Life Without Plotlines

"M thinks you're 'fake.'"

Her voice cut through my haze. I had already spent an ungodly amount of time trying to turn J's Transformer back into a Mustang GT, and I was still failing miserably. He sat patiently next to me with his baby brother, both of them watching movie clips on my phone. I chewed on her words for a minute, trying to make sense of them.

"Like how?" I finally asked, not particularly caring at that moment.

"Well she says that you act like you're such a great mom in your blog and online, but that when she's seen you the past few times with your kids, you've been distant and tired, and that sometimes you even lose your temper and raise your voice at them."

My friend braced herself as if hoping for an explanation that would blow her mind. One that wouldn't force her to her knees moaning, "Say it ain't so, D! Prove that you're the perfect mom and this isn't all just a ruse!"

But that was just the thing. I have NEVER said I am a perfect parent. I'm not. All I've ever said, and all I will continue to say, is that I love my kids. To the moon and back.

"Well, that's the thing about life, I guess," I shrugged. "It doesn't cut from plotline to plotline or climax to climax. In between all of the revelations and curveballs are normal days. On normal days, I AM tired and can be distant. On normal days, I DO lose my temper and raise my voice or discipline my children. That's how life works. On normal days, I'm plunging Dixie cups out of the toilet (Thank you, C) or glueing seashells into a diorama or staring into the fridge trying to figure out how to conjure a quasi-sensible dinner out of practically nothing. But that doesn't mean I'm not a good mom. But I guess that's her point. It doesn't prove I'm perfect either. I'm sorry if I've ever misrepresented myself."

My friend stared at me thoughtfully. The conversation ended there, just as bizarrely as it had begun.

It got me to (AGAIN) lamenting over why I even journal some of my deepest, darkest thoughts on my blog or share my life with friends via social networking. On one hand, the Internet opens doors to information and support systems that our own parents couldn't even fathom. But on the other hand, it opens the floodgates for naysayers, trolls and self-righteous readers who truly can't see the forest for the trees. But it's not really their fault. They don't KNOW you. No matter what you write, they don't really KNOW you. And thanks to the general anonymity of the Internet, they never will.

But the person who denounced me as "fake?" Well, she is someone who considers herself my friend. Not just an acquaintance either. This "friend" knows that the past 3 months or so have thrown all manner of curveballs at me that I cannot share publicly out of respect for my family and friends. She knows EXACTLY why I'm tired and distant. I have chosen (surprisingly) to keep certain things very private as of late. Yet she doubts my sincerity as a mother because I'm not Mary EFFING Poppins each and every time she sees me?

I struggled with what to do next. Do I call and remind her that, on top of recent trials, I parent predominantly ALONE? AND work full-time? AND try to have a life as an individual? I mean, has she not MET my toddler? I love him more than life, but the kid wears me out.

I am a human being. I rise with the sun and sleep with moon just like she does.

It is/was disheartening. But ultimately not disheartening enough for me to call her up and reem her out for gossiping, or to even bother explaining myself to her. Certainly not disheartening enough to frighten me from continuing to write...Part of the reason I am a good parent is because I DO write. And while, AGAIN, I am NOT a perfect parent, you can bet your ass I'm a darn good one.

So here's where I recite one of my many mantras: "You raise your kids, and let me raise mine."

Life is not just peaks and valleys. There are an abundance of plateaus along the way where I'm not cooing or cuddling or running through the sunflowers with my children, but rather, just getting us through our day the BEST THAT I CAN.

If you want minute-to-minute drama, comedy, romance and action, might I suggest Netflix.

And we'll all live ORDINARILY ever after.

Happy Birthday, Tiny Soulmate

I never really wondered what he'd look like. During my first pregnancy with J, I would dream about it constantly. But I never really wondered with C. I just eagerly awaited his arrival, especially in the last 2 weeks while I was on modified bedrest and it hurt to even stand up.

But then after an easy 8 hours of labor, my ex-husband placed this beautiful child on my chest and he looked right into my eyes, and I said, "Hi, C!" and burst into tears of exuberation. And suddenly, I knew that I'd always known this child and what he looked like. Maybe that's why I never wondered. I'd known him my whole life.

Tomorrow marks 3 years since I first looked into those eyes, and my, have those 3 years flown! Flown by in a flurry of new opportunities, adjustments and praying that this tiny precious baby would adapt and thrive between two separate households. Much to my amazement and joy, he has surpassed my every expectation.

But that's what C does. He makes it, and he makes it on his own terms and in his own time.

C marches to his own drummer, and unapologetically so. He is not a talker, but a do-er. He takes it all in, Laughing, dancing, crying, singing, he does it all without abandon, and he couldn't care less about what anyone thinks about it. But when he wants to be quiet, he's quiet. When he wants to be alone, he separates himself from the world and enjoys his solitude. He chooses his every adventure, as uneventful as some of them might seem.

I often joke that the world could cease to exist, and C would find his way. He has an old soul He is free-spirited, independent, stubborn, unpredictably emotional, off-beat, and smart ...essentially, he is me in a diaper and size 2 shorts..which is also more than likely the reason why he knows exactly how to drive me completely bananas. But alas, even when he's a cantankerous little ball of ill manners, our hearts and our breaths remain in sync as the universe always meant for them to be.

I am connected to C in a way that is so special, yet so otherworldly that it is practically impossible to explain.

Recently the boys and I attended a neighborhood barbecue, with about 10 other neighborhood children ranging in age between 1 and 6. My older son, per the usual, established a camraderie with the other children almost immediately and organized a relay race of sorts along the golf course behind our home. Nearly 20 feet away in another yard altogether, C was by himself, giggling and dancing through the rays of the sun as they shone through the trees, trying to catch sun dust in his hands and collecting acorns in his pockets.

"Do you think he's okay?" A neighbor asked cautiously. "Don't you want him to play with the others?

"Nah. C is always okay. Don't you worry about my boy...and never count that kid out."

And I stood smiling, my heart bursting with joy and pride, at this wonderful little person. My tiniest soulmate.

He is who he is and he knows who he is. Some people never fully figure that out, and at only three, C is solid in his own shoes.

Happy birthday, C. Thank you for keeping me on my toes. Forever your mommy, always your biggest fan.

Batshit Crazy Is As Batshit Crazy Does

"To love is to burn; To be on fire." -Jane Austen

We were laying on his living room floor, white wine cursing through our blood, his stereo blaring classical jazz. We got into a discussion about a much-younger girl who he had dated prior to dating me. Crazy, he called her, shaking his head.

"Just because she loves you and said so, that doesn't make her crazy," I said. We had already split and gone our separate ways, remaining good friends, but I couldn't help but wonder if in my absence, I was referred to as "crazy," too.

He chewed on that one for a while, and then nodded.

"I think everyone in the human race is a variable level of crazy. Ranging somewhere from mildly nutty to batshit crazy. But I think we're all there."

I couldn't help but ask, because I knew he'd tell the truth.

"So where do I fall on the scale of 'mildly nutty' to 'batshit crazy?'" I braced myself to hear something that I knew would hurt my feelings.

But he just smiled. "D, you are not crazy. You might be saner than all of us. Your problem is that you share. You talk about things. Our culture doesn't want to talk. Perception is everything, and if everyone perceives us as happy, functional, human beings, we'd rather just believe it whether it's true or not. I think you might be such an open book that it is off-putting to most people. They fear your honesty. They prefer blissful ignorance."

He paused. "You are...you were too much for me. I don't always know what to say to you, and it's exhausting."

I pouted, because I knew he was right. I am nothing if not self-aware.

"I think maybe you could close it off a little. Not talk about things. Not be so incredibly raw that it scares people."

He held up his hand as I opened my mouth to object.

"I KNOW you're about to accuse me of asking you to change and that you're about to tell me that people who love you shouldn't want you to..." Shit, he knows me too well. "But maybe use that surplus of compassion that you're carrying around and consider that maybe you need to take it down a notch to be courteous to those who aren't as...FEELING...as you."

Oh, now there's my soft spot. I wouldn't want to be discourteous. I beat myself up sometimes over how I've made someone feel. He got me with that one.

I closed my eyes and thought about it. I went to bed that night and continued to think about it. I woke up the next day still thinking about it. I resisted the urge (then) to write about it. And when I started talking to/seeing someone a short while later, I put it into practice.

I closed off. I did not talk to friends about him. I did not talk to family about him. I did not talk to Facebook about him. I did not blog about it. I just rode it out, with a smile on my face, never over-analyzing, not losing sleep over things, not venting to girlfriends. I put a cap on that "surplus" of emotions so as not to inconvenience or "put off" this person who I was developing such an affection for. Some time later, after riding the middle of the relationship road and keeping as private as private could be, I found myself face-to-face with a man who, for the first time in my entire life, accused me of being indifferent and frigid (emotionally, not physically). He lamented never being able to tell what was on my mind. He puzzled over how I never made a big deal out of anything (how very un-female of me). He doubted that I could commit, emotionally or otherwise, to anyone.

Insert exasperated sigh here.

So, there I was at an impasse. Me in my cement shoes, standing in the middle of relationship purgatory. I behave how "normal" people behave, and all of a sudden I'm frigid? At that juncture, if I had suddenly uncapped and verbalized my thoughts and feelings, it would have come off as exceedingly phony and well, CRAZY. Of the batshit variety. The equivalent of going from 0 to 80.

So we went our separate ways. Him thinking I was flighty, indifferent and commitment-phobic. Me never having the opportunity to tell him that he was the first person I had been truly READY for in quite some time. And just like that, it was over. And like always, I learned something. And that's where this turns into a quasi-rant.

No, people DON'T talk a lot about how they're feeling. Especially now that they can hide behind monitors and all manner of electronic devices and not say "boo" to another person EVER. Social retardation is spreading like wildfire. I get it. Cap and filter, appear normal, don't talk about how you feel, and if you're perceived as perfect/normal/happy/etc., you will eventually truly become what you've perpetuated, right?

NO, guys. No. You. Won't.

In my normal state, I have a bad day at work, lose my child support, lose a friend, get a speeding ticket, get puked on by a 2-year-old or get into a fight with a significant other, and I talk about it. Yes, sometimes I talk it to death, but I get it out. It doesn't fester. I vomit all of those words up right into the bucket by posting a blog or calling my dad or friends or venting on Facebook, and then it's done. My belly is empty, I hear some words of wisdom or support, and I tackle the next challenge.

Done.

And people call me erratic, or crazy, or whatever the hell it is that people say when they're self-righteously hiding behind their monitors and reading my blog.

But the guys/gals who shoot up their workplaces, schools or grocery stores? They cap and filter EVERYTHING. And the news stations interview their peers and families after the fact and everyone is SHOCKED. "Everything seemed fine. Everything seemed normal. He/she was such a good boy/girl." Because perception is everything.

I want to shake them and say, "You only saw what took the LEAST ENERGY AND EFFORT to see! You didn't want to ask questions, because you didn't want to pry! You didn't want the incovenience of hearing someone else's woes! You made it NOT OKAY to talk about feelings of rejection, anger, frustration and melancholy!"

Those who cap and filter...when they finally snap, it's never small. They straight up LOSE. THEIR. EVERLOVIN'. SHIT.

Why? Why not talk about it? Why not listen to it?

Is being vocal and passionate really CRAZIER than that?!

I have said this more than once in print and in live words: We do each other a tremendous disservice by putting up facades and making conscious efforts to be phony.

You are not really fooling anyone. Not even yourself. Be real. Be alive. FEEL something. TALK about it. You don't have to tell ME all of your business, but don't front either.

Crazy or not, I have concluded that I can really only be myself. I am open, I'm honest, I'm passionate about things, I am raw, and I will rarely-to-never leave you guessing about how it is I'm feeling. But you know what I'll NEVER be?

-The nut that shoots up a Target for not giving her a refund.
-The sad soul who swallows an entire bottle of Ambien after losing her job.
-The frigid mom who never lets her kids see that she has struggled and survived.
-The middle-aged woman who moves out of the country on an effing whim just because her suitor doesn't propose on New Year's Eve as she thought he should (Sounds like a Diane Lane movie, no?).

Call me mildly nutty or even batshit crazy.

I can only be me. And I KNOW who I am.

Do you? Does anyone else?

Remind me to never again try to be anything else.

To the Moon and Back. Happy birthday, my darling.

Wednesday, June 1, 2005. 9:45 p.m.

Approximately 38 weeks and 15 hours after it started, it was finally over. My pregnancy had ended and my journey into motherhood had begun. The room was abuzz with excitement and exhaustion. People were talking to me, but it wasn’t registering. Then my 8 lbs., 2 oz. baby boy was placed in my arms, and my world changed forever. He was sweating with fever, his big, beautiful eyes squinting with his screams.

My body went numb at the sight of him. Sometimes it still does. He still takes my breath away. I am still trying my best to comprehend how I could possibly ever deserve this remarkable, wonderful child.

Tomorrow he turns 6 years old. He has the same big beautiful, knowing eyes and a bigger smile. Two of his bottom baby teeth are gone, and the teeny body that they once told me was on the “lower average weight percentile” compared to his peers, is now solid and adorably chubby.

Those who have met my oldest son know that he is special, in ways that exceed a mother’s own biased perceptions. The child who I once feared and felt so helpless over and never quite forgave myself for not instantly connecting with…I now sit up at night to watch him sleep and hear him breathe. In the morning, he comes alive with curiosity, wild giggling, insightfulness and compassion. He equalizes the mood in the room and befriends those who need it most. His kindness is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

He radiates love and light, and I hope that he will do so for as long as the universe lets him. And I hope I get to bask in that light for as long as the universe lets me.

He keeps my world spinning.

Happy birthday, my love. Enjoy love, life and the animals in the clouds. I love you to the moon and back.

Ghosts

As open and honest as I am with the world, I do keep a lot of material "in the vault." Most of my writing, believe it or not, is just for the purpose of journaling and later reflection. And you know what? It helps. Even when I read things that were written from a dark place, it helps me to measure my growth and look back toward the light. That's life. And I'm living it.

The below piece is out of the vault. I'm not really a poet, so I'm not sure why I wrote it in such a way. But I understand this girl (me) better than she understood herself when she wrote it. I'm sharing it now. For those of you who are close with me, you will know that I did not write this piece about my ex-husband. For those of you who are not close with me, I will just say that I recovered from this in a big way, but that I still struggle. Because again, that's life. And I'm living it.

Here goes:

Hands clapped over my ears, trying to forget the echo of your stinging words
Second-guessing everything I’ve ever liked about myself. Everything I’ve ever known about myself.
One hand trying to push you away into oblivion, the other holding on to your every sound.
Letting you talk me into hating myself. Making me avert my gaze from the mirror, avoiding my own eyes.

Who am I if you don’t think I’m anything? Who am I if you don’t think I’m worth it?
A woman who so surely speaks truths and walks through fires, surviving, unnerved by your swagger, by your veracity.
Liquid hate cursing through your veins, spewing into my face, melting it beyond recognition. Taking away all. Taking out everything in your path.
I never let go of you for long enough. Maybe I need to hate myself. Or maybe trying to make you want me is my only distinguishable measure of success.

I affect you. You infect me.

Stop letting me ask you for more.

Once Upon a Remote Control

"There's something I want to say, so I'll be brave. You were what I wanted, I gave what I gave. I'm not sorry I met you, I'm not sorry it's over, I'm not sorry there's nothing to save..." -Excerpt from the song, "Your Ex-Lover is Dead" by Stars

The dream came exactly when I needed it. Born of a conversation about Life Rewind and Life Fast Forward buttons and the movie "Click" starring Adam Sandler. I said that sometimes I know exactly what I'd do if given yesterday's second chance with today's hindsight, and sometimes I feel like even if given the chance, I'd just freeze in my tracks, too afraid to try anything different.

Then I slept.

When I awoke in a dream, I found that my days were moving in reverse. It was an endless dream, always in motion. I watched my children grow younger. I saw my ex-husband's return. I saw myself re-impregnated and moving back to our old home. I watched as everything went backward, and my children disappeared from existence, my mother returned to my side, the years fell from my face, the pounds melted away and my body returned to a day when I still had a shot in hell at being a dancer. I slept in my childhood home, hugged and kissed my parents goodbye and hello. I wrote term papers. Friends came back to life. I danced in the night clubs and worked my day job at Busch Gardens. I was in a mixed state of panic and ecstasy when I finally found myself at a familiar door at a now-defunct apartment complex near my college's campus. I was suddenly frozen at that door. I knew what day it was. I knew I would walk in, and in the kitchen to my right would be my 19-year-old ex-husband, sitting alone, shy and calm. Ahead of me would be the rest of the party, college guys and scantily-clad college girls, drinking, laughing and dancing. My old friend appeared behind me and pushed me forward. Things had stopped moving backward. The door opened. I turned my head and looked at him. This is the part where I always used to tell myself I should've kept walking and not initiated a conversation. But he smiled and I smiled back, and I walked over as if pulled by a force field, and it occurred to me that I needed him to happen to me, and he needed me to happen to him.

It was all supposed to happen.

Regardless of what choices would eventually drive us back apart, we were supposed to connect at that party, he was supposed to stand by me through the loss of my mom, we were supposed to bring two beautiful lives into the world, and our separation was supposed to mean something to BOTH of us. We were soulmates that were not meant to stay together. We were best friends that were too toxic to each other to see it through. I had to be alone, be stronger, find out who I was. He had things to learn, too. And it is all okay.

Our dream conversation was different than the real conversation that took place at that party some 12 years ago. It was as if he had just watched his life in rewind, too, and had made peace with it all. We could go forward again and be okay. "Love you," he said. "Love you, too," I said. He took my hand in a gesture of friendship, and I woke up, with my 2-year-old son's hand in its place. I was relieved to have come back to reality so quickly, no matter how challenging that reality has so recently become. I was relieved mostly that I did not have to relive the 12 years that had built me and brought me to a quiet house on a humid Sunday morning.

I don't want a second chance at yesterday. I want a first chance at today.

We are forever linked, and that's okay. It's finally okay.

Of greener grasses and solitary confinement

It was 6:00 a.m. I had been staring at the ceiling fan in my dark bedroom for more than an hour before finally dragging myself out of my bed to wash my face and brush my teeth. Not knowing what else to do on a holiday Sunday morning, I moved myself out to my back porch swing with a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios and a book that I have not been able to focus on, yet refuse to give up on until I finish.

I caught glimpse of him in the corner of my eye, bounding gleefully through our side yards and into his backyard, hiding brightly colored Easter eggs in all-too-conspicuous places. He was giggling like a child. As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared again into his home, and I soon dozed off on the swing, already sweating in the early morning heat and humidity. I was roused by happy chatter and more giggling, awaking to find a celebration of sorts in their backyard and on the golf course behind our homes. A grill was already fired, the egg hunt an apparent success, and now their family of three was playing soccer in their yard in their best Easter clothes.

I smiled wistfully and looked at the clock on my cell phone. It was 10:00 a.m. I had been up nearly 5 hours and had not uttered a word to anyone, to myself or even into the dead silence that rules my house on the nights when my sons are away. She saw me through the porch screen, smiled and waved happily. I waved back. She walked up to my screen door, and I stood up to prop it open, not even self-conscious of my greasy ponytail, pajamas and bare feet.

“What are you up to on this Easter morning?”

I bit my tongue, and wondered if it LOOKED like I was doing anything other than a whole lot of nothing.

“Relaxing and reading,” I smiled. “The boys are with their dad this weekend.”

I looked past her as her husband growled wildly, chasing their young daughter through the yard, the ribbons of her Sunday dress trailing behind her. He caught her and spun her around, both of them laughing euphorically.

“I envy you so much!”

Her words broke through my haze, and I stared back at her, wondering what on Earth there is to envy about a woman with greasy hair and sweaty pits, spending her Easter alone on her back porch with a dog-eared book about the zombie apocalypse.

“You do what you want. You get so much time to yourself. I haven’t read a book in ages, let alone gone out for a drink or a pedicure. I don’t know what I’d do with myself. You’re living MY dream!” She suddenly looked serious.

I was angry. Then sad. Then calm again.

Her husband was behind her in the yard, hopping on two feet like a rabbit, singing “Here Comes Peter Cottontail” to their adoring daughter, who was hopping alongside.

I smiled at her and motioned to them.

“You’re living MINE,” I said.

It finally occurred to her that her words hurt, and she put her hand on my shoulder, at a loss for words.

“Happy Easter,” she finally blurted, after failing to form the words that her brain was telling her would not really matter.

“You, too,” I said. “Enjoy your time with your family. No one should miss out on ‘Peter Cottontail.’”

We laughed, and I slid back into my quiet house, sliding the glass door shut behind me, drowning out their happy sounds.

I remember how it felt to feel like she feels. Feeling like you have no time to yourself. Feeling alienated from friends. Just wanting to sleep one night without any interruptions, or sleep well past sunrise on any given day. I remember wishing I had more time, more silence.

Now I have it. And it’s overrated.

It’s not what I long thought it’d be.

I HAVE to hand my children over every weekend, whether it’s a holiday or not, whether they’re sick or not, whether there are family gatherings scheduled or not. When I come home at the end of the day, there is no waiting period during which I can anticipate the return of a lover or even my kids. There’s no one for me to shout, “Honey, I’m home!” to. More often than not, I get well into the afternoon before realizing that I haven’t spoken a single word aloud. I read. I clean. I shop. I dine alone. But understand that being alone is no longer a novelty to me. Alone is a routine, and one that becomes less and less welcome. Sometimes the loneliness swallows me whole, and I shake daydreams from my eyes to realize that I’ve been sitting and staring at the wall for hours on end. But on those days, alone is my only real option, and it doesn’t even feel like an option as much as a sentence.

I know everyone thinks they have it rougher than the rest, but truly it’s all about perspective. We are unfortunately almost always compelled to seek greener grasses and second-guess our decisions. Some live in regret, some wonder “What if?” or “Why didn’t I?” And sometimes, you just get stuck in another field not of your choosing and find that things aren’t always what they seemed, but you make the best of it anyway. Because life goes on. It has to.

I make the best of it. I really, really do.

But sometimes it catches up to me, and I find myself in my pajamas at 3:00 in the afternoon, not because I am reveling in the freedom to do so, but because I disappear into the oblivion of my mind and don’t realize I’m even alive until a ringing phone or a knock at the door reminds me that I should probably feed myself or try to make contact with the outside world. When I was a full-time working, married mother of three, I longed for space and time to breathe and be myself. As an unattached, divorced single mother of two who kisses her boys goodbye per a strict schedule, I am haunted by how lonely all of this “alone time” makes me feel.

She wants my life.

She has no idea how lucky she is.

I guess none of us really do.

An Unfortunate Side-Effect

When you've been through sickness, trials and tribulations, you somehow (and sometimes deservedly so) earn rank as a sort of subject matter expert amongst your friends and family. When we figured out Cole had eczema, I turned to my adult cousin who had been living with it since childhood. She was my subject matter expert on skin maladies. When I'm heading to the Orlando area to the theme parks or for shopping, I call up my friend who has lived near and worked at Disney for ages. He is my subject matter expert on the City of Orlando. When I am trying to shop healthier, I call on one of my many vegan and/or health food-fanatical friends. They are my subject matter experts on healthy living.

Although I am personally often asked for parenting advice (and I don't offer it up unless I'm asked, by the way), lately it's become clear that I am the go-to person on a very uncomfortable, touchy subject: cheating husbands.

Hooray for me.

I am apparently the subject matter expert on cheating husbands. Since my separation and subsequent divorce more than a year ago, I have been approached by no less than EIGHT of my female friends, giving me scenarios and intimate details of their personal lives, and asking if their husbands were cheating on them. So, here it is - fairly short and less-than-sweet - and I'm going to be as real as it gets, ladies (and perhaps gentlemen, too).

I don't know if you're boyfriend/girlfriend/fiance/wife/husband is cheating on you. Hell, I didn't even know that MY husband was cheating on me. Our...ahem...bedroom habits were the same, we were still talking as we always had, and the very night that I found the text messages that detailed more than I ever needed to know, he told me that he loved me and was "in it for the long haul." We had been married more than 7 years, together for 10.

There are no guarantees in life, and we cannot predict or control whether or not our partners will always be forthcoming and faithful. But here's the thing...

WHAT IS YOUR GUT TELLING YOU?

Had I not gone with my snap gut instinct, I might still be married to an adulterous coward. What I mean here, ladies, is that IF YOU'RE SPENDING SO MUCH TIME WONDERING ABOUT IT (AND SHARING YOUR FEARS WITH FRIENDS), YOU ALREADY KNOW.

YOU ALREADY KNOW.

And that's that. Be honest with yourself.

Your challenge is not fact-finding. Your challenge is how you are going to handle yourself. How do you want to live? How do you want your children (potential or otherwise) to live? In a perfect world, my children would have two parents who upheld their vows and stuck together. I upheld mine. But I was not given a choice in the matter. I was not in control of another person's urges and pregatives.

Do you really want to be the boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/wife who secretly logs in to your significant other's social networking profiles to spy on him/her, or worse spy on all of his/her exes? (Hello? Neurotic, party of one?) Do you really want to wonder EVERY TIME HE/SHE LEAVES THE HOUSE if he/she's going where he/she says he/she's going? Do you really want to sit down and audit his/her cell phone records and demand to read texts and/or interrogate him/her on every call he/she makes or takes? Are you REALLY that person? Is that who you want to be?

If you already are, then YOU ALREADY KNOW.

Do something about it. Don't wonder. LIVE.

LIFE..IS...TOO..MOTHEREFFING..SHORT.

If you can work it out, by all means DO. FIGHT. But he/she has to want to fight, too. It takes two to make a thing go right (and make it out of sight, for that matter). But in the event that you find yourself fighting alone, don't be a victim. Emancipate him/her. But more importantly, emancipate yourself. Am I encouraging divorce? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Truth be told, I gave my ex-husband 48 hours to choose to either work out our marriage or go down another path with another woman. He chose her. Had he chosen me, would it have worked out? Probably not. Cheaters don't really change. It's just an unfortunate universal truth that applies to both men and women. And in the end, the message that I did NOT want to send my children is that there is no accountability for people who break promises and vows. THERE IS. Karma sometimes takes a little longer than anticipated, but when that bitch shows up, she makes one hell of an entrance!

I will never let anyone treat me that way again. I will never let my children see such a disrespect and disregard for one's responsibilities, or feel so tragically misprioritized by either one of their parents. I didn't get a real choice on the front-end, but these are my choices for my life thereafter. For me. For them.

I am here for my friends. I will answer you honestly, and I will listen to you beat whatever dead horse you need to beat at the moment. But please don't make me your expert on adultery. All of the answers you are asking of me have already been answered by your subconscious. LISTEN. You'll find that it's rarely wrong.

Still standing better than I ever did. ;)

Lost and Found: Anniversary of a Journey in Progress

It’s so cliché. “Life’s a journey, not a destination.” It’s a cliché that I often nodded my head in agreement to and frequently pretended to fully understand. But I didn’t. All the while, I lived my life by an idealistic pattern of rites of passage, in hopes that I would end up at the destination of my dreams: Me, in a rocking chair on a beautiful front porch, withered, old and happy. My husband, equally withered, old and happy, rocking at my side. Grandchildren in the front yard. Sunset. Happily ever after. Until death do us part. Oh, and death, by the way, would be equally ideal. Peacefully in my sleep, I would drift away. My husband would honor me at my funeral. My children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren would lament my legacy and sparkling sense of humor. Destination: Perfection. The journey? Just a minor detail.

But life is not perfect. Love is not really perfect. I am not perfect.

On January 19, 2010, in the blink of an eye, a magistrate declared me divorced from my husband of 7 ½ years, stamped some papers and sent me on a new journey. The destination? Not so clear. The journey? It changes daily. The dream? Survive. Find balance. Raise healthy, happy children the best way I can. Learn. Love myself for the first time ever. Love someone else without fear or doubt. Kick conventional ideas to the curb, and figure out what would truly bring me joy.

The beginning of any new journey feels less like a journey and more like crawling in the dark, trying to grasp a sense of new terrain and getting one’s bearings when off-set by new challenges. My journey into divorced, single motherhood has been no different. I’ve laughed. I’ve cried. I’ve lost my mind. I’ve found it again. And lost it again. Today, only a year into my new journey, I take pride in having come exceedingly far, finding my way through the destruction, one day (and often one nervous breakdown) at a time.

A year, while substantial, is but one breath in the grand scheme of one inconsequential little life. I never expected to look, feel or have accomplished what I have, but then again, there is still so much more that I want to do and be. I have learned throughout this journey that I need to forgive myself a little more, even while living in a very impatient unforgiving world. I am entitled to my feelings. I have earned the right to feel exactly how I feel. My dear friend, Beth Walker, said it best: “I just have to feel this way until I don’t feel this way anymore.”

I often am accused of being bitter or negative, a fair assessment for a woman who has experienced heartbreak and watched her very young children experience heartbreak as well. If that’s how I’m viewed by some, I will not argue. I will only ask that my true friends and acquaintances show some compassion by walking a few steps beside me or in my shoes, and to be patient with me as I continually heal. Friends, this simply is not as easy as you think it is. I have met people in the latter years of their lives who still mourn the death of their marriage. I have met many people well into adulthood who are still angry at their divorced parents and deeply affected by the custody issues and bemoan the despair of living within a broken family. Likewise, I have met people who managed to survive it all with a smile on their face and pep in their step. But I say to you all that, even if someone writes a blog detailing every emotion and every adversity that they’ve experienced in their own marriage or divorce, you should not presume to know how they feel or presume that you know how YOU’D feel. Every person is different. Every journey is different. And all of it MATTERS.

I lost a lot in 2009. I learned a lot in 2010. By New Year’s Day of 2011, I began to recognize myself in the mirror again. The journey continues…

Thank you again for lifting me up, slapping me around, making me laugh, holding me tightly and picking up the phone when it rings at ungodly hours. I get by with a little help from my friends.

I love you.

Channeling Dory...And Online Dating

Some of the best things that I’ve learned in the past decade, I’ve learned from a forgetful blue fish. Yes, friends, I refer to Dory, the sweet, silly Tang Fish from the movie, Finding Nemo, with the big heart and the very short-term memory.

I live and die by Dory’s mantra, “Just keep swimming.” I’ve swum through dark waters, amongst the creepiest of predators and through the thickest mucks of adversity. I’ve NEVER stopped swimming.

But as another semi-depressing holiday season came and went, so materialized my glaring recognition of how lonely I’ve become. One day, my children will leave. Will I be the type of person who kicks up her heels and travels the world, or will I begin to collect cats, old newspapers and creepy-eyed baby dolls in their absence? The prospect quite frankly terrifies me. I have become a lone wolf, and to a fault. I just don’t venture outside of my comfort zone anymore.

So I presented myself (and many of my friends) with a quandary: Do I or do I NOT sign up for matchmaking/dating Web site? Do I put myself out there for the world to see, judge and possibly fall in love (or hate) with? I mean, the dating game was/is so foreign to me. I’d never really “dated” anyone that wasn’t a friend, close acquaintance or friend of a friend first. I’d never been on a blind date, or had to front, or had to try to “sell” myself to the world. I was fortunate in that way. The whole thing was just seedy and awkward, but I just didn’t know what my options were. I go to work 5 days a week, come home, tend to my children, and then go to bed. Sometimes I go to my dance studio. Sometimes I go shopping. Sometimes, when the kids are with their dad, I go to the same old bar and drink the same old beer and say hello to the same old people. Sometimes, I am in bed at 9 on a Saturday night, green mud mask slathered on my face, and rocking my owl pajamas. I am Bridget Jones.

In a Nora Ephron movie, I would meet my soulmate in the diaper aisle at Target: a single dad and widower with a great sense of humor and a heart of gold (probably played by Tom Hanks). In real life, the pickins are rare and slim. So I mulled it over, and asked around (dating Web site horror stories are HILARIOUS, by the way), and one night, while sitting in front of my computer, I remembered something that little blue fish says to Marlin the Clownfish when he laments how he’d promised Nemo that he’d never let anything happen to him.

“Well, you can't never let anything happen to him. Then nothing would ever happen to him. “

Touche, Dory. But true.

If I never put myself out there, then nothing will ever happen to me, good or bad. And banking on meeting a Tom Hanks in the diaper aisle at Target? Dumb. A longshot. A pipe dream.

So I did it.

Right before New Year’s Eve, I threw together a bio and I put myself out there on the World Wide Web with the sharks, convicted sex offenders, weirdos and seemingly nice guys. I put just enough information (omitting details of my kids, etc), and made extra sure not to misrepresent myself in any way. I even posted some full-body pictures (clothed, of course!) so that there would be no speculation about my build. It’s a shallow world, kids, but no one has ever accused me of not being forthcoming.

With a shrug and a deep breath, I logged off and left the computer for a couple of hours to tend to the kids, and after I logged back in to take a better look at the men I was dealing with, I was stunned to see how many messages were in my inbox. What? Me? Geek girl with the glasses and the big butt? The pit of my stomach was gripped with equal parts discomfort and flattery. I began reading my messages with cautious enthusiasm.

There were messages from married men in “open” marriages, looking to “supplement” their sex lives. Ummm, GROSS. There were multiple messages from one creeper with a foot fetish. BLOCK USER. There were messages from women, even though my profile CLEARLY identified me as a straight female seeking a straight male. IGNORE. A few seemingly normal (albeit a little desperate) guys. RESPOND (CAUTIOUSLY) . A few tactless douchebags asking me if I really looked like my photos or was I fat. RESPOND AS SMARTASSEDLY AS POSSIBLE, THEN BLOCK. A few professing the ole’ “I’m not like other guys on here” shtick. *snort!* A few messaging, asking if I had children. BLOCK USER! <--Fellas, that question just rings “Sexual Predator,” especially when it’s the very first thing you ask!

And then “Pop!” “Pop!” “Pop!” Enter the flurry of Instant Messages. “Hi, gorgeous!” “How are you doing tonight?” “What’s a girl like YOU doing on this site?” Oh, yuck. It was the virtual version of the world’s seediest, smarmiest meat market bar. 15 years ago, I would have enjoyed the limitless attention. These days, that kind of attention makes me leery. I guess it’s a self-esteem issue. I mean, when your husband has an affair and leaves you for another woman, it sends a huge message of inadequacy that tends to infiltrate and linger in the dark corners of your mind. I mean, what’s so great about me? Why are all of these people messaging me? Why do they want to get to know me? I answered myself, “Well, duh, you’re on a dating Web site, honey. That’s how it works, D. That’s how you meet people on here. “

So I relaxed and decided to just keep swimming. I swam and I swam. I. Am. Exhausted. By. The. Swimming.

A couple of weeks later (though it feels like an eternity), I am at an impasse. I have been on a few live dates, I’ve met a handful of nice guys, and I think that, at the very least, I can count them as good friends (with possibilities) for now. But then I have also met people who have thoroughly crept me out, smothered me with text messages, instant messages and phone calls, or essentially just struck me as too desperate to take seriously. That was the difference, right there. You can be lonely and not desperate. Add it to my list of life lessons.

I realized through all of this that, while I have lonely moments, I am NOT desperate. I do have a life. I love my job, my co-workers and the camaraderie of my workplace. I love my time with my kids and my family. Most importantly, I really do enjoy my time alone. I like that I can drive home and rock out to my music without having to chat with someone on the phone and discuss the mundane details of my day. I like that I can veg out at the end of the day, surfing Facebook, watching HGTV and lounging in my pj’s without having to “check in” with anyone. I like that I don’t wonder anymore why there’s such a long pause between texts or other communications. I just don’t really care like I used to.

After several long-term relationships, some stormy short-term ones, a failed marriage, some sketchy (and some great!) dates, and a lot of quality alone time, I have finally realized that I don’t really like to be smothered.

I did it. I found a life outside of love. I found an identity outside of the conventional relationship.

The loneliness and longing for a love match is what it is: just loneliness and longing. It hasn’t defined me. I can and will stand on my own until life happens naturally. Just keep swimming.

So here’s where I re-commence the discussion with myself over finding a balance between being TOO wide open to possibilities and long shots (a la online dating), and being a shut-in. As of right now, my internet dating profile still stands, as does an inbox full of unanswered messages from men (and women) of all shapes, sizes, ages and levels of sanity. As of tonight…who knows? To delete or not to delete, that is the question.

Thoughts?