A good friend and work associate told me today that I was "wise beyond my years" and that I should "write a book of life lessons." After I laughed myself hoarse for a few minutes, I realized she was serious. Me? Wise? I feel much like a bumbling idiot and perpetual rider of the proverbial short bus. Nevertheless, I have learned a lot. I am not one on whom life lessons are lost. I carry them. I evolve. I laugh at myself. If I didn't, it would be...well, stupid.
So I don't know if I'll ever fill a book, but I'll gladly share a few potentially helpful tips and insights. Take them with a grain of salt, and please, by no means replace the bible on your nightstand with a printout of this silly blog. Here you go, K!
1. If you invest in anything in your lifetime, invest in PEOPLE. Grow a family. This does not necessarily require breeding. Families come in different forms. Find your people, love your people, nourish them, and never take them for granted. In return, they will love and cherish you, and (more often than not) keep you sane. Invest in those people with everything you have, and you'll never be poor.
2. Money does make the world go round, and it is one of those necessary evils. HOWEVER, you don't need as much of it as you think you do. Trust me on that one. I can tell tales that would make you and your wallet cringe.
3. Douchebaggery is NOT gender-specific. I know just as many female jerks as male jerks. Ladies, give the men a break. They are hard-wired very differently than we are. Be patient. LISTEN. And remember that you can be just as much of a belligerent, insufferable buttface as they can, and you often are.
4. If you are going to be the type of friend who calls and wakes up your pal at 2:00 a.m. to cry over a dude or a bad day at work, you better be the type of friend who answers your phone at 2:00 a.m ready to listen to the same sh*t.
5. Your kids are WATCHING YOU. Homeschool them and shelter them all you want, but in the end, YOU are the textbook who they'll reference the most. If all your daughter ever sees or hears is you "acting a fool," dancing on top of bars and acting like a floozy, well then good luck telling her to study, work hard and keep her legs shut. Am I the perfect parent? Nope. But ask my closest friends and family how I carry myself in front of my boys.
6. After you've divorced or ended a serious, long-term relationship, dating is never as fun as you remembered it. In matters of love/relationships, learn to distinguish between "This is an annoyance that I can work through" and "This is irretrievably broken." Stick it out if you can. That green grass over there turns brown just as easily, and often more quickly.
7. NEVER do anything drastic to your hair while (a) euphorically happy, (b) depressed, or (c) pissed off. Level out first. You might THINK that model on the cover of that hair magazine looks uber-cute, but I have a grown-out pixie cut that begs to differ.
8. If you are the parents of children ages 5 and under, silence after about 8:00 p.m. is GOOD. Anytime prior to that? NEVER GOOD. Silence usually means that someone has ingested something inedible, found your stash of permanent markers, or worked up a real nice poop in his diaper.
9. Don't dismiss anyone's expressed feelings of sadness, anger or down-troddedness. You NEVER KNOW the full extent of what they have been through or what they are going through, and it doesn't really MATTER if you or anyone else has been through more trials than they have. The point is that a human being is hurting and needs you to be a friend. Don't miss your calling. If you do, then don't expect the level of compassion that you are never willing to put out into the universe.
and part deux to #9 is:
10. LET PEOPLE FEEL THE WAY THEY FEEL. It might not be how you feel or how you *think* you'd feel if you were in their shoes. But no one is "wrong" for feeling differently than you. Again, if you can't be an ear, don't expect anyone to do the same for you.
11. NEVER complain about your weight to a chubby girl. If you're fishing for a compliment, you're more likely to get a kick in the bony kneecap. And on that note, no one wants to eat breakfast, lunch or dinner with you if all you're going to do is discuss your diet and assess everyone else's at the table. Don't be that guy.
12. Recently-divorced women will likely not want to come to your wedding, women who have recently miscarried will likely not want to come to your baby shower, unattractive women will likely not want to come to your MaryKay skincare party and single moms who are broke will likely not want to come to your designer purse party. No offense. We love you, but there are less painfully awkward things that we'd rather be doing...like getting a pap smear. Or eating glass. And then taking a laxative. In no particular order. You're just going to have to forgive us.
13. Cereal can be eaten at any time of day. Because I say so.
14. Write it down. Reflect on it later. Share it if you can. You'll often find that you've grown, and you'll feel good about getting a "visual" of the progress you've made. At best, you might help heal another soul who is just entering a chapter similar to one that you've already closed.
15. Before she evolved into the woman who now hen-pecks you all to hell for not calling for days at a time, your mom was just a girl, and she was faced with some of the same (and some very different, but not necessarily EASIER) trials as you. Learn from her. Step in her shoes. At best, you will develop a stronger bond. At worst, you will know why you don't want to follow in her footsteps. But either way, trust me when I tell you that you will be left with a hole in your core when she leaves this Earth. Give her a hug, would ya? And for Pete's sake, just CALL HER!
16. Break into song and dance whenever possible. It's what Jesus would do.
17. If you can't afford it, don't buy it. If you've lived this long without it, you don't need it.
18. Extremes of any kind are never good. This includes politics. ESPECIALLY politics. This is not a "One Size Fits All" world we're living in, kids.
19. Second chances are rarely deserved. Third chances never are. By the time you get around to giving someone or something a fourth chance, you're just asking for it.
and
20. You never really know yourself until your faith and stamina have been put to the test. Never miss out on a good lesson.
Until next time, lovies.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Another year older, another year wiser
I always blog on my birthday. Even if I can’t make enough sense of my thoughts to formulate even a quasi-interesting entry, I try to make a statement about the progress of my journey, how it feels, what I’m doing…
My 32nd year of life began with a family surprise party at my sister’s pool, and ended on a peaceful Sunday morning at a beautiful spa with some of my greatest allies. Two celebrations, but with a whole lot of chaos in between - It’s hard to imagine that one single year could have brought so many changes and challenges. Year 32 filled my heart with equal parts joy and pain, laughter, memories, struggles, awakenings, new loves and new friends. But rather than focus on what went wrong or even what came out right, I am focused now only on the fact that I survived, and for that I am so grateful. I survived one of the most challenging, emotional years of my relatively young life, and I came out the other end a little bit wiser, a little bit stronger, and with a new army of supporters at my side.
Life is such a beautiful, intoxicating, tragic thing. You really just never know what each day will bring. My hope for my 33rd year is that I continue to survive, that the joy eclipses the pain and that the laughter outlasts the tears. Someone once told me that every day you wake up to see the sun again is like a tiny victory. In consideration of that, I will call the past year a victory of epic proportions.
Happy birthday, self. You made it.
My 32nd year of life began with a family surprise party at my sister’s pool, and ended on a peaceful Sunday morning at a beautiful spa with some of my greatest allies. Two celebrations, but with a whole lot of chaos in between - It’s hard to imagine that one single year could have brought so many changes and challenges. Year 32 filled my heart with equal parts joy and pain, laughter, memories, struggles, awakenings, new loves and new friends. But rather than focus on what went wrong or even what came out right, I am focused now only on the fact that I survived, and for that I am so grateful. I survived one of the most challenging, emotional years of my relatively young life, and I came out the other end a little bit wiser, a little bit stronger, and with a new army of supporters at my side.
Life is such a beautiful, intoxicating, tragic thing. You really just never know what each day will bring. My hope for my 33rd year is that I continue to survive, that the joy eclipses the pain and that the laughter outlasts the tears. Someone once told me that every day you wake up to see the sun again is like a tiny victory. In consideration of that, I will call the past year a victory of epic proportions.
Happy birthday, self. You made it.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Deer in the Rearview
In the weeks after my (ex) husband left me, I grasped desperately for answers and comfort in between phone calls to divorce attorneys, applications for financial assistance, trips to and from daycare and the park, sporadic interviews, and cleaning sprees focused on taking down every photo and memoir in the house that we had taken and/or collected in our ten years together. But in times of despair or crisis, it always seems that distractions and answers are unsatisfyingly few and far between, and comfort is hard to come by. “It gets easier” was the standby mantra for all of the people who loved me and were as befuddled and frustrated by my situation as I was. It would get easier, but no one could tell me how, why or when, and I got to the point that I wanted to kick anyone in the teeth that patted my back and promised me that someday it wouldn’t suck so much.
Unemployed, scared, broken and lost…and no one could say anything that made an inkling of a difference. So it came as a complete surprise one day that some of the soundest advice (EVER!) came to me from a complete stranger with a Memphis drawl.
In the late morning of one of my ordinary days, I set out to tackle the next item on my Divorce To Do List: finding health insurance for myself. I was, at the time, unemployed, and though I knew that I would qualify for COBRA if my ex chose to suddenly drop me from his plan, I could not afford it. I could barely afford to feed myself. So I begrudgingly picked up the phone and called our insurance provider to see if I could quality for an individual insurance plan. The customer service rep expressed confusion as to why I was seeking a private plan when his records showed that I was presently covered on my spouse’s policy. With a sigh, I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of what was going on, and I told him that I was worried that my pending ex-husband would drop me from his insurance without telling me, leaving me in a financial pickle. The moment I finished explaining myself, I balked, deciding that I was being paranoid. My ex was not a vindictive person. He wouldn’t do that to me. I was letting people’s words and advice get to me. I apologized to the man for wasting his time and tried to segue into ending the call, but he stopped me.
“Can I give you a little bit of advice from a stranger who has walked a similar mile in similar shoes?”
I snorted. “Are you going to tell me that it’ll get easier?”
He laughed. “No, I won’t say that, although I can promise you that it will. What I will tell you to do is to think of yourself as a deer in the rearview,” he said.
“A deer in the headlights?”
“No, ma’am. A deer in the rearview.”
I was intrigued. “Go on.”
He continued, (and I will attempt to quote him as best I can from memory and my journal entries) “Say you’re driving down a rural highway to a party that you’ve been anticipating all year. You’re all dressed up and excited to meet someone and make connections that may or may not change your life or bring you happiness. You look down at your radio dial for a minute, and when you look back up, there’s a deer standing in your path, and it’s too late for you to stop. You hit that poor deer hard enough to know that there won’t be anything you can do to save her. You tap the brakes for a moment, scared and sad. But after a moment, you realize that that you’re running late for the party and all of its possibilities, so you accelerate again. You know that you’ve likely ended that deer’s life, and you know that perhaps that deer’s babies are waiting in the woods for their mommy to come home, but you keep accelerating toward your party. You keep glancing in your rearview at that lifeless deer in the road, and you feel horrible, but the further away you get, the smaller the deer appears. The closer you get to the party, the more you forget about that deer. Eventually you no longer see that dear in your rearview, you get to the party, go on with your life, and with time, you don’t even think about that deer unless someone brings it up in conversation or you drive past where you hit it, and even then you don’t think about it too hard. Miss, YOU are that deer in the rearview. Right now your husband feels guilty enough to do the right thing, but as you become smaller in his rearview mirror, it will matter less and less to him whether or not you’re hurt, let alone provided for. You’re right to look out for yourself. Divorce in itself is rooted in selfishness. Don’t ever give anyone more credit than they deserve.”
Whoa. I was stunned. It wasn’t warm or fuzzy, it wasn’t inspirational…it was raw, honest, and by gosh, it was TRUE. I WAS the deer in the rearview, struggling to stand up again, with my babies waiting in the woods for their mommy to get it together and come back to Earth. And my ex was speeding toward the party, looking at new possibilities and putting as much space between himself and his old life as possible. He hoped he hadn’t destroyed me, but he wasn’t going to slow down enough to care whether or not he had.
That, friends, is the story of so many of our lives. We are struck, and we stand up, sometimes only to be struck again. Not everyone will look into that rearview and give you a second thought. A rare few will tap the brakes or stop to assess the damage. Even fewer will stop, get out, and help you to your feet. Nearly no one will stick around to see or celebrate your recovery. So why get up? For me, it’s because of those babies waiting in the woods. Not only do they need me to come home, but they need to see that, no matter how many partygoers mow their mommy down, their mommy gets up and tries again. Then maybe one day when they’re old enough to walk in the road on their own, they’ll be able to spot and stay clear of the bad drivers, or at the very least know that they can still stand up and keep going even when they’re struck down…Figuratively, of course.
I am pleased to tell you that my initial fears were unwarranted. My ex-husband kept me on his insurance until I (thank God) got a job and insurance of my own. He never asked me for a dime in return. But I don’t regret a single second I spent on the phone with that stranger. Whether he meant to or not, he motivated me to be a stronger deer rather than someone’s roadkill.
…And if that ain’t warm and fuzzy, I don’t know what is.
Unemployed, scared, broken and lost…and no one could say anything that made an inkling of a difference. So it came as a complete surprise one day that some of the soundest advice (EVER!) came to me from a complete stranger with a Memphis drawl.
In the late morning of one of my ordinary days, I set out to tackle the next item on my Divorce To Do List: finding health insurance for myself. I was, at the time, unemployed, and though I knew that I would qualify for COBRA if my ex chose to suddenly drop me from his plan, I could not afford it. I could barely afford to feed myself. So I begrudgingly picked up the phone and called our insurance provider to see if I could quality for an individual insurance plan. The customer service rep expressed confusion as to why I was seeking a private plan when his records showed that I was presently covered on my spouse’s policy. With a sigh, I gave him the Reader’s Digest version of what was going on, and I told him that I was worried that my pending ex-husband would drop me from his insurance without telling me, leaving me in a financial pickle. The moment I finished explaining myself, I balked, deciding that I was being paranoid. My ex was not a vindictive person. He wouldn’t do that to me. I was letting people’s words and advice get to me. I apologized to the man for wasting his time and tried to segue into ending the call, but he stopped me.
“Can I give you a little bit of advice from a stranger who has walked a similar mile in similar shoes?”
I snorted. “Are you going to tell me that it’ll get easier?”
He laughed. “No, I won’t say that, although I can promise you that it will. What I will tell you to do is to think of yourself as a deer in the rearview,” he said.
“A deer in the headlights?”
“No, ma’am. A deer in the rearview.”
I was intrigued. “Go on.”
He continued, (and I will attempt to quote him as best I can from memory and my journal entries) “Say you’re driving down a rural highway to a party that you’ve been anticipating all year. You’re all dressed up and excited to meet someone and make connections that may or may not change your life or bring you happiness. You look down at your radio dial for a minute, and when you look back up, there’s a deer standing in your path, and it’s too late for you to stop. You hit that poor deer hard enough to know that there won’t be anything you can do to save her. You tap the brakes for a moment, scared and sad. But after a moment, you realize that that you’re running late for the party and all of its possibilities, so you accelerate again. You know that you’ve likely ended that deer’s life, and you know that perhaps that deer’s babies are waiting in the woods for their mommy to come home, but you keep accelerating toward your party. You keep glancing in your rearview at that lifeless deer in the road, and you feel horrible, but the further away you get, the smaller the deer appears. The closer you get to the party, the more you forget about that deer. Eventually you no longer see that dear in your rearview, you get to the party, go on with your life, and with time, you don’t even think about that deer unless someone brings it up in conversation or you drive past where you hit it, and even then you don’t think about it too hard. Miss, YOU are that deer in the rearview. Right now your husband feels guilty enough to do the right thing, but as you become smaller in his rearview mirror, it will matter less and less to him whether or not you’re hurt, let alone provided for. You’re right to look out for yourself. Divorce in itself is rooted in selfishness. Don’t ever give anyone more credit than they deserve.”
Whoa. I was stunned. It wasn’t warm or fuzzy, it wasn’t inspirational…it was raw, honest, and by gosh, it was TRUE. I WAS the deer in the rearview, struggling to stand up again, with my babies waiting in the woods for their mommy to get it together and come back to Earth. And my ex was speeding toward the party, looking at new possibilities and putting as much space between himself and his old life as possible. He hoped he hadn’t destroyed me, but he wasn’t going to slow down enough to care whether or not he had.
That, friends, is the story of so many of our lives. We are struck, and we stand up, sometimes only to be struck again. Not everyone will look into that rearview and give you a second thought. A rare few will tap the brakes or stop to assess the damage. Even fewer will stop, get out, and help you to your feet. Nearly no one will stick around to see or celebrate your recovery. So why get up? For me, it’s because of those babies waiting in the woods. Not only do they need me to come home, but they need to see that, no matter how many partygoers mow their mommy down, their mommy gets up and tries again. Then maybe one day when they’re old enough to walk in the road on their own, they’ll be able to spot and stay clear of the bad drivers, or at the very least know that they can still stand up and keep going even when they’re struck down…Figuratively, of course.
I am pleased to tell you that my initial fears were unwarranted. My ex-husband kept me on his insurance until I (thank God) got a job and insurance of my own. He never asked me for a dime in return. But I don’t regret a single second I spent on the phone with that stranger. Whether he meant to or not, he motivated me to be a stronger deer rather than someone’s roadkill.
…And if that ain’t warm and fuzzy, I don’t know what is.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
A Birthday Battle Lost...But Perhaps a War Won
When I picked up my five-year-old from his dad’s house late last night, he was still flying high on sugar frosting and birthday exhilaration. He chattered the entire ride home about all of his presents and his balloons and his cake, and while I was so happy that he enjoyed his birthday with his dad and sister, I couldn’t help but feel sad that I missed it all, and I wished I could have given him what they had.
Before we had even pulled into the driveway, he was asking me how many presents I had waiting for him at home. I gritted my teeth and reminded him that he picked out his birthday present on Sunday during our trip to the aquarium, which incidentally was a $6.99 wind-up submarine. He folded his arms across his chest and kicked my seat, “I don’t even LIKE that submarine anymore! I want DIFFERENT presents. I want something ELSE!”
“Well, I do have one little special present for you in the house. It’s something that means a lot to me, and I’m going to give it to you.”
He leapt out of the van and ran into the house, looking around feverishly for what? I don’t know. I’m not sure what he expected. He just kept asking for his present. I settled him, tucked him and his brother in, and returned to his bedside a few minutes later with a copy of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are.”
My mother, an elementary school librarian (back in the olden days when they WERE librarians and not “media specialists”), used to read it to me and to her students, and it’s one of my all-time favorites. I read it to my boys whenever I can get my hands on a copy, be it at a friend’s home or the bookstore, but I never got around to buying it. But after watching the movie adaptation with him, and recently reading it to him for the millionth time (and him being equally excited about it each and every time), I figured it would be a great addition to our bedtime story collection.
Hiding it behind my back, I gave him my own history of the book…my mom read it to me when I was young, and she read it to her students (giving the monsters special voices and all), and I was so excited to now be able to read it once again to my own little boy at bedtime, especially on a special occasion such as his 5th birthday. I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting, but when I whipped it out from behind my back, he looked thoroughly disappointed, if not a little angry and annoyed.
“Mommy, I don’t even LIKE that book. I don’t want it. I don’t like your present.”
My heart dropped to my feet, and I had to literally tell myself not to cry. Stiffening my back, and taking a deep breath, I said the first thing I could think to say, and I said it as calmly as possible. “You know what, J? I CHOSE to give you a special gift that we could enjoy together. I didn’t HAVE to give you anything. Your words have hurt my heart and my feelings. I’ll leave the book right here on the shelf until I can find someone who might want to read it. Good night.”
And with that, I left the room, sat down on the bed in my den, and collapsed into tears.
It had happened.
My son was one of THOSE. A spoiled child of two divorced parents overcompensating for their own insecurities by showering their children with gifts and two celebrations for every event…two competing birthday parties, two competing Christmases, two competing Fourth of July fireworks displays…
The message he had received was loud and clear: Presents are important, and he/she who gives the most or the best, WINS.
Sadness became anger became frustration became defeat. I would never be able to “compete.” I would always lose the battle of the gifting, and any effort I made to teach the value of memories and the virtue of the thought that goes into giving gifts would always be fruitless. A shiny red soccer ball and brand new baseball glove would always trump a bedtime story or a $6.99 submarine and a memory.
Within 10 minutes of my meltdown, my son tiptoed into the den with the book in his arms, and I did my best to look as if I hadn’t been bawling my everloving eyes out.
“Mommy, I’m very sorry that I hurt your feelings. I really do love this story. Will you please read it with me?”
With that, he climbed into the bed with me, and we read. He pointed out the details in the pictures. He guessed what each monster would sound like. He giggled and smiled and leaned his head against my shoulder. When we were finished, he asked if we could read it again the next night. I said yes.
I tucked him in for the second time, wishing him a happy birthday, and told him that I loved him so very much.
“Mommy, I didn’t mean to hurt your heart. Your present didn’t hurt my heart. I’m sorry.”
“I know, buddy. Thank you. Good night.”
And I left the room again, this time with happy tears shining in my eyes.
Before we had even pulled into the driveway, he was asking me how many presents I had waiting for him at home. I gritted my teeth and reminded him that he picked out his birthday present on Sunday during our trip to the aquarium, which incidentally was a $6.99 wind-up submarine. He folded his arms across his chest and kicked my seat, “I don’t even LIKE that submarine anymore! I want DIFFERENT presents. I want something ELSE!”
“Well, I do have one little special present for you in the house. It’s something that means a lot to me, and I’m going to give it to you.”
He leapt out of the van and ran into the house, looking around feverishly for what? I don’t know. I’m not sure what he expected. He just kept asking for his present. I settled him, tucked him and his brother in, and returned to his bedside a few minutes later with a copy of Maurice Sendak’s “Where the Wild Things Are.”
My mother, an elementary school librarian (back in the olden days when they WERE librarians and not “media specialists”), used to read it to me and to her students, and it’s one of my all-time favorites. I read it to my boys whenever I can get my hands on a copy, be it at a friend’s home or the bookstore, but I never got around to buying it. But after watching the movie adaptation with him, and recently reading it to him for the millionth time (and him being equally excited about it each and every time), I figured it would be a great addition to our bedtime story collection.
Hiding it behind my back, I gave him my own history of the book…my mom read it to me when I was young, and she read it to her students (giving the monsters special voices and all), and I was so excited to now be able to read it once again to my own little boy at bedtime, especially on a special occasion such as his 5th birthday. I’m not sure what reaction I was expecting, but when I whipped it out from behind my back, he looked thoroughly disappointed, if not a little angry and annoyed.
“Mommy, I don’t even LIKE that book. I don’t want it. I don’t like your present.”
My heart dropped to my feet, and I had to literally tell myself not to cry. Stiffening my back, and taking a deep breath, I said the first thing I could think to say, and I said it as calmly as possible. “You know what, J? I CHOSE to give you a special gift that we could enjoy together. I didn’t HAVE to give you anything. Your words have hurt my heart and my feelings. I’ll leave the book right here on the shelf until I can find someone who might want to read it. Good night.”
And with that, I left the room, sat down on the bed in my den, and collapsed into tears.
It had happened.
My son was one of THOSE. A spoiled child of two divorced parents overcompensating for their own insecurities by showering their children with gifts and two celebrations for every event…two competing birthday parties, two competing Christmases, two competing Fourth of July fireworks displays…
The message he had received was loud and clear: Presents are important, and he/she who gives the most or the best, WINS.
Sadness became anger became frustration became defeat. I would never be able to “compete.” I would always lose the battle of the gifting, and any effort I made to teach the value of memories and the virtue of the thought that goes into giving gifts would always be fruitless. A shiny red soccer ball and brand new baseball glove would always trump a bedtime story or a $6.99 submarine and a memory.
Within 10 minutes of my meltdown, my son tiptoed into the den with the book in his arms, and I did my best to look as if I hadn’t been bawling my everloving eyes out.
“Mommy, I’m very sorry that I hurt your feelings. I really do love this story. Will you please read it with me?”
With that, he climbed into the bed with me, and we read. He pointed out the details in the pictures. He guessed what each monster would sound like. He giggled and smiled and leaned his head against my shoulder. When we were finished, he asked if we could read it again the next night. I said yes.
I tucked him in for the second time, wishing him a happy birthday, and told him that I loved him so very much.
“Mommy, I didn’t mean to hurt your heart. Your present didn’t hurt my heart. I’m sorry.”
“I know, buddy. Thank you. Good night.”
And I left the room again, this time with happy tears shining in my eyes.
Monday, May 31, 2010
On Why I Suck at Being a Feminist
Barefoot and in a dress, I spent two hours this evening hosing down and sweeping the world's dirtiest patio, all while muttering obscenities under my breath that would likely send my Pastor into cardiac arrest.
About an hour into the job, a little old man (one of many in this 'snowbird' suburban hell), passed behind my house on the golf course path, walking a dog that looked even older than he did. He hovered for a long while, watching me closely, and I started to think that perhaps he was a perv with a fetish for young barefoot moms in mini-dresses with garden hoses in their hands, and I wondered if the words, "What the f*ck are you leering at you f*cking geriatric creeper?!" could be construed as disrespecting my elders. Finally, he spoke. "Darlin', that's a big job for a little lady. Perhaps your husband would be better suited for the manual labor."
Ergh. Gritted teeth. Resisted the overwhelming urge to fire a straight stream of water into his dentures and storm away into the confines of my single-parent home.
I know this is where you ladies want to hear that I struck a Rosie the Riveter pose, declaring "Husbands are for pansies who can't stand on their own! Girl Power!" threw in a high kick for S's and G's, and continued hosing, sweeping and scrubbing that patio 'til it shone like the top of the Chrysler Building. (We love you, Miss Hannigan.)
But all I could do was smile (very artificially) and inform this southern gentleman that my husband was "altogether unavailable." Luckily, he was a quick one, and I think he understood, because his next step was to stare back at me with the combined look of sympathy and horror that tells me that back in his day, divorced women who didn't remarry someone to hose down their patios were either stoned to death in public, or declared lesbians by way of a scarlet "L" emblazoned across their chests. I thanked him for his concern, feigned confidence in the job I was doing, and continued on with the chore feeling rather defeated by life.
I lived alone before I was married. ALONE. As in, without a roommate. In fact, I did a whole helluva lot on my own, except for automobile maintenance, which to this day my father is damn-near insistent that I don't try to do on my own. But standing out there in that heat, with a giant circus broom, with two little faces pressed against the glass sliding doors, whining about wanting to come outside and why wasn't I done yet?!, I would've given just about anything to be able to hand that broom to someone else. Anyone at all. Pathetic, right? I concur. I am pathetic. Pathetic, tired and overwhelmed by having to re-learn that I should only count on myself, and disheartened by the realization that it. freaking. SUCKS. Period.
I grew up with a mother who, in seeing my sisters and I cry or even pout over a "boy," would literally smack us upside our heads and tell us that we should never invest all of our happiness, self-worth, confidence, or faith in any man. This from the woman who was married to the same man (my dad) for more than 30 years. Well, point, counter-point, and you win once again, mom. I failed. I put all of my eggs in the "'Til Death Do Us Part" basket and completely forgot how to be myself or stand alone. And while I was doing my darnedest to balance "Through Sickness and Health" and "In Richer or Poorer" and "In Good Times and Bad," I failed to realize that the eggs had begun to rot, and that I had begun to die on the inside. Some feminist you raised, mom. I failed you. I failed myself. I failed the 24-year-old newlywed version of myself that swore she would never change or put all of her eggs in anyone else's basket.
I would like to pretend that I am a neo-feminist and/or an inspiration to struggling divorcees and single moms, but I am nowhere near worthy of that kind of praise. I would like to pretend that I am so exhilerated by the sight of a clean patio or well-maintained car or delicious dinner that it motivates me to want to do more and do better, but the truth is, I wouldn't mind seeing someone else take care of it all. I did finish that patio, and while I'm glad that it's clean, I'm not excited about having done it, and I'm sure as hell not excited about having to do it again. It sucked.
I fought the To Do List, and the To Do List won.
I like that I'm figuring things out and reviving my spirit every day, but I cannot lie...it would sure be nice to have some help. So, I'm not really the feminist you want me to be, I guess. I'm just a girl who does what she has to do, when she has to, because she hasn't the option to do otherwise. And that's the best you get from me right now. But the good news is, I'm more ME today in a soaking wet mini-dress, dirty feet and bad attitude, than I have been in a long time. Progress? Perhaps.
Girl power!
About an hour into the job, a little old man (one of many in this 'snowbird' suburban hell), passed behind my house on the golf course path, walking a dog that looked even older than he did. He hovered for a long while, watching me closely, and I started to think that perhaps he was a perv with a fetish for young barefoot moms in mini-dresses with garden hoses in their hands, and I wondered if the words, "What the f*ck are you leering at you f*cking geriatric creeper?!" could be construed as disrespecting my elders. Finally, he spoke. "Darlin', that's a big job for a little lady. Perhaps your husband would be better suited for the manual labor."
Ergh. Gritted teeth. Resisted the overwhelming urge to fire a straight stream of water into his dentures and storm away into the confines of my single-parent home.
I know this is where you ladies want to hear that I struck a Rosie the Riveter pose, declaring "Husbands are for pansies who can't stand on their own! Girl Power!" threw in a high kick for S's and G's, and continued hosing, sweeping and scrubbing that patio 'til it shone like the top of the Chrysler Building. (We love you, Miss Hannigan.)
But all I could do was smile (very artificially) and inform this southern gentleman that my husband was "altogether unavailable." Luckily, he was a quick one, and I think he understood, because his next step was to stare back at me with the combined look of sympathy and horror that tells me that back in his day, divorced women who didn't remarry someone to hose down their patios were either stoned to death in public, or declared lesbians by way of a scarlet "L" emblazoned across their chests. I thanked him for his concern, feigned confidence in the job I was doing, and continued on with the chore feeling rather defeated by life.
I lived alone before I was married. ALONE. As in, without a roommate. In fact, I did a whole helluva lot on my own, except for automobile maintenance, which to this day my father is damn-near insistent that I don't try to do on my own. But standing out there in that heat, with a giant circus broom, with two little faces pressed against the glass sliding doors, whining about wanting to come outside and why wasn't I done yet?!, I would've given just about anything to be able to hand that broom to someone else. Anyone at all. Pathetic, right? I concur. I am pathetic. Pathetic, tired and overwhelmed by having to re-learn that I should only count on myself, and disheartened by the realization that it. freaking. SUCKS. Period.
I grew up with a mother who, in seeing my sisters and I cry or even pout over a "boy," would literally smack us upside our heads and tell us that we should never invest all of our happiness, self-worth, confidence, or faith in any man. This from the woman who was married to the same man (my dad) for more than 30 years. Well, point, counter-point, and you win once again, mom. I failed. I put all of my eggs in the "'Til Death Do Us Part" basket and completely forgot how to be myself or stand alone. And while I was doing my darnedest to balance "Through Sickness and Health" and "In Richer or Poorer" and "In Good Times and Bad," I failed to realize that the eggs had begun to rot, and that I had begun to die on the inside. Some feminist you raised, mom. I failed you. I failed myself. I failed the 24-year-old newlywed version of myself that swore she would never change or put all of her eggs in anyone else's basket.
I would like to pretend that I am a neo-feminist and/or an inspiration to struggling divorcees and single moms, but I am nowhere near worthy of that kind of praise. I would like to pretend that I am so exhilerated by the sight of a clean patio or well-maintained car or delicious dinner that it motivates me to want to do more and do better, but the truth is, I wouldn't mind seeing someone else take care of it all. I did finish that patio, and while I'm glad that it's clean, I'm not excited about having done it, and I'm sure as hell not excited about having to do it again. It sucked.
I fought the To Do List, and the To Do List won.
I like that I'm figuring things out and reviving my spirit every day, but I cannot lie...it would sure be nice to have some help. So, I'm not really the feminist you want me to be, I guess. I'm just a girl who does what she has to do, when she has to, because she hasn't the option to do otherwise. And that's the best you get from me right now. But the good news is, I'm more ME today in a soaking wet mini-dress, dirty feet and bad attitude, than I have been in a long time. Progress? Perhaps.
Girl power!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Plan A FAIL
I could begin every blog with the words, “The hardest part about being a divorced single mom is…,” and I would have a different “hardest part” every time, depending on what kind of day I’m having. So I guess that really is the hardest part about it - that there isn’t just one “hardest part.” And what was hardest for me yesterday might be a piece of cake tomorrow, and something even harder might be looming on the horizon. So I guess essentially the hardest part of being a divorced single mom (or of life in general) is really the unknown…not knowing what’s coming or how you’re going to feel about it or get it behind you. You remain in a perpetual state of planning; planning that never really seems to make it past the basic stages of “This is what I need to do in order to not sit in my bed, eating ice cream and feeling sorry for myself for the rest of my life.” Planning that begins (and sometimes ends) with that one moment every morning when you say to yourself, “Okay, I need to get out of bed today and feed my children. Step 1.”
So clearly my Plan A didn’t work out. As a matter of fact, my Plan A crashed and burned much like the Hindenburg, leaving me staring upward, mouth agape, wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to react, and whether or not I should care if people are watching me for the “right” reaction. Rest in pieces, Plan A.
Now what?
Plan B. Hmmm…now what was Plan B again? Ruh roh…
Divorce brings you face-to-face with a Plan B that you never really PLANNED to employ. Nobody really PLANS a life after a theoretical divorce. Oh, sure, we all declare that we can and would survive any hiccup in the road, and when we’re confronted with other people’s realities and other possibilities, we’re very staunch in proclaiming exactly how we would feel, react and overcome the situation. “If my man ever hit me, I would…” “If my husband died unexpectedly, I would…” “If I ever caught him cheating, I would…” Oh, reallllyyyy? Would you? You may find someday that you surprise yourself. I have.
At any rate, when you wrap so many of your life goals and dreams into finding and keeping the “love of your life," planning a life without him or her is a buzzkill to say the least. With Plan A checklist in hand, most women spend a number of months trying to decide on a shade of purple for their bridesmaids gowns or on whether or not they will wear their hair up or down on their wedding day, but nobody really puts much thought into what could happen or what they would do if none of it works out. What if every one of your biggest fears and nightmares actually becomes your reality? What would you do? How would you go on? Ick. I dunno. But I know that I want an open bar at the reception! Tulips or roses, beef tips or chicken, up-do or down-do…No matter how many distractions you seek, Plan B is going to be there loitering in the outskirts of your mind, neglected in the hopes that it will never be needed.
I am no different from the blushing brides at whom I poke fun. I never really made a Plan B either. In fact, I never actually even considered that my marriage would end. Considering the grim statistics waving in my face at every turn, this is actually pathetically funny to me now. No more Nicholas Sparks novels for me, kids. Unwavering optimism and faith in human honor completely blinded the part of my brain that has always known that people fuck up. A lot. And like it or not, the average person secretly doesn’t mind running over whoever is in the way on their path to personal happiness. After 7 1/2 years of marriage, 1 stepchild, 2 young children, 2 dogs, 2 apartments, 3 houses, 14,987 futile arguments, 5 metric shit-tons of unpaid bills and one of the most painful, but quick divorces in history, my Plan B is simply this: Survive. Set those gauges on Auto-Pilot, breathe deeply, count my blessings, and figure it out as I go.
At the moment, I have a job and my bills are mostly paid. My sons are loved, happy, healthy, fed, and have a roof over their beautiful heads. I am dating a really great guy who is sweet to my kids, loves me in spite of my circumstances, and gives me plenty of space to be clueless, chaotic and crazy. I have the world’s greatest family and amazing friends who I wish I could say I truly deserved. I don’t have much, but I have something. Something to get out of bed for. A reason to survive.
I don’t know if I will ever expand upon Plan B. Maybe because I know now that plans are for fools who don’t know what it’s like to watch the bottom drop out. Or maybe it’s because if my only objective is to survive, then I have a significantly higher success rate. Maybe it’s because I’m a little bit scared of being hurt again. Or maybe it’s just that, after all of these years and after watching almost everything I wanted get taken away from me piece by piece, I don’t really know what I want or who I am anymore. I had nearly 25 years to formulate my Plan A, and 7 1/2 years to watch it fall apart. I am less than a year into Plan B. Tick. Tock.
Blind planning…the hardest part.
So clearly my Plan A didn’t work out. As a matter of fact, my Plan A crashed and burned much like the Hindenburg, leaving me staring upward, mouth agape, wondering how in the hell I’m supposed to react, and whether or not I should care if people are watching me for the “right” reaction. Rest in pieces, Plan A.
Now what?
Plan B. Hmmm…now what was Plan B again? Ruh roh…
Divorce brings you face-to-face with a Plan B that you never really PLANNED to employ. Nobody really PLANS a life after a theoretical divorce. Oh, sure, we all declare that we can and would survive any hiccup in the road, and when we’re confronted with other people’s realities and other possibilities, we’re very staunch in proclaiming exactly how we would feel, react and overcome the situation. “If my man ever hit me, I would…” “If my husband died unexpectedly, I would…” “If I ever caught him cheating, I would…” Oh, reallllyyyy? Would you? You may find someday that you surprise yourself. I have.
At any rate, when you wrap so many of your life goals and dreams into finding and keeping the “love of your life," planning a life without him or her is a buzzkill to say the least. With Plan A checklist in hand, most women spend a number of months trying to decide on a shade of purple for their bridesmaids gowns or on whether or not they will wear their hair up or down on their wedding day, but nobody really puts much thought into what could happen or what they would do if none of it works out. What if every one of your biggest fears and nightmares actually becomes your reality? What would you do? How would you go on? Ick. I dunno. But I know that I want an open bar at the reception! Tulips or roses, beef tips or chicken, up-do or down-do…No matter how many distractions you seek, Plan B is going to be there loitering in the outskirts of your mind, neglected in the hopes that it will never be needed.
I am no different from the blushing brides at whom I poke fun. I never really made a Plan B either. In fact, I never actually even considered that my marriage would end. Considering the grim statistics waving in my face at every turn, this is actually pathetically funny to me now. No more Nicholas Sparks novels for me, kids. Unwavering optimism and faith in human honor completely blinded the part of my brain that has always known that people fuck up. A lot. And like it or not, the average person secretly doesn’t mind running over whoever is in the way on their path to personal happiness. After 7 1/2 years of marriage, 1 stepchild, 2 young children, 2 dogs, 2 apartments, 3 houses, 14,987 futile arguments, 5 metric shit-tons of unpaid bills and one of the most painful, but quick divorces in history, my Plan B is simply this: Survive. Set those gauges on Auto-Pilot, breathe deeply, count my blessings, and figure it out as I go.
At the moment, I have a job and my bills are mostly paid. My sons are loved, happy, healthy, fed, and have a roof over their beautiful heads. I am dating a really great guy who is sweet to my kids, loves me in spite of my circumstances, and gives me plenty of space to be clueless, chaotic and crazy. I have the world’s greatest family and amazing friends who I wish I could say I truly deserved. I don’t have much, but I have something. Something to get out of bed for. A reason to survive.
I don’t know if I will ever expand upon Plan B. Maybe because I know now that plans are for fools who don’t know what it’s like to watch the bottom drop out. Or maybe it’s because if my only objective is to survive, then I have a significantly higher success rate. Maybe it’s because I’m a little bit scared of being hurt again. Or maybe it’s just that, after all of these years and after watching almost everything I wanted get taken away from me piece by piece, I don’t really know what I want or who I am anymore. I had nearly 25 years to formulate my Plan A, and 7 1/2 years to watch it fall apart. I am less than a year into Plan B. Tick. Tock.
Blind planning…the hardest part.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Redux
Two years ago, after the birth of my second son, I started this blog under the moniker, "A Girl Gone Mom." While blogging about the day-to-day stresses, joys, and complete chaos of trying to raise three children, I met other mommy bloggers in my same boat:Each of us longing for the balance of being happy, effective moms of happy, adjusted children...Each of us longing to stay connected to the version of ourselves that we were before our bundles of joy were even twinkles in our sleepy eyes. Sisterhoods were forged, and I made lifelong friends.
But then life changed for me. And fast. In a nutshell, my ex-spouse engaged in a months-long affair, I uncovered the text messages that revealed it all, confronted him about it, and then he left. Less than four months later, we finalized our divorce, and he has since gone on to live happily ever after with his mistress. Sounds like a movie on the Oxygen Network, right? In the midst of all of the divorce/child custody madness, I removed my blog and its history at the advice of legal counsel. Seems that my deep thoughts, rantings and silly quips could paint me as an "unfit mother" in a courtroom. Pshaw! As if any one of us is truly "fit" to do a damn thing, let alone groom tiny human beings to function in the universe's biggest cesspool.
But I digress...
Two years later, I am divorced and one of the children I raised no longer lives with me. I kiss my sons goodbye every other weekend, and lose sleep wondering if they're okay at their dad's house. I am dating. I am broke. I am a single mom. I am back at square one, reinventing myself and my dreams and doing everything I can to let my boys know that, no matter what, they are part of a family who loves them and would do anything to keep them safe and healthy.
Every day is a mystery for me. My fellow control freaks understand why this is bloody terrifying.
So A Girl Gone Mom has been reborn. Notsomuch with a vengeance, as with a purpose. I want all of the moms out there to know that we are hopeless if we do not stand in support of each other. I want all of you to know that, even on the days when you're feeling embarassed by how you are handling yourself and your adversities, you have "sisters" out there who "get" you, and don't judge you by your emotions.
I am here to high-five you, hug you, shake some sense into you, laugh at you, laugh with you and tell you that you're gonna make it. Because at the end of the day, have ANY of us really figured it all out?
It's good to be back, ladies.
But then life changed for me. And fast. In a nutshell, my ex-spouse engaged in a months-long affair, I uncovered the text messages that revealed it all, confronted him about it, and then he left. Less than four months later, we finalized our divorce, and he has since gone on to live happily ever after with his mistress. Sounds like a movie on the Oxygen Network, right? In the midst of all of the divorce/child custody madness, I removed my blog and its history at the advice of legal counsel. Seems that my deep thoughts, rantings and silly quips could paint me as an "unfit mother" in a courtroom. Pshaw! As if any one of us is truly "fit" to do a damn thing, let alone groom tiny human beings to function in the universe's biggest cesspool.
But I digress...
Two years later, I am divorced and one of the children I raised no longer lives with me. I kiss my sons goodbye every other weekend, and lose sleep wondering if they're okay at their dad's house. I am dating. I am broke. I am a single mom. I am back at square one, reinventing myself and my dreams and doing everything I can to let my boys know that, no matter what, they are part of a family who loves them and would do anything to keep them safe and healthy.
Every day is a mystery for me. My fellow control freaks understand why this is bloody terrifying.
So A Girl Gone Mom has been reborn. Notsomuch with a vengeance, as with a purpose. I want all of the moms out there to know that we are hopeless if we do not stand in support of each other. I want all of you to know that, even on the days when you're feeling embarassed by how you are handling yourself and your adversities, you have "sisters" out there who "get" you, and don't judge you by your emotions.
I am here to high-five you, hug you, shake some sense into you, laugh at you, laugh with you and tell you that you're gonna make it. Because at the end of the day, have ANY of us really figured it all out?
It's good to be back, ladies.
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