Hot Wheels and blue painters' tape.

I learned something about my son yesterday.

It is Fall Break here on the Central Coast. Kids in grade-school get a blissful week of nothing to do except play and read and hangout. I got to spend two 1/2 of those blissful days with my kids, doing nothing except enjoying each other's company. Scooters, movies, beach, rain. It was wonderful. A relative memory-making factory. I thought I had been doing so well at it, that I forgot that old memories don't go away, no matter how many new ones get built on top.

We started out playing with Hot Wheels at about 1100am. We had already exhausted our Lego building, our drawing time, our walk to the Labyrinth around the corner, and our slight desire to play with scooters. My daughter was content to sit (in her very clean room, she would be quick to point out) and read a book in the series she is loving. So playing with cars did not interest her even one tiny bit. It was all on me and my son. It was awesome. We took out all the Hot Wheels, threw in some Matchbox (the enemy evil cars, I was told) and parked and drove, and attacked for a long time. We had used up the last of the blue painters' tape as we built garages, and ramps and hideouts out of cardboard boxes scavenged from the recycle bin. The project/play area/dream city spanned the kitchen table, the floor, and a couple chairs. (I really wish I had remembered I own a camera.) It was spectacular.

At about 1145a, I knew we needed to clean up, as my children's father would be there at 12noon to pick the kidlings up for his blissful (one can hope) two 1/2 days with these two wonderful and creative children. Needless to say, while it was a little heartbreaking to put all the boxes into my son's closet (no, we could not put them back in the recycling as I was assured they were now toys), we were cleaned up except for the one box of cars by the time their dad rolled up. My son, joyfully ran out to greet his dad, and asked him to come in and see his cars.

Whoa. Yep, that was somewhere near the not allowed point. My ex had not been in my house since last December, at my son's birthday party. Though he has picked up and/or dropped off the kids at least once a week since then, an old conversation from at least 18 months ago played in my head about control and anger and how I didn't fucking want the bastard in my house, ever! That fear based reaction to the last mean conversation he and I had lasted about 2.1 seconds before the words "Sure honey, you can invite your dad in to see your cars. It is your house, too." came out of my mouth. WOW, that is huge.

So as my children's father walked in, I tried to assess what I was feeling. Was that first gut reaction the reality, or was the words I said to my son closer to the truth? It turns out it was a combination of both. I didn't want the bastard in my house. I did want my son's father. I didn't want the mean, nasty, cruel, son of bitch, piece of shit husband I left any where near me. I did want my children to know they had a comfortable home where people they loved were welcome as long as they were polite.

In that split second of self evaluation, I managed to let go of the anger I had, and see the world through my son's eyes. Here is the kicker though; my son saw it, too. As we were at the kitchen table, chatting superficially about Red-line Hot Wheels and their collector status, my son says, without looking up, "This is new." Curious as I was, and in my happy little space of non-anger, I thought he was talking about cars. Nope, no such luck. His answer to my query about what was new, he replied (again without looking up) "Usually you don't let Dad past the porch, and usually you are fighting." Whoa, again. Self evaluation said I was pissed, since the whole reason my ex did not come into my house was because of the aforementioned bastardness and the cruelness of words that happened, what? over a year ago, in the old house. And didn't my son remember that it was that same fuckup-he-calls-a-father that said to his strong and independent mother that he would never set foot in my house since I was such a controlling bitch. And again, in that same 2.1 seconds (an absolute eternity!) I said "Yeah honey, that has been true. I think I will work on that, and do better." My son, the angel that is can be, hugged me and said (still not looking up) "Thanks, Mom."

As I stayed feeling happy about the tiny exchange, I started to remember that I don't get to choose my children's memories of me, or their father, or their life. That the harshness, no matter how fleeting (that I "thought" I was keeping from them, ha!) can be what sticks with them, and it was my job to do better. I had already realized that my love for my son is stronger than my dislike of his father, and had seen the first step of welcome-to-my-son's-home as a good thing. I am going to trust myself to maintain it. After that will come repair and amends, and I know I am heading that way, I can feel it.

I was still happy after all that self evaluation, and that is a good thing, too. Maybe it means I am healthier than I thought. Maybe it just means that, for the first time in over a decade, I am relying on my own sense of right and wrong, and testing my self-esteem measurements by my own yard stick. Maybe I just love Hot Wheels, and blue painters' tape, and the little boy who makes that magic. Maybe I just love myself for feeling everything and still being okay.

Remnants of a former comic book idol.

Today my blog is an assignment. Yep, I get to write about anger. I probably should be pissed about that, but I am not. Maybe it is part of letting go, finding new avenues.

I could write lists about all the things in my life I am angry about. I could number them, add bubble speech captions, color-code them with pretty pastel pencils. I could write novels. I can, and have, held them close as specific possessions that I could line-up on a shelf, take each one down and tell the story. Creative words, funny words, things that could make you cry. It almost feels like each story that has anger and hurt attached is some kind of badge of honor. Yep, that sounds pathetic even to me.

I wrote before about taking photos. Professional photos where I look beautiful. I have been enjoying what that feeling is, and the more I enjoy that comfort, the easier it is to be in it. I can look at myself in the mirror and see outstanding qualities instead of just the flaws. I had been holding on to the flaws, not because I liked them, but because they were comfortable, a known quantity, and having had years of backup pointing out the flaws, it was routine. I think anger has been a lot like that.

Now, with that said, I can't even begin to pretend that I was DOING anything about my anger. Nope, that would not have been my style. I wouldn't have an artifact on my shelf if I had already done something about it. Seems I am a hoarder. I hoard my anger and turn it in to my own head and heart. Channeling Yoda: MINE MINE MINE. The anger becomes depression, and duh, depression is the reason I have this assignment to begin with. I must have thought that if there was no anger, there would be nothing at all, and that is scary, not feeling anything. Been there, done that. So I guess I am doing something about it, at $115 bucks a pop.

What would my life be like with out all of the anger? hmm... Maybe I would stand a little taller, without the anger backpack attached. Maybe I would be thinner, without the anger blanket wrapped so tightly around me. Maybe the people (read that as men) I have in my life would not spend their entire time trying to shoot grenades at me just to see what kind of reaction they could get, and then laugh it off as "only kidding" (being the overly sensitive bitch that I am you see HA). Maybe the new emotions of love and respect and generosity would stand a chance.

I was listening to a song this morning on my drive to work. Five for Fighting I think, a song about Superman. Now I don't think of myself as a Superhero, but I thought about Superman and his relationship to Kryptonite. All the comic books, and all the movies portray Superman as weak and helpless when he is confronted with a stone from his own world. He cowers and falls. He is weak. But the more I thought about it, the more that did not make sense. He was not weak, he was just suddenly normal. His abilities to shrug off huge problems became the same as any other person on the planet, and he failed to see that his super-human false shield made him forget that he was okay without it. Yes, his head could now get whacked off by a meteor precariously plummeting towards Earth, and yes, being able to get from New York to LA in 6.4 seconds would be missed, but what was he really losing in just being human. Humans are pretty damn strong come to think of it.

So what happens if I let go of the anger. First, I guess I get to recognize that I am human, and anger is just ONE of a million emotions I am allowed to feel at any time. Second, I am going to remember that I like the positive emotions that I get, a lot. Third, as I feel the other/positive emotions and they become part of my comfort zone, I get to reset my brain to accept them. Fourth, fifth and sixth, I get a clean shelf for other pretty artifacts, ones I had not room for because of all the other crowed junk holding court in the space. I get more happy stories to tell, and these are ones I could actually tell and not feel all the energy drain out of me. And I get to save some counseling money that I could use to get a massage instead. Joy for me!

This Kryptonite is feeling pretty nice in my hands. It is kind of a pretty color. It is just the right shape, and see how it brightens up my room. I might decorate my whole life in these colors. What a thought. I could get used to this.