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.