The Universe is a stand-up comedian.

I get to have my wishes to the Universe tested.

I have been sending out, almost to the point of mindlessly, the idea that if I could just have my children's father in the same room for a conversation for, say, an hour, we *might* get to work some things out regarding our children. I asked for this as an intention on the Solstice in June. I wrote it as a wave wish a dozen plus more times over the last five months. I have written about it here, and even added it to recent court documents.

The universe answered my desire by forcing me back in to court mediation, where my ex will sit, papers in hand, in front of a mediator, with just me, for a little over an hour, at an appointment next week. The humor of it being on the Winter Solstice did not escape me. It fits, to the day, the timeline I had asked for back on the Summer Solstice. It is also humorous to note that the Solstices are the two actual "holidays" I truly celebrate, and asked for through the courts, only to have them denied as too complicated to work into a schedule (Like somehow June 21 and Dec 21 each year comes at a different time on the calendar, but I digress.) So this "meeting" I have wanted seems like a funny-ha-ha way of getting what I need.

Need, you say? Yes, it is my need. It is going to give me a chance, not to bash my ex, but to tell someone, anyone who matters in the legal system, why I am a good mom, and why the stability I provide my kids should continue. I am going to do my best to work on my tone, and not come across as a selfish bitch just because I put up my big-ol-fear wall to keep from getting hurt. I am going to explain our schedule and routine, talk about how we bond and reconnect at the end of each day, and on the drive home on visitation weekends. I am going to show the report cards showing perfect attendance and good grades, and praising my children as social and creative. I am going to also talk about sleep and friends and play that will be lost if the schedule changes.

At my attorney's urging, I will also talk about my ex's inconsistency with decisions, with desires, and with routines. I will point out that while he has good intentions to participate in his children's lives, he has had 63 opportunities to come to their counseling appointments, and has managed to make to only 1 in 2 1/2 years. I will have to tell the mediator that while he says he wants time to volunteer at the school, he has picked up the kids on Wednesday 89 times, and has yet to stop in to volunteer in the classroom. I will have to tell the mediator about the missed Parent Open House, and the missed School Festival, and the missed field trips, all known about in advance since I give him the heads up, the paperwork, and the sent-home notes every single time.

I will have to talk about my children. I will need to talk about how my son hates transitions, and about the crying at drop off time at preschool, and the whining at pick up time at the youth center. I will point out the counselor’s report talking about consistency for him in everything from schedules to meals and bedtime, and how he functions on the premise that if anything needs to change he needs days to assimilate it before a tentative change can occur.

I will need to talk about my daughter wanting to be a beautiful fashion diva. I will talk about her bathroom time, and her bedroom being decorated, and about the jewelry box. I will tell the mediator about how she doesn't like baseball curtains and sharing a bunk bed with her brother. And about how she feels about her body, and her hair, and her nails, and her clothes. I will talk about her best friend moving to Singapore as part of her father's military job, and how much my daughter has been worried about this for months. I will talk about comfort and sadness and desire. I will tell the mediator about the day my ex's new wife decided to euthanize the family dog, and how my daughter called me for comfort, even though there was 7 other people in the house. I will talk about loss, and memories, and why she loves her life now.

I will have to talk about alcohol. I will have to talk about vicious emails. I will have to talk about broken promises.

I will have to tell the Mediator that the kids already told this to their father, not only once, but multiple times, in Family meetings he had to be forced into attending, and in notes about things they want changed, and to their counselor, and while sitting on his lap, very specifically, while simultaneously being ignored. I will have to point out that he doesn’t really know anything about his children, because how could he. He doesn’t have that skill.

I will have to keep my cool, show why I am stable, and not give in to my usual temptation to try to fix things for the abusers in my life. Yes, I said that: Abusers. I have done this consistently for such a long time that it has often felt normal. The role I accept and continue to feel outside of as I stand up for myself.

It will try my best not to cry and hold my ex’s hand (that was what I did at the last mediation, 2½ years ago) and remember just how much better my life is now. I just need to be myself and allow all that I have learned and become to be the guiding force.

But here is my Universe, answering for me, that maybe being in the same room will help. I don’t expect my children’s father to suddenly come to his senses, stop drinking and start a twelve step, and begin praising me as the good mother I am. I don’t need his approval or acceptance. What I do need is to have him be himself in front of the mediator, and let the actions of the last couple years be what comes through. His and mine both. It really does speak for itself, if the people who matter can listen.

I think the Universe is sending me a signal. It is saying the test is coming, but it is coming at a time when I am at my strongest, with the most support. Blessed Solstice. I will try to make my wishes more specific though. How about I ask for comfort and ease, blessings and virtue, friends and love. Can’t go wrong with those.

millimeters and miles

When my phone rang yesterday, with the ring tone I have set for calls from children's father, I knew my daughter had won a small victory, and that my ex is doing some saving face in the process. I think it is a win-win, in everything except how it might play out in court.

I know, more about court is getting old. It is for me, too. This time, I am being dragged back in because somehow the first six times the court made a decision must have just been practice, and not the real thing. It must be my singular definition of "permanent" that is getting in the way.


I am grateful. My children are amazing. They are bright and intelligent and well mannered. They are creative and funny and loving. They make me smile by their presence and their hugs and their unrelenting love. I am thankful because it has taken me until very recently to realize that I can take a lot of the credit for that. They are polite because I taught, and expect from them, manners. They are creative and intelligent because I read to them, and let them explore and encourage them to try things a little outside their reach. They are funny because I show them the less serious sides of the world and pay attention when they show me and tell me the things they create in their hearts and minds. I know them individually and as collaborators. I teach them daily through modeling and touch and smiles that they are loved and how to love in return. This is my definition of permanent. It is who I am, and who they are, and how we are connected in ways that are so far beyond what a stack of sorted and filed papers say. I am their mom.

So why was the sound of the ring tone exciting to me? It means that my daughter gets it. The stuff I have been doing since before my children were born is working. My daughter can make a phone call to her mom on this "odd-year" Thanksgiving, against her dad's wishes, because she knows the connection is there, even when we are not in the room together. She knows that saying hello from 43 miles away is exactly the same as 43 millimeters away. She knows that my heart and her heart are big enough to not only survive, but to thrive. It is permanent. We no longer have a choice, as if we ever did.

How this translates into court is anyone's guess. Oh, I have a good attorney, who cited case law, and pointed out the obvious to a potentially overburdened and feeling-neutral court. I got the fun job (said with as much sarcasm as I can muster) of telling the court why I rock as a mom and why my children's father is all talk and no walk, and the plethora of examples of why his already filed statements to the court are either exaggerations or lies, and not in the "best interests" of the children. It sounded harsh as I wrote it, but truth often is, especially from me, a woman who usually pleases and never takes any credit for a job well done. Touting my own virtues is new. I do it with more frequency these days, but it still leaves me shaky. This time, with a potential change in visitation , and thus my time with my kids on the line, tooting my own horn has become completely necessary. I want it to keep being exactly who I am, and who my kids are in the process.

Here I go with the whiny part though: all this is in the "nothing to lose" category for my children's father. If the courts decide he gets what he asks for, he "wins". If they decide to give me what I asked for in response, everything stays the same, and he"wins". The things he could gain won't happen because of "extra" time spent with the kids. He could have the hugs and the manners and the amazing creative wonderful relationship with them right now if he wanted it. He doesn't. He could see and foster a loving relationship daily with phone calls and emails, and reading to them, and paying attention, and listening. He won't. What he doesn't realize, and never will is that he "wins" nothing. He will not suddenly become a good father because he gets an extra Sunday night. But more that that, (and what I already know is the "real" reason he drags me through this) is that I won't stop being a good mom. I will have the same connection with my children no matter what. He doesn't get that. He never will.

So it was a gift this Thanksgiving in the form a phone call, confirming for me what I already know, that my kids do understand. It is the part where my singular definition of permanent doesn't change, and I get to be thankful that "permanent" for them doesn't change either.

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.

Happy laurels.

Two weeks ago Saturday, I did a photo shoot. Not your average "pretty family with a blue background" type, but one where, at one point, I was wearing thigh-high stockings on the beach.

I have seen five of the pictures now, of the seven that are being cropped and edited. I have been both amazing and excited. Relieved and undone. Proud and sad.

The happy emotions come from the plethora of wonderful comments, outpouring of generous words spilling into cyberspace just below the posted photos. Women I know, men I don't, and everything in between saying words like "peaceful", "serene", "warm", "beautiful". That's where I get stuck. Beautiful. Um, yeah. Beautiful. Not on my usual list of self-adjectives.

I have tried, without much success over the past 4 decades, to come to terms with my body. I was a fat kindergartner, a fat school-age kid, a fat high-schooler. I graduated from college fat, I got married fat, I had kids fat. I got divorced fat. I've had sex fat, gone dancing fat, worked out fat. I get dressed daily, fat. I cook dinner for my kids, fat. I have coffee with my skinny friends, fat. What I never wanted to do is get my photo taken, fat.

There are not many pictures of me with my exes. I have exactly two pictures with my "drama" boyfriend. I have only one with another. My first ex-husband never thought of me as fat, and did tell me he thought I was beautiful. That felt great, and was still not enough to keep infidelity from rearing its ugly head in our relationship. I have a wonderful picture of the two of us, on our wedding day, in the prettiest dress I have ever worn, with him looking amazing in this tuxedo, looking at each other and smiling. I had it blown up to an 8x10. It is now folded in half, in a box in my garage, with a lot of other things I can't quite part with. I smashed the crystal frame it was in during our marriage the day he left. I can remember looking at that picture that day, and hating ever part of it, and thinking to myself that I looked fat, without the happy-veil I had placed over it.

My children's father never wanted to have his picture taken with me. There are lots and lots of pictures of one or the other of us, at camp, at holidays, at random drunk intervals. There are pictures of the kids, me with the kids, him with the kids, family with the kids. I have a wonderful picture of the two of us, with my daughter on my lap, 7 months pregnant with my son, all of us smiling and happy as we waited for our tour to begin at Hearst Castle. I had it framed and hung it on the hallway wall with other pictures I loved that were not of me. He told me during a rant one time that he hated that picture because it reminded him too much of the woman who took the picture, the woman he had an affair within a week after the picture was taken, and that I looked fat. I think that picture is in the same box with my wedding picture.

So when I first saw the work that a friend of mine was doing, and the amazing photographer she has aligned herself with, I was sure there was not a way in hell I would ever get close to doing THAT. Professional picture of me, fat. Not a chance. And then I softened, started taking care of my own needs, and decided to risk all of it for the chance of making myself so self conscious and miserable that I would die.

I confess, that I looked at them first through the filter of two failed marriages, years of being told I wasn't anything close to pretty, much less stunning, and my own twisted expectations of other peoples' reactions. I looked and found the flaws in my body and hair and shape of my face because I was looking at it with fear and self-loathing and self-esteem so low that it was making me hold my breath.

What I got was amazing. What I got was freeing. What I got was beautiful. Yes, beautiful. I look beautiful. I feel beautiful. I am beautiful. The pictures are of me. Me. Beautiful scenery and me. The beach and me. Some of my clothes and me. Yep, me.

So that explains the pride. What about the sad? Oh that comes now from feeling like I could have been there all along if I had given myself the chance. I am letting that go. Maybe the sad will go into the box with those old photos, but I don't think so. I am ready to let go of that, if not yet the photos. Maybe I might even take out the photos again and look at myself differently, through my new beautiful eyes and offer myself some forgiveness and self praise.

Nah, not taking out those old photos! I am going to show and look at the new photos and rest here on my happy beautiful laurels for just a while.

Not your ordinary circus souvenir.

It has been over a month. Yep, a full 6 weeks of not posting a thing. Oh I have been writing, but mostly just scraps and things, the back of napkins and the occasional text. I also had to write a report to the people at the domestic violence center. Yes, I said that correctly. The domestic violence center.

Back on the day I picked up my children from their two weeks of "vacation" with their father, the woman he is now married to decided to go on what can only be described as an evil drunken rant. It was public: in the restaurant where the exchange happened. It was timely: on her daughter's 15th birthday. It was family oriented: my children, her children, her ex, my ex, her ex's new wife, yep we were all there. It was completely justified: I WAS 5 minutes early picking my kids up after not seeing them for 14 days.

To follow this lovely display, complete with sailor type cuss words and several finger gestures, I got an email from her (via my ex's email, but signed by her just the same) basically outlining again all the things she had publicly told me was wrong (being the fat ugly bitch that I am, selfish in the extreme for not picking my kids up later than the court ordered time, and for existing) with the added bonus of being told that I deserved to have my son (Seth, the one that died) be dead because I was such a fucked up mom.

Yeah, that floored me. It took me almost three days to realize that I had just been battered.

Most normal people would have been pissed. Most normal people would have been able to see what had happened as the evil coming through from a drunk psychotic. Most normal people would have been able to see the problem and not feel the mind and body numbing fear and shock.

On the Wednesday after it happened, (ok, Thursday morning, it was 1:40am) I woke up sweating and wide awake, terrified that I was back in my old relationship, and needing help. I called the Domestic Violence Hot Line. I told my whole ten year story all over again. I talked about the one and only time my ex hit me. I talked about the words I heard him say daily that made my world nothing if not beholden to him. I talked about the two years since, and the way I was living my life and raising my kids inside a space filled with love and positive words. I talked about feeling safe now, and loving my life and finding my strength and stability and happiness. I talked about why the less than 4 minute rant of an obviously insane woman and the following email took me back to feeling afraid. I cried, a lot, and shook, a lot, and wanted to curl up in a ball and die. What happened instead was this amazing woman on the other end of the line said "I am proud of you!". Wow, proud of me? Yep, she said, I got out and I was happy, and this flashback was just that, a fucked up (yes, she said fucked up) reminder of all the things I am free of. Proud.

Yep, in that moment I was proud. I could melt down, recognize the behavior as not mine, have the right amount of fear and still know, all the way down where it really counted, that I was out! That I was free of all of that, and I was fine.

When I told the story to my counselor he said it is a little like having a helium balloon in the perfect color and with just the right amount of lift, and then someone else handing you a needle and telling you to pop it. And a messed up person goes "Okay, I guess I should pop it." and does. I had been letting people hand me needles for years. I didn't know that the needle was even in my hand when I heard the balloon pop. I didn't even know that I could just not take the needle from them. More, that even if I did take the needle from them I didn't have to pin it to my lapel for use later, the next time I had a balloon and they weren't even around.

I would say that makes me stupid, pinning someone else's way to deflate me to my skin, but that would be me using the needle without them being there, wouldn't it? I don't think I am stupid, (or fat or ugly or worthless) and yet I have a collection of sharp pins right there waiting to take the carnival colors out of my life. No one even has to be present for the sharpness to cut right through.

So back to the drunken rant. I let my ex's wife hand me a needle. I let the colorful balloon that I fill up and delight in at seeing my children get popped. I let my sadness over my son's death be something she could manipulate. My solution was brilliant. I went to the Domestic Violence Center and had them send her a Cease and Desist letter. I told her, in very clear terms, that she is to stay away from me in all forms of contact (email, in person, by phone etc) forever. She is not to talk to me, write to me, be in the same room for me for as long as we both shall live. I filled my balloons back up and dropped her needle in a mailbox. I worked with my attorney to make sure my ex knew that he is completely responsible for her bad behavior and he can basically suck it! (my words, not my attorney's).

Since then, I have not seen her. Drat that I will not get to spend Christmas with my former in-laws, or get a birthday present from them, but I am okay with that, given just how big and beautiful my new bouquet of balloons is becoming.

Next up, a haystack, so I can lose the rest of the needles.

Lessons carved in weathered oak.

I went to the mountains over the weekend.

I could write about all the "adventure" part; the creek crossing being uncrossable, smoking the clutch backing up the hill, guns being shot off in the middle of the wilderness, rental cars and crazy tow truck drivers. But that is all really distraction to what the whole trip was about, and it took me until today, three days after arriving home, to slow down enough to process it.

I went to the mountains to get back something that is exclusively mine.

Let me tell you the whole story.

In 2001, my ex-husband and I "lost" a baby. I have always hated that term, "lost", as if a child could be misplaced like keys or a jacket or a cell phone. No, my son died. He was a stillbirth. He was my heart. His name is Seth.

The summer after Seth died, my husband's best friend made a "marker" out of a beautiful piece of honey-colored oak, at my request. On it, engraved in the wood, are my son's name, "Seth Trinity", the words "..off to play with the wind and the moon...", and the date "8 February 2001". Earlier the same year, we had taken Seth's ashes (there was only about a tablespoon of them, he was very small) and mixed it with 2lbs 3oz of Carmel Beach sand (he weighed 2lbs 3oz) and were going to scatter the sand-ashes various places of our choosing, as we saw fit. One of the places was near a spring located on some family property. We decided to locate the carved-oak marker there.

If you know anything about wood in outdoor settings, you know that all things weather, and age, and crack, and stain, and need maintenance in order to be preserved. The same is true for Seth's marker. It had started to crack, dry out, turn a whitish gray color, had hosted a few bugs, and been gnawed on by a few larger critters. It needed some help. I knew that from the photos, since I had not been to the property since 2008, but my ex had. I asked to have the marker brought home so I could repair it, tend to it, seal it, whatever was needed to make it last in the mountains again. My request was at first ignored, and then outright denied. I was not to touch the marker, or see it, repair it, or move it in any way.

Then came this February. The decade point. And the email. I have already written about the cruel words used by my ex to deny me a request for remembrance of our son. Actually, the whole denial basically eliminated Seth as a person at all in my ex's eyes. It left me struggling and afraid and sad. Out of that though, came my overwhelming need to have everything back that is mine. That included Seth's marker, located on the property that used to be ours.

I went to the mountains this weekend, and I brought the marker home.

I learned a lot in the tears and sobs I had as I pulled the stake (that I did not attach, but my ex must have at some point in the last couple years) out of the rocks, and cleaned the marker of weeds and tree debris all around it. I learned a lot as I carried the marker (and the stake, attached in a way I could not remove) back to the car. I learned a lot as I let a friend help me.

In the tears I found that letting go is not a bad thing. I learned that I am stronger than I thought because I still have the ability to cry, and then walk away. I found that I could share a burden, and it does not make me any weaker for having accepted help. I found that I could be in a space that I used to love with all my heart, and still love it, while knowing that there are lots of other places and spaces to love, because I take the love with me. I own it. It is mine. I choose.

I went to the mountains this weekend.

I thought I would find an old piece of wood that needed a little love. What I found was my heart. Worn a bit, in need of some care, but intact. I can say thank you to Seth for having brought me this far. I can see him, letting my love embrace him even as walk down the road, smiling and saying "Go for it, Mom. Love you! You can do this. You don't need me any more. Give my love to Haysten and Mariah!" "I will son, thank you!".

I will make a decision about the marker soon. I think I might throw a party. On Carmel Beach. With a bonfire. I will invite you.

And fifteen minutes outside of Winter Park, CO, this happened.

I wrote as my status on Facebook today that if you have ever felt like a train wreck, I totally understand. Here is my perspective on the thing though, and how my vacation played out in me having to write this down.

A train wreck, everyone expects to be chaos and misery, fire and death. Having now survived one, literally having my train crash into a truck on the tracks on the way from Denver to Frasier, the majority of train wrecks are really more like the one I was in. It was a loud screech, a big bang, a forced stop that leaves you off balance and shaky, and then a whole lot of waiting that really just fucking pisses you off.

I realized, as I laughed with my kids once we knew no one was injured or killed, that this is life. One train crash after another, completely out of your control except for how you react. And the waiting, well, that is just the next thing too. It is the way it needs to be, a way to steady yourself again, so you can stand and breathe. It allows you to get completely angry during the wait, doing nothing but waiting, and then the cheer of relief as you actually start moving again.

In this scenario, life as a train wreck, I realized I have chosen to be the train. Maybe it chose me, but whatever. The train gets to stay on a track, head in a chosen direction, pick up speed or slow down as the circumstances warrant, hit the brakes when necessary, and has a really cool horn. It also is bigger and more bad-ass than some wimpy sedan that ran the gate and gets plowed down.

I am not saying that being able to run people over is a good thing, I am just saying that the train survives 99% of the time. Yes, it has to wait, and it's schedule gets all hosed in the process, but mostly, it just gets to wait the crash out, sometimes getting pissed off in the process, while others make some irrelevant decisions, and then gets to get back on track, so to speak. I like that about my decisions. I like that eventually, while waiting around in a huff, I will get to move on again. I will know the path as it was, right there waiting for me all along.

My counselor will probably say this is counter productive. Something along the lines of "Does everything in your life HAVE to be a train wreck?" I suppose not, but it is what I have. My life always at some sort of crossroads. Always making decisions. Sometimes the decisions are hard, and I fail. Sometimes they are about things that are scary. Sometimes they are just about being needy or lonely. But while standing on the crossroad, I don't always have to be the sedan getting smashed. Maybe, instead of being the person who cautiously looks around and makes sure everything is in just the right place before moving out across the tracks, I could just be the train, already knowing my path. Maybe I don't have to look back, or even forward, but the tracks will just open out before me, wide and strong and headed in the right direction.

Either way, it is at the top of my list, and I am not ignoring anymore train wrecks in my life. I am just picking to be on the tracks when the wait is over.

One sunny happy morning in late June...

This is my current gratitude list:

Kidlings who hog the covers in the morning, and simply refuse to get out of my bed unless I tickle them and hug them at the same time.

Purple mascara. Okay, it is really more of a smoky amethyst, but it sure looks pretty and brings out the green in my eyes.

Electric candles. I have a large one on my credenza at work, on a timer, that flickers just a bit and smells ever so slightly of vanilla.

My passport, stored in my fireproof box at home, waiting, patiently, for me to take it out and acquire another stamp. My kids have them, too.

Facebook friends who send me good karma, and drinks, and tattoos, and little smiley thingies. I don't actually keep any of the "stuff", but I love the friends.

Coffee, rich and warm. More than the coffee, I am grateful for Patrick (and Paul before him, and Brett before him) who made me stand up from my office chair and take a walk every morning. I actually like that more than the coffee, though don't tell them that.

Closet jewelry shoes (you know, the pretty but completely impractical type) that help me look good for the five minutes I can stand up in them. It also is a great thing to show my daughter that there are many sides to every woman, and to never forget it, even if it hangs out in the back of the closet under a bag of dry cleaning.

Lego's that hurt when I step on them, are scattered all over the house, and can cure every bad mood my son ever has. Lego's are magic for him. Not just the building, but the destroying and story telling and gathering and caretaking and love that every single block brings.

Movies on summer nights. Films in the Forest in Carmel; RedBox in my living room; Maya; Osio; free movies at the State. Yeah, movies.

Trains that will stop in a bunch of locations on the way to Denver. It is a 30 hour trip. We will go over the Rockies. We will eat in the dining car. We will read some silly books. We will sleep. We will have tons and tons of time to talk.

Craft shows on Saturday afternoons. I buy nothing, but talk to a dozen different artists about what inspires them and how their process and soul gets woven into something tangible. They listen as I tell them about writing. We each envy the other for the part of creativity we would like to have.

An organized garage that allows me to find everything I need to mess it up again.

Costco dogs, and friends to eat them with.

Cameras built into the phone. Yes, the pictures are grainy and not great on the focus, but wow, to get to have that moment RIGHT THEN, and then get to share it via another phone. The most recent was shopping in Florida, cars being test driven in San Francisco, a sunset in Maui, and suitcases being used as racecars in a driveway in Marina.

Blogs. Friends who read blogs. The words that come as I type the blog. Spell check.

Knowing I get to be grateful again tomorrow.

Everyday gifts

Father's day is on Sunday. My children will be with their father. That seems like the way it should be in the world of split families. I can't really argue with it, as I guess the "magic" of that day is important, in the Hallmark kind of way, but honestly, it doesn't matter.

My children and I have lived separate from their father for a little over two years. My own issues about the whys and whatfors of the end of our marriage are just that, my issues. I write about them here, and still find myself in wonder and grief over that relationship. I guess all of that will take time, and with patience not being one of my god-given virtues, I am struggling.

But this is not about me this time, at least not directly. It is about my kids, and how I see them, and what I want for them, and how Father's day is just another day in my book.

I think about how families are constructed, and what creates bonds. Is the card we will make tonight, and the lunch my children will share with their dad on Sunday, be what will ultimately decides how close my children feel to their male parental unit? Was that what bonded them before? Would the lack of that time make or break their future relationship? How about my relationship with them? Will I be either a "nice" mom or an "evil" mom based on when and how my children interact with their father? I certainly hope not. I can only give the opportunity for memories, not their interpretation.

For well over a year there has been a custody and visitation order in place. It sucks to have to think that I need one at all to be a mom, but that is the cards I got dealt. For the most part, the visitation goes smoothly. I know from my children that a weekend at dad's really means lots of TV and video games, chores imposed by their father's wife, and going to some church function or other that requires a special "nice clothes" wardrobe. It is what they get. It is the status quo of their relationship. I am good with that, because in all honestly, it is actually more than they got before the split.

So the Father's day thing to me is a little bit of a hoax. A cop-out for the dads everywhere on that one day, as if the relationship is all grand if the time is spent. How many coffee mugs filled with hammer-shaped chocolates, or burgers on the new BBQ does it take to get a dad's attention? At what point does the day just get you off the hook for not being there every day?

I miss my children when they are gone for the weekend. I have been told by other single moms that at some point I will start to revel in the freedom that two days, twice a month will bring me, but it hasn't happened so far. I love my children's company. I feel gone from them for way too long as I complete the necessary task of going to work. I feel connected and happy when they are just in their rooms, or out in the yard, or asleep. I love making sandwiches, and helping with homework, and playing with Lego's. I love explaining vocabulary, and eclipses, and farts. I love the sand in my car. I love the jackets on the floor. I love the crying and the whining. I love the fights. Yep, I love it all, in that completely daily way that makes me sure that our family is working just fine, thank you, and will continue to work just fine, thank you, even when they are sad that their dad is not there to see it. And that happens less and less the more everyday that becomes. Trust me that I am grateful.

And along comes Father's Day. I will be able to smile as I watch my children drive away in the morning. Not because I am happy they are gone. Not even because I know or care if they will have a good time with their father. I will smile because I know that the small amount of time they spend inside that "magic" Father's day brings is nothing compared to the magic my life is everyday with them in it. Their father does not know that. He never did, and I am sure he never will. So I can grant him that, since the gift I give him is that he has children who love him. I can be okay with it because it costs me nothing, and I get reminded of just how many things I get everyday.

That, and I am going to keep getting myself happy along the way. Happy father's day to my kids!

A single point of failure, or light...whichever

Trust is a subjective and fleeting sort of thing with me. I can remember having a conversation with Tobey one time. She asked me to trust her that she would not drop the 25 pound weight on my head (Tobey was my trainer), and I did almost drop the weight on my head when I told her that I didn't trust anyone, and it occurred to me, in that flash of a moment, that I meant it. I remember crying.

My counselor says I have trust issues, to which I said "yeah, ok, duh". And in counselor like fashion he said "And why is that?" I could not pinpoint it exactly as to why this is true except to say it always has been. Family of Origin is a great factor in everything I am learning. My parents controlled everything I did as a kid, from food to class to friends, and I did not have a voice. And when I did make mistakes, I was left to fail on my own without ever having a soft place to fall. A lot of "I-told-you-so"s and "see"s. Nobody seemed to have my back, ever, so I relied on myself. I would do the work, I would to the time, I would take the risks. A single point of failure. A single point of blame.

I have also realized with the lack of trust comes the lack of praise too. If no one is inside who knows how much responsibility I've taken on, there is no on there to give me a pat on the back. And the few times when kudos would have been nice along the way, there weren't any. That is not exactly fair, since there were a few, for the bigger things like home runs and talent show speeches, but the everyday stuff was lost. What I learned that way was that the only thing that deserved any kind of congratulations was the really big stuff. Daily praise was not warranted, and if you accomplished anything small (like a wonderfully written story, or a good grade on math test, or having a baby without pain meds), there was no recognition.

I know that sounds petty, in my own head at least, that wanting a little praise is important. Truth is, I don't feel like I deserve it. I mean, why would someone need to notice if the house was clean, or the diapers were changed, or I stood up for myself in an argument? Why would they notice that I worked for my paycheck, and never said no, and felt guilty if I went on vacation? Why would they notice if what they said hurt my feelings when obviously their needs always came first? Why would I care if I did without praise because it felt so normal not to have any?

So back to trust. Maybe relying on something that seems constant is how I do it. I am constant. Hmm? Yep, that is about it. Everything else changes, everything else moves out of my universe just about the time I start thinking it is a constant. With that comes all the uncertainly and need to stay as my only point of light. It is exhausting, and what goes by the wayside is that I forget to praise myself. Forget is not the right word, since I don't forget, I just don't know how. Praising yourself is like high-fiving air. Praising yourself is like taking a nap after 8 hours of sleep. Praising yourself is like putting on gloves when your hands are already covered with blood. I falls into the "what is the point?" category and I don't understand it. You would think it would be obvious, but no such luck.

Praise would mean I trust myself, and I can tell you right now that I don't. If I accept praise from myself it would feel like a lie, and with no one there to dispute it and tell me otherwise, what gauge do I have to say it is the truth? It even feels weird to write it, knowing that someone might read it, say something to me about it, and I will put up the wall that says "yeah, ok, duh". "And why is that?" If I don't let myself trust you, you can't hurt me, right? Double edged swords are really difficult to balance on.

Thursday is still Thursday, even if you can't read a calendar.

Today I am going to write about feeling a sense of freedom, at the same time being scared out of my mind. Old tapes, I know. Some of the tapes include feeling like I should not rock the boat, some that I should take the high road, some that I am just plain wrong. This tape falls into all three categories. I am also innately fearful that someone, anyone will show this blog to my ex and somehow the use of it will hurt me in the long run.

Oh well, here goes my truth.

My ex, in the delusional state that I think he now resides (somewhere near denial, not quite to psychotic) is rewriting our custody order in his head. He no longer knows the days of the week, or remembers, it seems, that we worked really hard last year, via co-parent counselors, court assessors, and attorneys (not to mention a whole bunch of money) to make sure that there was a visitation arrangement pretty close to written in stone. Yes, this might seem excessive, but it was for days and weeks just like this week that it was done. It has been a year in practice, and I am comfortable with it.

Then, out of nowhere, I am told that he wants me to "split" the Thursday and Friday after school gets out, and will be picking the kids up early on Thursday. HUH? This is news to me, since as far as I can tell, there is nothing to "split" about it. I have my kids on Thursday and Friday. I have them every Thursday and Friday that is not a holiday. I double checked my calendar, and sure enough, THIS Thursday and Friday are not holidays.

When I explained that exact point (via email, because strangely enough, my ex seems to still be pissed off at me enough to not actually talk to me, go figure) and even offered instead to do a trade day so I did not miss time with my kids, the response I got was for him to call our child care provider and rant at them, refusing to pay the balance due for the month, stating he did not want to pay for Thursday and Friday. Really? That was it? I expected something much more hideous for saying "no".

I am sure I expected more fireworks from me pointing out the obvious, all because of my own fears about rejections and making trouble. After all, in my head, I had spun saying no into a court hearing discussing the potential changing of the permanent schedule, and pointing out all the reasons why I do not qualify as a decent human being. Bullshit, yes, but the tapes in my head did it anyway.

I don't know what will happen at the exchange tonight. I have several old tapes playing in my head about it. I am trying to change that. I want to say something that might get me in trouble. I want to run and cry. I want to say something nasty just to provoke the fight. What I am going to do instead is see what happens and not say a word, hug my kids close and remind them about the movie tonight. If my ex says something about me being "unreasonable" (read that as bitch), I will smile and remind him of the court orders and my offer to trade days, and then I will go inside and leave it in his lap. I will be busy, having to make hot chocolate.

So freedom comes from feeling like I will not back down if confronted. The fear comes from remembering all the times I didn't. New truths require new tapes, I just don't have any expereince with them. I wonder which type will serve me best.

tick, tock, tick, tock

I am booked, solid, until 2018.

I have recently figured out that my style has always been to move fast, move on. I thought it was serving me well. I have had so many experiences in the "make a list" kinda way. Sky diving? Yep, done that. Chocolate covered ant petit fours? Yep. Sex with stranger? In a glass elevator? While wearing leather? Yes, yes, and yes. I have been to dozens of concerts, major league sporting events, plays, films, car shows. I have danced all night, watched the sunrise, and lived with the hangover. I never wanted to miss anything, so off I went to discover, plunder, and prove my way through.

What I didn't know, until this week honestly, was that I was moving through the "experiences" so fast that it was all a blur. A pretty watercolor picture in smudges and soft edges. Yes, I can tell the stories, but many of them are just that, stories. Almost like they happened to someone else, like a page in a diary I read and turned into my own. As I think about it, I probably use the same words when telling about something that happened, like a tour guide pointing to the attributes of a painting in a gallery.

So what I thought had served me well, had actually been a facade. So when I am on my deathbed, my bucket list can have a few stars next to it, but maybe it kept me from real feelings. If I kept moving at life so fast, I might miss engaging in the really good stuff, but I also don't have to feel any of the bad stuff. That didn't sound so bad at first, missing the pain. That's where I am at. Somewhere between wanting to run away, and needing to stay. It is no longer acceptable that to avoid feeling hard stuff, I don't get to feel the good stuff either. Garth Brooks wrote a song about this.

So what this has to do with time is this: I don't have any. My kids will be gone in the blink of an eye, and if I miss it I don't get it back. In relationships, maybe I have been so accommodating, and afraid to face the bad stuff, that I don't enjoy the good stuff. Maybe I am just blowing smoke up my ass and I don't have a clue. What I do know is that I did not take the time that was rightfully mine. I did not slow down to cry about the end of my first marriage. I did not slow down to see that my relationship with my parents, my mother in particular, was hurtful and damaging to my future relationships. I did not slow down to grieve the loss of my son. I did not slow down to enjoy the pregnancy with my daughter. I did not slow down to admit I was devastated when my husband had an affair. I did not slow down to find a safe place to fall. Ever.

Without slowing down, I think I might be missing something. Something important in the details. Something found only in small and quiet spaces. Something with texture and substance. Something in the softness of my son's smile, or the or wiggle of my daughter's toes. I want that. I want that more than anything. I want that bit of time to slow down so that I get the chance to feel the loveliness of my children's hands in mine, and have it not just be a story, but belong to my heart.

This scares the hell out of me, because it means I might have to see the ugly difficult parts too. The parts that say I feel unworthy. The parts that say shut-up. The parts that don't want to piss off anyone. The parts that have words like abuse and ridicule and addiction attached. The parts that feel lonely. I want it to stay in the pretty spinning colors, but can't. Feeling nothing won't get my children through with a healthy mom, or their mom in a loving relationship.

It is just a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. It is just time. Time. And maybe that is a good thing. I will let you know if I catch myself long enough for that conversation, a quiet space to get out of my own head and into my heart.

It really is just a matter of time. I need to buy some white-out for my calendar.

Come under my umbrella

I spent part of Sunday with an old friend. A friend who could remember that breastfeeding was not fun sometimes, kids are not perfect sometimes, and relationships, especially when there are kids involved, take work. I was grateful for her presence and her insight, and her honesty. I had missed her.

We talked a lot about how we both got to where we are. Family of origin, moving, school. We talked about the words our families used about and to us, and how we both struggle, even now, to acknowledge our childhood as less-than-ideal, while moving on to not become our parents. It is hard, we both knew, and had the sand not been blowing around so much, I for one would have cried a few times. It has been hard, we could both see that clearly.

We talked about our relationships, choices we made about sex and love and family. We both had roads where we are trying to forgive our respective partners (and ex-partners) for being human, at the same time expecting them to man-up and take some responsibility for their own happiness, without masking the problem or running away and ignoring it completely. We both knew we were working on the same things for ourselves.

We talked about kids, and just how it is to parent children in the real world we have created for them. We both try to balance being involved with our children’s schools, while trying to let administrators do their job, and trusting them to it. We both have successes and failures when it comes to how we educate our children.

We both know our children struggle with things that are different than what we would hope for them. My son struggles with not remembering a time when he lived with both of his parents in the same home, working as daily partners, and feels he missed out. My daughter remembers the “bad stuff” that happened before her father and I split, but misses the good stuff of being a mom and dad family. My friend talked about how even with two parents in a home, the styles and needs sometimes overwhelm her, and she knows it affects her kids. Each of us had different strengths and different challenges we live with daily, based almost solely on our own individual choices. We each have different regrets.

We also laughed completely as the kids ate berries (covered with sand), and jumped off beach cliffs (about 18 inches high) and let the wind carry away a beach umbrella (they were using as a hut). We moved our own blanket a couple times to avoid the sand kicked up by running and jumping feet, yet somehow, wherever we moved, that is where the kids needed to be. It was funny, and in a way sweet, that in the middle of that annoyance, what the kids really wanted was to homestead and stay near.

The whole dance, in an out of our own past, present, and future, lasted about three hours. The time was sweet and happy and melancholy and joyous all at once. I can’t wait to do it again. The next time, my kids will come, too.

On Wednesday, she and I will have lunch together. We will have no kids with us. We will eat cheeseburgers because we won’t have kids around watching us eat such junk. I hope we will talk about movies and celebrities and music. I hope we talk about paint colors in our respective new houses, and how we keep bathrooms clean with two kids in the house. I hope we talk about shoes. I also hope we get to know each other better as real women, because you can never have too many friends who know your story and want to hang out with you anyway. I am already excited about it.

...I have a few...

It was Memorial Day 2009 that I moved out of my home of 10 years in Monterey. It took all my strength, all my will power to make that change, and I am learning much more about myself from that decision that any other choice I have ever made. I don't regret it.

I have been on a few dates, though the last one was in February and while "nice", did nothing for my ego, my self esteem, or my sense of something good being just around the corner. It was flat. It was boring. It was average. I have not seen the man again. I don't regret it.

I just finished helping my kids with baseball season. It was an action packed season, running around everywhere. We traveled to Salinas, and Pacific Grove. We had dinner in the car, often junk food or sandwiches. I watched every game, yelled and cheered. I was cold. I got sunburned. I was anxious and disappointed. I don't regret it.

In 2009, when I was first a "new" single mom, I thought the way to fulfill my happiness needs was to date. A lot. I actually was "dating" three guys with the same name at one point, and that was very confusing. I fell in love, or at least lust, a couple times during that time, and confused the two a couple times, too. I was never without a boy to occupy my thoughts for long in between, and have some stories to write about later. I don't regret it.

In 2010 I began searching for a house to buy. I did hours of research, combing every website, every newspaper, every trade magazine to find out what I needed to do, and where I needed to look. I looked at 60 or 70 houses (compared to the national average of 4-5) before making my first bid. That was June. It took until October to work it all out and get to a closing. It took every minute of my time and energy. I do not regret it.

After I purchased the house, it needed painting and repairs. I put in a new furnace, reconfigured the kitchen and one of the bathrooms. I helped the kids paint their rooms, and put up curtains, and pick new throw rugs. I put in new doors and windows. I moved in, and unpacked. I threw a house-warming party and a birthday party within 6 weeks of getting the keys. I got lots of help. I do not regret it.

What I regret is that in all of that, I did zip to take care of myself. Those men, well, they could have anything they wanted without giving back, and I was fine with that. Baseball season was just plain exhausting. House hunting was a great distraction, as was moving, painting, repairing, blah blah blah. The relationship I had left, and the childhood I had long ago moved away from, had given me no skills to understand how to stand on my own. I am very good at the "strength" portion of my life, doing the things that are necessary to make a life work (like fixing the plumbing, or putting in the new tile, or going on dates with random guys who are bad for me) but I am not very good at the "weakness" portion of my life. The part that lets me cry, the part that lets me laugh at my own silliness, the part that is quiet, the part that is alone.

I have not been on a date since February. I have not painted a wall or fixed a thing in quite a while. I have not signed the kids up for another sport. I am feeling everything with great intensity these days, and trying not to distract myself with all the other things I tend to fill my life with. It is tough. I am lonely. I backslide, a lot. I am concentrating on myself, and scared every minute. I am likely to need some help, and have already been getting some. It feels weird, but the most important part is that it feels. I do not regret it.

Housekeeping Fairies

Spotless houses are not something I strive for. Don't get me wrong, I like a clean house as much as the next person, it just has (as an adult) never been near the top of my list of things to care about. Yep, I had to start figuring out why.

It's not like I don't know how to load a dishwasher, I do. It's not like I don't know how to fold towels and get them to the closet, I do. It's not like I don't know how to identify limes that used to be heads of lettuce in the back of my fridge, I do. What I don't know how to do is stop hearing my mom's voice (and sometimes my ex-husband's voice) in the back of my head (and sometimes on my phone) that it is not done correctly, timely, and with ease. Growing up, everything was "easy" yet some how (I was told often) I just was not capable of mastering it.

A week or two ago, I needed someone to come unlock my door so that the city inspector could come check if the grommets on my heater were properly plasticised (or some such bullshit), in the middle of the workday (the joys of home ownership!). Why the voice in my head that said "Don't call your mom!" was not heeded, I don't know. Before I could have even changed my mind about asking her to come over and let the guy in, I heard her say it: "I hope your house is clean enough for me to step into, I don't want to be embarrassed."

Yep, opening the garage door to a guy she had never met, who she will never see again, so he could spend 60 seconds looking at a piece of sheet metal, would devastate her if there was laundry on the floor or a pile of dirty dishes.

I changed the appointment. I asked the guy to come later in the day, and I came home. My mother did not have to come into my house. I told her never mind, that I made other plans, and she would not have to worry about any embarrassment I might have caused her.

You would think this would not have made me shaky at all, but not a chance. I had just taken away my mother's right to judge me, or my living conditions. I had just found out that I could do this for myself. Imagine that.

So why do I mention this now? Because I cleaned my house to the nines this weekend. All the laundry, all the dishes, all the vacuuming. I cleaned every surface, every mirror, both bathrooms, and the kitchen floor. It did not take long (about 90 minutes total over 2 days, plus laundry time). Because honestly, my house is usually messy but not dirty, if you know what I mean. I did not do it with any voices in my head telling me it should be done. I did not do it with any provocation of impending visitors or parties. I did not do it and then expect it to stay clean. On the contrary, I did it because I liked it. I did it for me, and my kids helped. This is new, like maybe somehow my house had been a mess out of control, because I could, as an adult, have my house any way I wanted. I have recently decided to have it be a little cleaner just because I could. I think it is just because I am starting to feel better, because I am starting to take care of myself without judgement. What a shocking revelation, who knew?

Now, what I need to do is get my house key back.

happy butterflies, and all that fluff

Positive Affirmations, here I come.

I don't know what to think about positive affirmations. They sound a little too hokey-Hallmark-O Network-feel good-blah blah for my tastes. I mean, it sure is nice to hear the you are pretty, or you are energized, or you are successful. But what if you don't feel that way, will hearing it from yourself really help? What if all that happens when you look in the mirror, say the positive words, and smile, is that the person looks back and say "liar!"?

I know that sounded funny, and a little pathetic, but that is actually how I see it right now. Giving myself praise feels weird. More than weird, it feels wrong some how. I am not getting that kind of verbal loving praise from anyone else, and can't even remember a time when I did.

I can remember for a very long time being told exactly the opposite. I was not worthy of anything because I was nothing. I was too fat to be sexy, though there were no complaints about the amount of sex. I was too stupid to be able to do anything right, though there were no complaints about the bills being done on time. I was too ugly to be seen with, though there were serious complaints if I cut my hair in a style I liked, or wore make-up or jewelry, or clothes that fit. I did not know how to load the dish washer correctly, the kids were too whiny, and the car was never clean. I could not be kissed if I had not just brushed my teeth, though if I was put off by the smell of brandy, my refusal to do the same was punished with remarks about how much of a cold bitch I was.

I can say it loudly that I am proud that I have never cheated on any of my relationships. It was not for lack of desire or opportunity, it was just not who I am. I did tell my ex one time that I was attracted to someone at work who was paying a lot of attention to me. It was right after Haysten was born, and given all that happened during that pregnancy, and how I felt about my body, I was pretty shocked anyone noticed me at all. When I confessed this feeling, the words I got back were "Liar, no one will ever be attracted to you." Instead of doing what normal women would do, and smack the bastard upside the head for being, well, a bastard, I said to myself (in my messed up head, of course) "Wow, I really must be lying (read that as delusional) since no one who loves me would say something that mean and not have it be true." I changed work shifts and never talked to the other man again, just in case.

I am learning that there have been a bunch of times in my life, even recently, where I accepted that kind of put down with out any doubt whatsoever that the person saying it was completely right. When I was sure I wanted to be a lawyer and a writer, I was told that that was not a skill for a woman and I should be sure to get my typing skills and teaching knowledge in hand so I would have something to fall back on in case writing and law school didn't work out. I never bothered to apply to law school. I took six zillion English classes but ended up teach pre-school. I never bothered to submit my work. Why would I? I was not a writer, and definitely not one with any talent.

(Okay, I will post links to stories I did write that got published, but want you to know that it scares the hell out of me to both admit that I wrote something, and that it was good enough to get printed).

So back to positive affirmations. Today I will look in the mirror and say out loud "You are an honest and trustworthy person". I will say it again tomorrow. Maybe if I say it everyday for the next few decades I might be able to move on to some other saying. I am voting for beautiful and talented next.




Here are the links BTW: (scroll down and find my name, then come back and read them all, they are good)

Three in this posting:
http://www.montereycountyweekly.com/news/2009/dec/23/the-short-of-it/


One here:
http://www.montereycountyweekly.com/news/2006/jan/05/fast-reads/

I WON in 1999, but they have taken down the link. I will find it and scan it.

27 words

I got the results back from the scantron test my counselor gave me a couple weeks ago. I have been avoiding writing about it. It has just been spinning in my brain, keeping all the other stuff from flowing out. I wanted to write about the end of baseball season. I wanted to write about train trips. I wanted to write about phone messages. I wanted to avoid the obvious, that I could not write about anything else until the feelings about the scantron test were out. Damn.

On a 8.5 x 11 piece of paper there is a graph. It is really more of a line, with dots, on a a scale, with little letters by it representing things. Things like Self Esteem and Anger. There is a truthfulness scale, a depression scale, and a masculine/feminine scale. It has a way of detecting if you are being too fakey-good, or too fakey-bad.

I told the truth, did not exaggerate my goodness, took responsibility for my badness, and answered appropriately for my gender identity. I am not a hypochondriac, a loner, or in any kind of denial. It told me I am angry and depressed, have low self esteem, and tend to need validation from others. It says I have a tendency towards substance abuse (including food) and might be suicidal. Except for the suicidal part (I am not so don't worry), tell me something I didn't know. Most of it fell in the "yeah, duh" category.

The depression diagnosis did not surprise me. It is, in fact, the reason I started counseling to begin with. I knew it. I had gained weight (not a good thing in the best of circumstances). Food tasted bland. My favorite movie irritated me. That was early January, and I had no energy, seasonal blues that meant my Christmas tree was still up, but I hadn't finished decorating it yet. My favorite person had moved away, and I didn't like even the smell of coffee anymore (and I love coffee). I wasn't talking to my best friend, for whatever circumstances were causing the courses of our respective lives to never coincide.

I had also just contacted my attorney about wanting to clarify an agreement regarding custody and visitation. All in all, things were going smoothly. We had survived the Winter school break with no major issues, my children's father picking the kids up for visitation at the appointed/ordered times and places, and not whining too much.

So the only thing I wanted was to have my kids on their brother Seth's birthday every year, as if it was a Holiday (and honestly, this did not effect the schedule AT ALL until 2015). I thought it was no big deal since it was in the original negotiations and co-parenting discussions, and had inadvertently been left off the final orders. This is how my attorney had phrased it to his attorney "Lastly, and this is something you and I touched on very briefly long ago, Elise wishes to have the children with her each year on the birthday of the parties' other son, Seth, who passed away. His birthday was Feb 8."

What I got back in an email was this: "RE: our first "child" Seth. He was stillborn before even being a viable person. This was before Mariah and Haysten were born. I don't agree with her request."

Those 27 words wrecked me. Seth and Mariah and Haysten's father was the only other person in the world who knew Seth lived. And in 27 words he dismissed him. He was a so-called "child" only in my eyes. In my eyes the three of them are a package, the three children I carried, the three children I gave birth to, the three children I love with every fiber of my being. Their father, it seems, only had two children.

So what does this have to do with my scantron? Well, I am pissed and sad. DUH! And 27 words sent a whole flood of other things into my reality. My own childhood. The balance between letting go of hurtful things and still allowing myself to retain the good things. The acceptance that the man I loved and created children with was abusive and cruel, and still is. 27 words that cost him nothing, and has been a catalyst for coming to terms with my entire life.

I am actually a bit surprised that I wasn't worse off. Maybe I can write about something else now. Not like I actually wrote about the scantron test anyway.

Dr Rick

Annual exams are a time that I look forward to for one reason, and one reason only. Let's call him Dr Rick.

I was 24. I was using condoms as my primary birth control method, but needed something better in addition. I was with a boyfriend who I affectionately call my "drama" relationship. We fought, loudly, in parking lots and bars. We threw things at each other, often clothes, out windows, since we lived together (unbeknown to my parents) for much of that time. We danced all night to very loud music, and experimented in the sexual underground of mid-town Sacramento and down-town San Francisco. We were always safe, in that way you had to be in the late 80's AIDS scare, and no actual infidelity occurred, but we were definitely a little further on the edge than I am comfortable admitting. I had met him while drinking at a club just blocks from my midtown apartment, taken him home on the first night, and spent the next couple of years just feeling all the energy that comes with youth and large amounts of sex.

But I digress, this is not a story about that boy.

I had come home to Monterey for a week (a break from the above mentioned boyfriend) and called the first ob/gyn in the phone book my finger came to. His office scheduled me for an appointment that same day. I walk in, scared a bit, but instantly intrigued. I was charmed by the whitewashed carved wood seats and mauve walls. I loved that my pen was a flower, and that there was soft music in the background. I was comforted by the lack of reception area marketing clutter, but instead had several current magazines, a couple romance novels, and a coffee pot with china cups sitting next to it. A little sign in pretty calligraphy said "Help yourself, but it is decaf " and there was a smiley face with little hearts right next to it. The whole place smelled a little like a lavender sachet. Basically, the exact opposite of the life I was leading.

I undressed, put on a pink paper gown, and prepared to have my annual exam by some older, doctory-looking guy, and his sweet little nurse. I had planned to not tell him a word about my sexual history, just that I would need birth control for my committed relationship. I had planned to be shy and demure, and quiet. I had planned to get it done, and get out.

What I got was Dr Rick. He was 34. He had delivered something like 4 babies all by himself at that point, and was still getting established. I think I was actual patient number 37 or something ridiculous. He had been doing this for all of about 5 minutes. His wife of 2 years had just given birth to a daughter (his first) three weeks before. He had not done a c-section yet in his private practice. He ran marathons and planned to do a triathlon in the summer. He had little tiny baby feet on his white lab coat. He had pretty eyes. I was in love.

I spent more that 30 minutes with him talking about sex and choices, babies and safety, and about relationships and love. I learned that he liked angel hair pasta. He learned that I never cheated on any of the boyfriends I had. I learned that he loved woman because his mother was a neurotic basket case. He learned that I loved men because I was terrified of missing something. He called me Elisabeth, I called him Rick. We became friends in that small space of time between 1:15 and 1:45.

In the last 21 years, Dr Rick has been a place of solace and a place of joy. He is the one that confirmed the poly cystic ovaries diagnosis when my first ex-husband and I were trying to get pregnant. I cried in his office and took the referral to the fertility specialist. He is the one that ordered all the STD tests when I learned that the same ex-husband had been cheating, obviously unprotected because the woman was pregnant, and now I could not trust if I was safe or not. I had $12,000 dollars worth of fertility medication on my kitchen counter next to my divorce papers. I cried in his office and took the name of someone who would help me sell the unneeded fertility drugs.

He is the one that confirmed my pregnancy with Seth. He is the one that told me he could not hear the baby's heartbeat on the ultra sound. He is the one that told me I needed to go to the hospital immediately, and he would meet me there. I cried in his office and let him dial the phone for me so I could tell my husband that our baby had died.

Since then, Dr Rick has delivered my other children. He cried with me in the operating room when my daughter came. He laughed with me when my son, seconds old, peed on his pediatrician. He held my children for pictures and showed me pictures of his girls along the way. He is the one I confessed to when I was so tired as a new mom that I understood why new mothers feel like putting their children in dumpsters. He helped me understand that I was normal, and how to take care of myself. He laughed and told me he had had almost the exact conversation with his wife, except hers was plastic bags instead of dumpsters. He said we are both good moms.

When my children's father and I split up, Dr Rick is one of the people I cried with. And he said just the right thing, saying men who are mean and cruel to their wives are sociopaths who don't deserve their families, and I would be better off without him. By now, he is 2 decades into a practice, delivered thousands of babies, and is actually the go-to surgeon for high-risk obstetric and gynecologic procedures on the Peninsula.

Yesterday, I had my annual exam. Dr. Rick joked with me about how the PAP police would be sent the next time I waited 18 months instead of 12 between appointments. We talked about sex and choices, babies and safety, relationships and love. When I said that my 45 year old body just was not gonna have any more babies, he said he thought that meant I was not insane. And then I cried in his office as the weight of all that hit me. No more pregnancies, no more children to birth, no more babies to hold, no more breastfeeding. He got it, and sat next to me, just quiet and still.

He still calls me Elisabeth. I still call him Rick. I will see him again next year.

oh, um... nothing

Let me tell you about my weekend.

On Friday night we did nothing. It was an awesome kind of nothing that involved PB & Js for dinner. We did not bring in the trashcans that were sitting by the curb. We did not pick up the legos that were all over Haysten's floor (though, we would come to regret that in the middle of the night). We did not do dishes, or laundry, or vacuum. We did not take baths. We wrapped ourselves up in underwear and socks (that we had been wearing all day, thanks) and blankets, and watched the last Harry Potter movie on DVD. We ate popsicles, and licked our hands. It was divine.

On Saturday we did nothing. It was an awesome kind of nothing that involved baseball and the National Anthem. We did not make our beds. The trashcans still sat by the curb. We only did laundry enough to have decently clean uniforms. We ate hot dogs from the snack bar and drank Gatorade. We danced in the aisle at the commissary, and cried with both excitement and stress. We sat in the cold and watched Mariah make the only run. Haysten did not see it as he was busy doing nothing in a tree near the edge of the park. When we had dinner, we had a contest to see who could peel their cutie tangerine in one piece. We watched a movie, again in our underwear and socks. We read a bedtime story.

On Sunday we did nothing. It was an awesome kind of nothing that involved sand toys and kite strings. We ate waffles with peanut butter and applesauce in bed. We only got dressed because we wanted to go play in a bounce house, and naked in a bounce house leaves red rub marks (yes, we know this from experience) that sting. We read the poems that were laminated with pink borders and pretty hand drawn leaves. We drank tea with milk and honey. We tried to visit my mom, but after waiting an hour and a half, we ate the KFC and drank the iced tea, and decided to go fly kites at the beach. We buried Haysten up to the neck in the sand, and got completely soaked by a rogue wave. We tied colored strings to our toes and wrote wishes in the sand with and old piece of driftwood. We drove home naked and cold, and laughed until we could not breath. We took warm baths and put on clean pajamas and ate ham sandwiches with tomatoes. We watched another movie, and read another book and cuddled up on the bed until we all drifted into a contented sleep.

This is exactly the kind of weekend I dream about. No schedule, but for a few minor details. No pressure, but for doing something you love for the enjoyment of it in front of friends. No demands, except for having to wind in 300 feet of line and get the sand banged out of the bottom of buckets. No arguing. No crankiness. No rules. No have-tos. No should-ofs.

In the history of Mother's days I will be asked about in the future, wondering what I got as a gift, or how I spent the day, I will wistfully say "nothing" and smile and be happy in the secret of the memory.

It's warm by the stove.

My mom is part of the generation of non-complainers. European war-children, having seen and heard more terrible things before the age of 10 than the rest of us might ever see. She has told me stories of how she, as the oldest of 7 living children, was basically in charge. She cooked. She cleaned. She stole coal off the back of the train while her younger siblings ran behind the railcar and gathered it up in messenger bags and aprons. She read to her charges, changed their diapers, and still fulfilled her duty by belonged to the Hitler Youth, all as was required. There was no complaining. Complaining meant death. Simple.

She grew up the daughter of an Austrian father and a Hungarian mother in Vienna. Hungary had already allied itself with the Axis powers and relied heavily on Italy for it's commerce. Austria was not supposed to be allowed to join forces with Germany because of treaties during WWI, but with Italy and Germany in alliance under Hitler and Mussolini, this was and easy dilemma for Germany. This was 1938. My mom was 5. My mom's status quo was one of soldiers and rallies, silence and food rationing, school and Nazi youth programs. No one loved Hitler, but no one had any power to stop him.

When the end of WWII came, and Vienna was liberated, it was a city divided, literally into 4 areas, by the winners. Russia, the US, and the Brits all took a chunk of the city, and gave a piece to France to show some good will, and have a continental Europe foot hold (and expense sharer). This was in the name of "rebuilding" and "de-nazifying". According to my mother this really meant a bunch of uneducated police "peace-keepers" could do anything they damn-well wanted to you or your house. I heard the stories of the hidden jewelry, and the stolen alcohol, and the uniformed men sleeping in the living room and bedrooms while my mother and her siblings squished into the kitchen.

Maybe I should have recognized in that story when my mom said "at least the kitchen had the stove for heat" that she had no choice but to suffer in silence. What else could she do? Had she said something, she could have been beaten, or killed, and the people left behind would have been punished as severely. For my mother, it was how you lived, you didn't know anything else.

I think of Maya Angelou though as I say that. Her quote “You did then what you knew how to do, And when you knew better, You did better.” doesn't seem to apply to my mom. Somehow in the midst of all those trials, and then having survived, my mother didn't leave. Yes, she married and moved to the US, and bought a house, and had a job, but she never thought about what she could have, just what she didn't have. She forgot that her children were going to have it better than her, and we lived in a state of deprivation. Deprivation of some things, like fast food and sleepovers and store bought birthday cakes. Trivial stuff.

But the big deprivation, the big starvation, was that there was not any affection in the things we did have. Yes, I played baseball and had a bicycle. Yes, I had a television and new shoes every year before school started. Yes, we went fishing and I got all my shots. What I didn't get was the right to cry, or yell, or feel sad, or love, or anger. After all, what did I ever have to feel hurt about compared to being beat and silenced by the Russian Army? It was that simple. I did not need anything more than what I had because she had already survived so much more. I knew it from very very young, and never could I ever ask for anything, because asking for anything that wasn't already given was selfish and unnecessary.

There is so much more, but the timing seems harsh, with Mother's Day on Sunday. Maybe it is a present I can give both of us, her and I. Maybe I can work my way though more of this. Tell her story for her, let her grieve for the childhood she didn't have. Maybe I can grieve for the childhood I didn't have, letting her know in a way that is not one more slap to her face, that she forgot to be happy and she passed that on. Maybe I can learn to be happy myself, and not pass any of this legacy on to my children. Maybe this 80 year long journey gets a little hiatus, a little oasis for the weekend. Maybe I will go sit by the stove where it is warm, or maybe I won't, and I will go sit in the sun instead.

Refrigerator magnets

A new picture showed up on my refrigerator this morning. It was a drawing of a girl, in a two-piece swim suit, floating above the water, graceful with her legs and hands crossed, and a sword through her head with blood dripping in the water.

A sword. Blood. Big smile. Happy fish in the water under her feet. I knew it was my daughter's, I know her style. It is beautiful, colorful, proportionally correct, hanging at eye level where she knew there was not a chance I would miss it. I have not said a word. Not yet.

I have been contemplating what to say. Is this a cry for help? Is this a deep seeded need to act out her frustrations on paper? Is she just copying her brother's style, who often adds warriors fallen in battle to his maps and architectural sketches? Is she just trying her hand at something new?

It is a good deal different than how I interacted with my mom, that is for sure. I hid my drawings and writings from her after the first time. My mother likes happy stories where everything falls into place. Predictable plot lines, familiar places, perfect people. If it has a religious slant and a morality lesson built in, so much the better. Poetry? Not a chance. Dark and sinister, where the bad guys might win, even worse. Moody, or sexy, or outspoken, and it was condemned.

There was a bible in her house, and some Grollier yearbooks. There where Caldacott Medal and Newberry Award winning children's books, signed by the author, but only the ones that would fit on the short shelves. Yep, that was the basic criteria; pretty, pleasant, and no more than 8 inches tall. Sadly, I don't remember my mom ever reading to us past about early pre-school. I could read before kindergarten, and books were my world along with little drawings, so I guess she thought I was good to go. I never hung a picture on her fridge. I never hung one on my bedroom wall for that matter.

So what do I say to my daughter? I don't want her to ever shut down and hide her drawings and writings away like I did. I don't want her to think there isn't any avenue she can't explore, even get help exploring. I want her to know that I love her desire to express herself even if the images are hard to see, or comprehend, coming from her especially. This is new, and I wonder if I am ready to dive in. Also want to make sure I am not missing something if what I say is "Wow, that fish is gonna have a stomach ache if he drinks all that blood." or "Vampire fish should have longer fangs." or "Do you really think the belly button would be that high above the bikini bottom?". I just don't know. That's what has me worried. It is why I did not say anything yet.

I know my girl already writes in her little diary. She shows me sometimes, and we talk about the who? or the what? it says. She asks for colored pens, and I go get them from my art box. Sometimes, she hides the notebook under the covers if I walk by. I respect that. I'm good with that.

I think I might leave the picture on the fridge even after I say something. It is actually kinda good. It looks great with the picture of a drowning cyclops my son drew last week, and the magnet made of gingerbread, and the baseball order forms that never made it to the team mom. Maybe this is just life, and expression, and normal for our new family world. Maybe there is nothing to say.

Softer than a whisper...

This morning, while driving my kids to the youth center they go to before school, my daughter hands me a stack of CDs she pulled out of the cabinet. She tells me that she wants to start listening to music in the car again. It had not even occurred to me that we weren't listening to music. Where had I been? Didn't I even notice how silent the car was most mornings? If you had asked me, I would have thought we were talking the entire time, but I guess not enough for my daughter.

I don't think she actually looked at the CDs. They are definitely not anything she would have been listening to, and nothing you would hear on the local pop radio station. Yet here it was, 4 CDs of my music, waiting to be slid into a CD player in my car, and anything I was listening to would be fine by her, I was assured.

So I open the first jewel case, and pop it in, not even looking at the cover, and turn it up. I can go with the flow, loud music at 7 am is just what I was craving (not!). It turned out to be an old country CD. Hal Ketchum, 1992.

Now, the music is some of my favorite. Ask anyone about my taste in "celebrity" men, and it is either Pierce Brosnan or Hal Ketcham that I would run away with if he came begging at my door. I was not prepared for the impact this particular CD would have on me, at least not today I wasn't. It was the "Sure Love" album, given to me as part of a wedding gift from my first ex-husband. I had popped the CD in, hit shuffle, and listened as this sweet warbly ballad called "Softer than a Whisper" came out. I didn't stand a chance. The universe is out to get me. My daughter is a secret collaborator.

Before I could have hit next, or pulled over and throw the CD out the window, I was sobbing. Big fat tears pouring out of my eyes and leaving dark blood colored spots on my red shirt. I was happy the music was loud, and that right then, my children did not notice their mom blubbering. I could not have explained it to them, how a memory from 17 years ago just hit me up-side the head and knocked me down.

In the truest sense of the word, I am "over" my first ex-husband. We were married for 7 years, and the breakup was quick, involving infidelity, mental illness, and the impending birth of a child who was not mine. It had shocked me to find that I would not be with him forever, but having lived the last 12 years, and having talked with him about the choices and the pain it caused several times in the last decade, I know that we made the right decision. If we had not split, right at that time, we would have ended up hating each other, instead of being okay with each other, like we are now. I don't miss him.

So I tried to figure out why the song made me cry instead of smile today. I have heard it enough times, even in more recent years, that it was not a shocking event. I have played the CD all the way through several times, and even have it on my MP3 player. I know I have heard it on the radio, and even in a movie. So it wasn't the song, per se, and truth, it wasn't my ex-husband either.

What was it? It was hope, and desire, and possibilities. It was the future and the past and the longing. It was that things change and life moves on and you survive and thrive and fail. All of that, all at once, in one fell shot, taking no prisoners, and unwritten permission to feel it all right then and there.

I like that. No prisoners. Crying would be okay. Songs could devastate me for three and a half minutes, and I would make it out the other side. I was feeling something for myself, in my heart, and I could hold it and be in it, and allow it, without losing anything in the process, or being trapped by it in a personal sentencing to life devoid of emotion.

I will make it a point to listen to the song again on my drive home. Conjure for myself the happy image that love was there. I will wrap myself up in the memory and let it make me warm. It is just a part of allowing myself to get to keep the good stuff, own it, enjoy it, even when bad stuff happened after. That way, maybe I will remember that in the middle of feeling all the bad stuff, like right now, there will be good stuff left. I will accept love when it comes, and do my best to recognize it. This time, love found me in an old CD, and I am grateful for the memory.

And just for my own heart, here are the lyrics:


It was softer than a whisper
Quiet as the moon
But I could hear it loud as laughter
Across a crowded room
It was gentle as a baby's hand
But it held me like a chain
It was softer than a whisper
When love called out my name

Time's up. Pencils down.

I have been given two separate assignments by my counselor this week.

The first, though only marginally scary, is done. It involved a number 2 pencil, a scantron, and a test book. It took two hours. It was not difficult, as long as I just answered the question and did not spend too much time inside my head. I mean, how hard is it to answer yes or no to questions like "You would like to be a florist." and "You have headaches often."? They were redundant, sometimes seemingly superficial, and will, in a week's time, tell me just how fucked in the head I am. I don't really mind.

The second is the one that is killing me. I almost decided I was going to fire my counselor. I almost decided I was going to burn down his office building for good measure. I almost decided to stop writing again. Yep, two weeks into my new (re) found online journalling, and I was calling it quits. How dare he give me a writing assignment. How dare he give me a writing assignment that would involve my feelings. How dare he make me want to hide just because I let him inside my head.

The assignment was to write down all the reasons I could think of for why I feel invisible, and have since I was a kid. It was to be first a "head" exercise; just a list of possible reasons why my mother ignored me or kept me at a distance. On the list would be my father's reason for being angry if I cried. I would write down why my brother could get Cs and I needed to get As for the exact same type of notice.

I was then supposed to write down, once again in list form, the other people who made judgments against me that do not seem fair on the surface, and what their reasons might be. I was to list things like why my first ex husband walked off 13 different jobs in 7 years and we never had any money . I would include that my children's father had an affair with my sister when I was pregnant with my son, and how he told me it was my fault because I was too fat. I would list the story about a boyfriend who left in the middle of the night because the police showed up to arrest his daughter's mother. And the girlfriend who broke up with me because she could not biologically father my children.

Writing all that down was the easy part. I did it, just like I was supposed to. It is the part in my head, the part that starts to sound like a laundry list. It is a bibliography of stories that make up the timeline that got me from there to here. I didn't forget any of it. I could probably tell you what I was wearing.

Part two caused me to shake. Part two made me write how each of those events made me feel. Really? Fuck that. I don't want to fucking tell my god-damned counselor how the fuck I feel. I didn't want to remember feeling isolated and scared when I was sent off to softball practice alone. I didn't want to remember feeling jealous and angry when my brother got a dollar per C and I had to explain the A- in handwriting before my mom would sign the report card. I did not want to remember feeling worthless and ugly and abandoned when my husband wrote love letters to other women, often in front of me. I didn't want to remember feeling lonely and overwhelmed with grief when my milk came in after my son died, and being told at least he didn't suffer. Fuck all of that, I was a mess.

So I did not burn down my counselor's office. I wrote with a pen and paper a list, with words and pictures and colored pens. I used a bunch of tissues and toilet paper, and I slept. I hate that I cried to the point of sobbing and having a runny nose and red splotches on my face and neck. I hate that I almost stopped writing at all, because then I would go all invisible again. I hate that my life is still feeling like a tailspin and I have not mastered it yet. I hate that in that laundry list, there are sure to be things I have not even begun to uncover because I just haven't faced them yet. Damn, I feel more assignments in my future.

I wonder if I should be worried about the scantron test. I guess I would be if I had even the slightest bit of energy left. Maybe that was why I got the two assignments at once. Maybe my counselor knew I would have to let one go.