(And Fate said, “Very funny.”) 

I was reminded this weekend, in fairly unpleasant fashion, that I haven’t at all mastered this trust thing yet.  Maybe I’m not even close.  I’m not sure if it’s a lesson that is easily forgotten, or if it is just one that is so difficult, so huge, so monumentally risky that it must be relearned again and again.

I don’t really know what trust looks like now, in the aftermath.  The blind and utter faith I had before, in The Ex?  I have doubts of ever making it back to that place of surety. And I have doubts that I even should.  That place seems … naive.  And maybe just a little bit irresponsible.  But being able to trust, to believe, to hope, and yet still tempering that with wisdom and experience?  I’d like to figure out how to do that.  That’s the place I’d like to find.  I’m hoping that the choosing, the deciding, the trying to trust again … I’m hoping that gets me pretty close.

I still believe in the quote I included in last April’s post.  It still moves me and motivates me.  I needed the reminder today.  Maybe someone out there does, too. 

From April 2011:

It shouldn’t come as a shock that I sport some pretty serious trust issues these days, especially given that letting people in and being vulnerable was never my strong suit in the first place.  Giving someone the power to hurt you isn’t the same as giving them permission, I realize, but it sure puts you one step farther along that road.

The one person in my life I ever fully trusted—with everything—with all of me—was The Ex, and he betrayed that trust in fairly spectacular fashion. Ever since, I’ve been angry at myself for having been so naive.  I’ve been disappointed that I ignored the warning signs and believed the excuses.  I’ve regretted the faith I had that someone with whom I shared great love would never willingly, intentionally, carelessly hurt me.  I trusted completely and in the end, felt like a complete fool for doing so.

It’s not a mistake I have any desire to make again.  There’s ego wrapped up in that, for sure.  As well as pain and fear and disbelief and quite a healthy dose of self-preservation.

I’m not sure how to come back from the place where my trust was so desolated.  I don’t know what has to happen before it makes sense for me to hand over that power another time.  How do I learn to trust The Ex again (and I have to learn it, at least on issues relating to our children)?  Where do I find the confidence to trust my own judgment after being so very, very wrong before?  When does it become the safe and smart move to trust someone else with my heart?  Many days it just doesn’t seem worth the risk.

But then there’s this:

Better trust all, and be deceived,

And weep that trust, and that deceiving;

Than doubt one heart, that, if believed,

Had blessed one’s life with true believing.

–”FAITH” by Frances Anne Kemble

Easier said than done, obviously, but it makes me want to try.  That single little stanza somehow stills the swirling inside.  It does nothing to explain the when or the where or the how, but it fairly well nails the why.  When I read this I feel absolution for wrongly trusting before.  When I read this I feel a beginning justification for trusting again.  Wish me luck.

So.  Thing the first, which really got the ball rolling on the month full of change …

The morning after my birthday, as I sat at a sidewalk cafe table in NYC on a gorgeous fall day, completely content, I got a text from The Ex informing that The Girlfriend was pregnant, that the kids were excited about their new sibling-to-be, and that The Ex wanted to meet for lunch or coffee the following week to discuss, among other things, “creating an environment that fosters a full and healthy relationship between the baby and Avery, Owen, and Amelia.”

Ok.

Never mind that The Ex, intentionally or not, seems to have a knack for dropping these digital bombs while I am away enjoying myself (see also: the engagement-announcing email while I was in Vegas).

Never mind that I couldn’t talk to the kids or gauge their true feelings and thoughts for several more days.

Never mind that the last thing in the world I wanted to do was sit down with The Ex and discuss him having another baby (or anything else, for that matter).

Never mind the unmitigated gall it took to assume it was my shared responsibility to create loving relationships for the child he is creating with the woman he left me for.

Never mind all of that.

My children were (are) going to have another sibling.  A sister.  And that is such a bizarre pill to swallow.

My unit of three, my trio against the world, will add one to their team.  For life.  They will have familial blood bonds with a person who has absolutely no connection to me.  That scares me.

The Girlfriend will now have a biological child of her own … her baby.  Now that she no longer needs to prove her mothering capacity to The Ex, will she stop being caring toward my children?  When the inevitable conflict between my children and hers occurs, is there any universe in which she won’t choose hers over mine?  And The Ex—when the day comes that he must prioritize the child he has with the woman he loves and the children he has with “the crazy ex wife”—is there any way my children won’t lose out in that competition?   That scares me.

The people in the Ex’s house are now going to seem even more like a “real” family—there’s a mom and a dad and kids, all under one roof, all working for the same purpose.  My house will continue to be the single working mama house, with all the chaos that entails.  Will The Ex’s home look and feel more “normal”  than mine?  That scares me.

If, God forbid, something happens to me and to The Ex, The Girlfriend may now have a stronger legal argument for custody of my kids (assuming she would want them as she says she does) because she is also raising their half sibling.  That scares me (and makes me sick).

I know that fear isn’t the best place from which to act or respond.  If the goal is logical and rational behavior, fear isn’t a good starting point.  I know that.  I try to live that.  But damn—that doesn’t mean it’s not scary.

I expected it.  I knew it was coming.  And yet … I was still shocked.  I am fairly certain The Ex doesn’t actually want another child (the decision to have #3 required much, much discussion and analysis and a huge leap of faith in the end).  But he’s having one anyway.  As he did about not wanting to remarry, The Ex apparently changed his mind about his lack of desire to have another child.

This didn’t go unnoticed by our children.

Shortly after The Ex’s announcement, Avery and Owen took great pains to re-confirm with me that: (A) I have no current plans to remarry; and (B) I don’t want to have any more children.  They were quite clear in their position that, although they are excited about the new baby sister set to join the family at their dad’s house, NO such changes would be acceptable at my house.  I must admit, this irked me.  The Ex has been forgiven all manner of dishonesty and unreliability with them.  He has left, lied, ignored their expressed concerns and unhappiness, remarried, and decided to have another child.  He is permitted to do anything, anytime.  He is always forgiven.  He is allowed.  I am not.

I asked this kids about this, simply wanting them to recognize the double standard.  I thought they’d give me some push-back to the question, but they didn’t even blink.  When I asked, “why”, they immediately responded, “Because Dad has changed.  He’s not the same Dad anymore and he’s going to do what he wants to do anyway.  But you’re the same Mom.  You haven’t changed.  And we don’t want you having any more kids.”  It’s that simple to them.  He is allowed; I am not.  They need one of us be the constant, and I am so utterly grateful it gets to be me.

Just like that, I became (and am still) less scared.  And the stage for the rest of the month was set.

I didn’t really write much in December … except to point out the obvious, which was that I wasn’t writing, which really isn’t writing at all, is it?

There were reasons for my quiet.  Good reasons, I think, now that I have the benefit of hindsight.  Looking back on the month, I needed to stay silent.  There were shifts occurring—in perspective, in relationship, in attitude.  There were decisions to make.  Certain doors were closing permanently, just as others were opening.  Things were changing.

Where I find I usually need to write in order to sort things out and process my thoughts and emotions, last month I felt it keenly necessary to keep it all in instead of let it all out.  I needed to turn inward, to sit still, to search.   And then I needed to take some steps that were pretty damn scary, just because it was finally time to do so.

I’m not sure I can really explain it except to say that December, in addition to being the final month of the year, felt like my final step in a very long, very arduous, very painful process.  And now I feel like I can breathe again.  I can’t recall the last time I was this excited about a new year—I’m more than ready to greet 2012 and see what it has in store for me.  But before I can go forward I need to rewind and fill in some gaps here.  There’s some catching up to do.

Yesterday was the two-year anniversary of Now Is Good.  I missed it (as, in all honesty, I miss most anniversaries, birthdays, and milestones).  Truth be told, I didn’t even think about it until I received my annual statistics report for the blog.  Interesting stuff.

According to WordPress,

• Now Is Good was viewed approximately 50,000 times in 2011.  That’s a few thousand more than in Now Is Good’s first year, but pretty consistent between 2010 and 2011.

• There were 66 new posts in 2011.  That’s not nearly as many as I’d like.  I need to write more.

• Now Is Good’s busiest traffic day was August 31st.  When people came on that day, they read “Venting.”  It continues to fascinate me that the most painful or frustrated posts are usually the most popular. 

• The most commented-on post in 2011?  “Grass Rhymes with Ass Rhymes with Class.”  And not all of the comments were nice.

• The other three most frequently read posts this year were “I A Little Crying,” “Find A Little Courage,” and “Marriage Farce.”  When I go back and re-read these, I can tap right back into the pain and turmoil of those times.  That’s a good thing, because although I don’t want to feel those ways again, I don’t want to forget those pains.  The hard times  are the ones that shape me and the ones I want to remember clearly.

• Of my five most frequent commenters?  Four are people I’ve only “met” virtually out here in the blogosphere.  And three are folks whose own blogs I read (and comment on) regularly.

• When people found me by doing a search, they usually appeared to be searching specifically for me, with “now is good,” “now is good blog” and “nowisgood blog” being the most commonly input terms.  Wonderfully, though, the other search terms that most frequently led people here were the words “Yes” and “Courage.”  I really like that, because those are two words I’ve found within myself as a direct result of writing here.

• Most of my readers hail from the U.S., but there are a good number in Canada and India, too.  Readers have also landed here from Mexico, Brazil, Peru, Columbia, Chile, Argentina, UK, France, Germany, Austria, Ireland, South Africa, Egypt, Nigeria, Ghana, Namibia, Malaysia, Philippines, Singapore, Hong Kong, Australia, New Zealand and Guam.  This boggles my mind and drives home the fact that although the world is vast, we are all interconnected.

Thank you for reading.  Thank you for commenting.  Thank you for supporting me.  Although I may go AWOL occasionally, this blog has given me a voice and a creative outlet that was very much lacking in my prior life.  You’ve given me a community, and I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.

Happy New Year, everyone.  Here’s to a magnificent 2012!

I haven’t been writing.

I’ve had things going on.  Fairly big things.  Things I would normally need to write out.

It’s not like I haven’t been processing and figuring and examining and analyzing.  I have been.  Repeatedly.  Compulsively.  Excruciatingly.  But I haven’t been writing about them.

I usually write when I need to sort out my thoughts … when I need to lay it all out on paper and Venn-diagram my way into determining where my head and heart merge into my truth.  My life lately has been ripe for parsing; has been supremely fertile ground for digging in and digging up.  And yet I don’t seem to have anything to say.  About any of it.

Part of me thinks there is nothing that I can say.  If sometimes, some things, are just so … omnipresent and unavoidable and weighty and real that there exists no other course or choice but to take a deep breath and just say, “OK.”  And then let it all be.

Part of me wonders if I’ve maybe become immune.  If there are simply a finite number of times and ways in which a person can be pained by the same people and the same acts, merely mutated into a different shape and form on a different day.  Part of me wonders if the callouses are tough enough now that I don’t feel the new wounds.

Part of me wonders if I’m just done.  If I’m over it.  If I’ve adjusted, moved on, accepted.  If I’ve truly let go.

And part of me wonders if I’m self-protecting.  If I’m keeping the jagged edges just past arm’s length and not getting close enough to touch the painful parts.  If maybe I’m not writing because I’m not really dealing.

I don’t know.  I really, truly don’t.  I just know that until I do know?  I don’t have anything to write.

Really, though, I had the most wonderful of birthdays, beginning with breakfast in bed with my kiddos, ending with a most perfect weekend trip to NYC, and chock full of emails and texts and posts and presents and calls and love and well wishes all there in between.  I’m thinking it was my best birthday ever, and I am simply overflowing with gratitude for all the wonderful people who made it their mission to ensure it was just that way.

As I continue to bask in the afterglow (and before I hit some less-pleasant topics in the coming days), I wanted to share this.  My youngest two sisters are the kind of people for whom thoughtful creativity seems to be ingrained.  The gifts and kindnesses they think up top the charts.  I don’t seem to have that gene, but I’m repeatedly glad I am able to benefit from theirs.  On my birthday morning, they presented me with this:

That’s a bucketful of 40 handmade fortune cookies.  (I didn’t even know it was possible to homemake those.)  Inside each was a different fortune, written personally for me, wishing me exactly the things I hope to discover or maintain this year.  Some were funny, some were serious, many contained references this things I’ve written about here.  All were wonderful.  In no particular order, they were:

Happy Birthday!  May all of your birthday wishes come true, including the 39 we have for you.

May this year bring you better fortune than the last 39 combined.

May Amelia start going to bed when she’s supposed to.

May Owen still reach for your hand in public.

May Avery continue to be a mirror image of her mother.

May you find beauty in the everyday things.

May your patience and maturity be rewarded.

May you bill enough hours to make a living and not enough to take away time with your kids.

May you continue to be a MILF (Funny aside: Quickly improvising, I told the kids that this stood for “Mom I’d Like to be Friends With.”)

May you continue to build strong bonds with strong women.

May you remain optimistic and cheerful without losing your classic Meredith edge.

May you continue to express yourself beautifully through the written word.

 May your strength and actions continue to inspire and motivate others.

May you continue to Let Go.

May you be well, happy, peaceful.

May you get to sleep-in once a week.

May someone invent a calorie-free wine.

May (the other half of) your garage magically clean itself.

May you know you are surrounded by love, every second of every day.

May certain situations start to take two steps forward and NO steps back.

May your quality of life depend not upon external development or material progress, but upon the inner development of peace and happiness.

May now continue to be good.

May you face facts with dignity.

May the regrets you face this year be fewer than the last.

May you continue to raise gifted, generous and genuinely good children. All that shines in them comes from you.

May you have a light heart to carry you through the hard times.

May you gain a new perspective with a new year.  

May you not just spend time; invest it.

Every day, may you find time to rest, even if just for a few minutes. You deserve it.

May you have faith that in the end, all things will be known.

May you welcome change.

May you continue to always have the best skin of the sisters. And nails.  And teeth. And waistline. (THAT is love.)

May your intelligence continue to be one your greatest assets.

May you learn a new hobby in your 40^th year.

May your happiest days be before you, not behind you.

May Nathan Fillion finally call you.

May you know you are free to invent your life.

May you realize you have the best sisters in the world. For real.

May you ask for help when you need a hand. There a plenty just waiting to be held.

May you live every day with gratitude.

And if I may add the 41st, just for good measure:  May I somehow, someday, discover a way to be deserving of the unbelievably good people and immense good fortune in my life.

I am mother to three amazingly wonderful children.

I am a lawyer.

I am a working single mother.

I am healthy.

I am strong.

I am a sometimes-runner.

I am a part-time yogi.

I can rock a pair of cowboy boots.

I am a voracious reader.

I am a drinker of red wine and a lover of dark chocolate.

I am a lover of live music.

I am a mama bear.

I am divorced.

I am a survivor.

I am a daughter, a sister, a friend.

I am blessed with an ever-widening circle of supportive people in my life.

I am sarcastic.

I am honest and direct and open.

I am a grammar geek (I am sort of a geek in general).

I am a burgeoning optimist.

I am seeking.

I am growing.

I am a writer (that’s the first time I’ve ever said that “out loud”).

I am hopeful.

I am thriving.

I am happy.

I am 40.

And I’m just getting started.

On the wall outside of Owen’s classroom, “Gigi” and “Pop” were treated to this:

I’m pretty sure my mom cried.  I know my dad laughed.

I was gifted with this:

So, yes, apparently Owen is most thankful for all the fast food that his grandparents and Mom buy him (and for his Mom taking care of him when he is sick … surely not from eating all of the fast food?).  I had no idea about the assignment until I arrived at school that day, but as far as I can determine, the teacher’s prompt was to write about the reasons you were grateful for your parents and grandparents.

Owen didn’t write anything at all about The Ex.  The immature, revengeful part of me was initially glad about that—glad that Owen bestowed his thanks upon the people who (in my opinion) always put him first.  I can’t lie—I felt just a twinge of “you reap what you sow” satisfaction about The Ex’s exclusion.  The rational part of me, however, knew that the omission signified nothing.  It didn’t mean anything at all—Owen just as easily could have written about his dad and ignored me, if only a different fleeting thought had entered his head when the teacher read the assignment prompt.  A little competition followed by a little logic—those parts didn’t surprise me.

What did surprise me was the emotion that quickly followed on the heels of those first two thoughts: I felt bad for The Ex.  He was there at the program, as he always tries to be.  Owen hugged him and loved him and showered him with attention, proudly showing off his classroom and his teacher and his work displayed on the bulletin boards.  He didn’t favor me or favor his dad.  He was glad we both were there.  But there was no “Why I’m Thankful for My Dad” writing, and as a result?  I felt sorry for The Ex.

And then I felt really pissed off that I felt sorry for him.  He hasn’t given a rat’s behind about my feelings in years, from what I can tell, and he sure doesn’t deserve any compassion from me.  In fact, I’d bet money that he assumes I had a hand in that writing project somehow—that I encouraged Owen not to write about his father.  (For what it’s worth, that’s not paranoia on my part—the kids regularly repeat to me The Ex’s accusatory interrogations of them: “Did your mom tell you to say that?” “Did your mom make you choose that?” “Are you complaining/refusing/rebelling/expressing that because your mom told you to?”)  He’d be wrong, though.  And it doesn’t matter anyway.

I still feel bad for The Ex, even if he doesn’t deserve it, but it’s no longer my job to comfort or console him, to reassure him that he is a good parent, to remind him how much our children love him.  He’s on his own with all of that now.  As am I.

Fortunately on this day, I didn’t need any reassurance.  My boy was thankful for me, and I for him.

I’ll spend today with my children, my parents, 2 of my 3 sisters, and some wonderful friends.  I am thankful and grateful for all them and for so many other wonderful people and things in my life.

Today, may you all have many blessings to count and many loved ones at your side.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

As always, always, always, I appreciate the supportive feedback I receive from this blog.  I truly do—more than anyone will ever know.  But reading the comments to my last post have made me uncomfortable enough that I feel the need to set the record straight.  I’m all for taking credit where credit is due (it often embarrasses me, but I’ll still take it … pretty much every time), but there is no way I can accept praise for something I haven’t done.

So to be crystal clear … I haven’t forgiven anyone.  Not The Ex.  Not The Girlfriend.  Not The Ex’s family for (seemingly) so willingly standing by in mute support while The Ex ripped apart his family.   Not the friends The Ex kept or created since.  Quite honestly, not anyone who lays a blessing at the feet of either of them or the relationship that started and continued out of lies and deceit and betrayal and intentionally inflicted pain.

I don’t forgive.

I can’t.  I’m not sure I ever will.  They don’t deserve it and they sure as hell never asked for it.  And yes, I fully realize that those matters are irrelevant to the true nature of forgiveness.  You don’t forgive because it’s requested or entitled.  You forgive because ….  Actually, I have no idea why I’d forgive them.  For the betterment of my mental and spiritual health?  Ok, maybe.  For the benefit of my children?  That’s the better argument, although I’m not really convinced that forgiveness is required.  Cooperation, civility, fairness, encouragement of the father/child relationship—absolutely.  Forgiveness—I don’t know.  Perhaps if I were a better Christian, a better Buddhist, a better anything ….

Irrelevant, though.  For now, make no mistake—I am nowhere near forgiveness.

I still would be quite pleased if their relationship crashed and burned.  I would feel satisfaction if he cheated on her, or if she cheated on him.  Deep down, I continue to hope that one day, The Ex will know real regret for the damage he’s done, and that it will pain him severely.  It would please me for either of them to discover an ounce of guilt or shame.  I’m not proud of any of that, but it’s the truth.

The thing is, none of that is really helpful.  Not now, wishing for it.  Not later, if or when it actually comes to be.  Entertaining any of those desires is a waste—of my very valuable time and energy—and I feel they’ve taken enough of those already.  I’m not keen on gifting them any more.  I am not at all zen about what they did or about what they continue to do.  I’m just beginning to get more and more zen about the fact that there isn’t anything I can do about it.  The universe will take care of them … or it won’t.  Either way, it’s out of my hands.  Either way, it has nothing to do with me and the way my life plays out from here on in.  Either way, we all march on.

Time dulls the sting.  I’m still appalled … I’m just a little farther removed from the pain of it these days.  They still suck—they are, in fact, monumental in their suckiness.  It’s just that more and more, their suckiness doesn’t affect me as much (or at least not in the same way).  So I’m trying to tolerate it.  Their suckiness.  The Ex.  The Girlfriend.  Their marriage, the children they are likely to have, the children I already have to share.  I’m trying to tolerate it all.

It’s just time.  Maybe.  Or maybe I’d just like it to be time.  I don’t think tolerance is the same thing as forgiveness.  Not at all.  Not even a little bit.  Not in any universe.  It’s only a tiny, but very difficult, step in a better direction, and one I’m trying hard to take.

Things with The Ex and The Girlfriend are a work in progress.  I’ve always said I’d love for us all to get to the point where we can co-exist comfortably, but man … it’s a long and bumpy road to that happy ending.  It takes time … a lot of time, I think, given the way their relationship began and our marriage ended.  Things could have been so much easier if that necessary time (and the built-in space buffer that comes with it) had been respected, but of course, none of that was ever really within my control.

I’ve written again and again about how my relationship with The Ex constantly seem to be of the “two steps forward and one step back” variety.  My relationship with The Girlfriend, on the other hand, has mostly been of the “I will ignore you instead of smacking the shit out of you in public” variety.  Being around the two of them together still grates.  I’m still fairly disgusted when she smacks him on the butt, or feeds him cake, or baby-talks to him.  I’m still a little aghast at the gall.

But time does its thing.  It always does.  It’s been 2.5 years since I learned The Ex was cheating with The Girlfriend.  We’ve been divorced for well over two years.  The Girlfriend has been actively, daily, involved with my children for well over a year.  I’d still love to throttle them both, but there’s been a great deal of water under that bridge.  Time passes and things improve … slowly:

• At Owen’s last football game of the season, The Girlfriend saw me struggling to load up kids and coolers and gear.  She offered to help me carry stuff to my car.  I declined, but thanked her for offering.

• At the same game, my mom congratulated The Ex on coaching a good season.  I was proud of her for reaching out, because I know it’s even harder for my family to do so than it is for me.

• Although technically this Thanksgiving is “mine” and by Decree I have the kids for a 9-day stretch, we’re staying in town for the holiday and a lengthy separation from Dad wasn’t necessitated by travel requirements.  The Ex and I managed to do some back and forth finagling of custodial days over the Thanksgiving holiday in a way that I think benefits all of us.  And it was all done fairly easily and agreeably.

• At a recent kid party, I was talking to another mom.  I glanced aside and smiled and said hello as someone approached.  And then I realized I had just accidentally warmly greeted The Girlfriend.  Crap.  And yet, seeing as how I didn’t burst into flames it might be something I try again … maybe on purpose next time.

• The Girlfriend stayed home for two recent kid events: a Mama/Son football game for Owen and a parent presentation in Amelia’s dance class.  I was surprised she didn’t attend, but very grateful to be able to enjoy those events as Mom without having to share the moments with Stepmom.  I emailed her and told her so.  I wasn’t sarcastic or nasty—I just thanked her for letting me enjoy that time and space with my children, on my own.  She emailed back and thanked me for reaching out, letting me know that it was important to her for the kids to know she was interested in their activities, but that she wanted me to know she struggled with how to balance that against knowing her presence wasn’t always necessary.  It was all very polite and arm’s length, but it felt like something.  Something new.

Baby steps.