, had a good career, and was pregnant with Avery.  Pretty much right where I wanted and expected to be at 30.  I did not, however, expect to be a divorced single mother at 40, watching myself age before my eyes in the mirror each morning.  This was not The Plan.  (And the fates laughed hysterically.)  40 has been looming and I’ve been dragging my feet on the approach.

This past weekend was spent with two of my favorite women—two fabulous and 40(ish) single mamas who make turning 40 look great.  My new house did a fine job hosting the three of us and our seven kids.  Over the past two years, these women have often been my lifeboat in rough waters.  One ahead and one behind me on this timeline of divorce and co-parenting and starting over, they’ve laughed and cried and encouraged and guided.  They get it.  They get me.  We’re on the same path.  As Owen said when we asked him at one point to go upstairs and play with the other kids because the moms had a lot to talk about, “Oh, you mean because you’re all divorced and stuff?”  Yeah, Owen, because of that.  We talked plenty about divorces and exes and raising our children in ways that they are least impacted by having split parents.  But that’s only part of the story….  We talked about aging and exercise and food and sex and dating and work and needs and wants and marriage and not marriage and being single and being strong and being grateful for women who walk the path with us.

We watched our kids swim and play and platonically fall in love with each other.  We fell in love with each others’ children (such a rare and wonderful thing) and we hoped that they’d be friends forever.

We listened to music and we drank wine and we stayed up too late and we ate pizza and cupcakes and we went through more bacon and eggs for the 10 of us that I care to count.

We shared and celebrated this one’s 40th birthday:

(And really, have you ever seen 40 look so fine?)

We started planning a spectacular 40th birthday trip, as a gift to ourselves and each other, to take place in a few months’ time after we’ve all hit the milestone and during a time when we are all sans kids.

We danced with our daughters.  In a dance circle in the middle of my living room, dressed in bathrobes and coverups and nightgowns and ponytails and bare feet, we three women danced with our four daughters, holding hands and singing and smiling and bathed in sunlight.

We got a babysitter and went out, having a truly sensational meal and then dancing some more—to an 80s band this time, but with no less gusto.

And as this one wrote, we laughed.  Hard.  And a lot.

We laughed.

and we laughed

and we laughed

and we laughed.

We had a weekend that I am 100% certain was the first of many such weekends to come.  This may not have been The Plan, but maybe The Plan of a 23-year-old isn’t the best plan for a 40-year-old.

If this is 40, then 40 is going to be pretty fabulous.  If this is 40, then I think I’m ready.

As our cab driver said after our night of dancing, “40 is the beginning of real life.”

Who knew?