In the reality of the world

I am about to have something new in my life.

No, not anything daring or drastic, like regular sex or a pet.  I am about to have Sundays, twice a month, to myself.  My children are about to start having overnights with their dad, with him dropping them off at school on Monday mornings.

In the reality of the world, this does not change much.  When I picked them up at 7pm on Sunday nights, we drove home, I fed them something (they were always hungry, but that is a different issue), we would read and go over some homework, and before I knew it, we were brushing teeth and it was bedtime.  Nice, quiet little Sunday ritual that lasted about an hour, including drive time.

I have to admit, I really liked this bit of time with my kids. But again, in the reality of the world, it was only an hour, and the Sunday overnights will only happen 13 times in the next year, once you factor in all the vacations and holidays.  13. Only 13.  Less than two weeks.  Doesn’t seem like much.

It had me devastated last week, for a few hours that I did not hide from my children.  Not because I can’t do math.  I had already figured out the 13 day thing, so that was not the issue.  What had me freaked was that my kids had asked it not to happen, had appropriately told that to two different counselors and directly to their father, and none of them, not one, listened one little bit.  I could do nothing about it, because no matter how much I want to be able to write the story of the relationship my kids get to endure enjoy, I don’t get to.

So no matter how this turns out, I get no say, and the loss of control has me freaked out.  It is the codependent in me, I know, but freaking out just the same.

In the midst of all this, my ten year old had a total meltdown of his own. One that almost got him kicked out of a planned event at his care center.  While playing some kind of basketball related game, something happened that seemed unfair, and my son’s reaction was to block the kid and then try to trip him.  If that wasn’t enough, when the adult leader caught him, the other kid shut up, and my son got verbally mean to the leader, and more than a little mouthy.

Sigh.

It took two days for he and I to be able to talk before he could tell me the whole story without one of us being defensive and more than a little pissed.  When we worked it all out, he knew that reacting the way he did was not a smart idea, but wanted to know why some people can do things and get away with them, and when he does them, he is punished.  And more, why no one bothered to listen to him in the process to find the truth out before the punishment was handed down.

This is big, and without even having to have a light bulb moment, he knew that he was angry because adults around him weren’t listening to him, and that even when he told the truth, nothing really mattered because he was being forced to comply.  He flat-out said he was sure that talking to adults was a waste of time because his dad and counselors didn’t listen, and that the one adult who was listening (me) was unable to make anything happen.

Ouch.

He was right.

So instead, I had to admit to him that I am scared and angry about all of it, too, and that I feel just as helpless.  And together (with the help of his 12-year old sister), we came up with what we can do to make US better even if we have to suck it up for now that other people get to make out choices and we have to comply.

I said I was going to write on Sundays.

I said I was going to miss them like crazy and write something I could share with them on Monday nights. 

I said I was going to come up with a plan to spend the extra money I was not going to be using on gas to come pick them up and hour each way.  Did they want to help? I was still listening, even if no one else was.  What were they going to do?

This will be new.

I will miss the drive, to tell the truth.  I will miss my kids terribly.  I will miss the Sunday night ritual and the bonding.  I am putting my faith in the Universe that we all will survive it, and that, in the reality of the world, it is only 13 days.

I can only hope that while I am in my reality, theirs will be okay, too.  Maybe I will write about that on my first Sunday out.

Chasing snakes.

I flat out lied to my ex today.

I know. I have been complaining about him forever. Trying to move past all the dislike and creepiness I feel in his presence. Put my best foot forward and remember I love my children. But today, that high road wasn’t anywhere with in my reach. No map to get there. No GPS to even locate it.

So, I lied.

The lie might seem small, in the reality of the world. No one will die. No one will be disappointed or have their life ruined by a terrible secret. It is completely on me. Complete avoidance because I can’t believe him capable of any request being anything but manipulation.

The lie? That I was already in town, did not want my children brought to my house by a third party because I was already on my way, and that no, I did not want to have dinner with him (and presumably his wife, and his mother since they will be there) because I already had plans, thanks anyway.

The truth? I didn’t want to be in his presence for any amount of time that would require more conversation than “Where are the backpacks?” and “Baseball is at 2pm.” I didn’t want it with him. I didn’t want it from his mother. I definitely didn’t want it from his wife. I was completely okay with it meaning I did not have an extra hour with my kids if it meant I did not have to endure that. I am just not that strong.

For the record, today, in my past life, would have been Corned Beef and Cabbage Dinner Day. I don’t particularly like corned beef and cabbage. Actually, unless the corned beef is cold served on rye with horseradish, I don’t like it at all. Boiled potatoes and soggy cabbage rate even lower.

But each year, for the 11 years of the days before St Patrick’s Day that my ex and I were together, this day was special. It was the day he cooked. It was the day the pot boiled all day. It was the day family and friends came over and ate the crap boiled tradition with us. It was as day he stayed sober until right before everyone arrived, and then got drunk fast, on Irish-type coffee in mock ethnic participation of some sort. There is not a drop of Irish in either one of us, so it is actually pretty funny.

I know from his first ex wife that the boiled dinner at this time of year was a tradition for them, too. I don’t know if their tradition turned into the same melancholy drunkfest mine always did with him after everyone went home, but for me, it was just one more on the list on the many evenings spent like that.

Until the invitation arrived, I hadn’t remembered it at all. I have not had that dinner in four years, and I don’t remember ever missing it. So as the invite via text message dinged my phone, the entire history of the ritual came flooding back. It hit me in the back of the head like a two-by-four. Why would he invite me? What was the game? Was there even a chance this invite was legit, and not some way to throw me? Could he not have remembered any of the terrible stuff? And just be having crap boiled dinner? And thought, since I was picking up the kids anyway, to throw me an invite to be polite?

So I lied.

I don’t have any desire to be in the middle of my old world. I left it. I don’t want to go back. I don’t like boiled cabbage and potatoes, and I hated each and every one of those dinners and did them over and over again anyway. I think I was insane. I am not insane anymore. I don’t ever want to be again.

So this lie was for me. So that I could write this all down in the time I could have been eating corned beef. This lie, to do something for myself, and not give any other explanation, is so much better than the lie I told myself for so long that everything was fine in that smelly, boiling pot I called home. I am good with it, because maybe it wasn’t a lie after all. I mean, I did have plans after all. I just didn’t know it when I said no.

A single tight screw.

Every year since the New Year’s Day I was 17, I have touched my feet to the sand of a beach. I landed at various beaches on the California coast, no matter the weather, no matter the company. It is a required ritual.

There are rules for this beach excursion.

1) I MUST touch the water. It can be with my hand. It should be with my toes. One year, as I fell while running toward the surf, it was with my face. This was not pretty, and I don’t recommend it, but it counted, and as I sulked back to my car for a towel that year, I knew I would not have to go near the surf again right away, rule one accomplished.

2) I MUST make a wish. This is not a New Year’s Day rule; this is a beach rule, but since I am at the beach, I have to do it today, too. I will write my wish in the sand with my finger, or an old piece of driftwood, or a baseball bat I happen to be carrying (story for another time), close enough to the surf that within a few waves, the written message will be washed out with the tide. I will watch until this happens, so I practice patience. I never waste my wish on something I can’t have, like immediate world peace, or a million dollars from the sky. Those will be flat-out ignored by the universe, and since I only get one wish per beach visit with no take-backs, I should put them to good use.

I do wish for something outside of myself that I need a little help with. The Universe listens to those. A little help with my monthly expenses (in whatever form that it comes in), a man who is nice to me (also, in whatever form it comes in), satisfaction at work (whatever form, can you see the theme?) are all good things to ask for. Peace in my life, happiness for my kids, a bikini that makes my tits and ass look good, are all good choices. As an aside, since I get one of these wishes EVERY time I go to the beach, I try to make a habit of it. Go on my way home from work every Thursday, or on the full moon, or on the slack tide. Just do it. And I don’t get to think that driving to the beach and sitting in my car counts. I mean, watching the sunset is nice and all, but I need to make a wish in the sand. And I don’t go all Scrooge and not walk the extra 25 feet because I am lazy.

3) On New Year’s Day I MUST bring something along with me that I need to part with, or something that symbolizes something I need to part with. I will be throwing it into the water, and not getting it back, so I need to be realistic. This can be something easy to get rid of, like a love letter from a guy who broke my heart in April but I haven’t been able to burn, ripped into tiny pieces. Or, it can be something difficult to get rid of, like a wedding cake topper (also a story for another time). If symbolically I just need to transfer my thoughts to a piece of paper (or a rock) so I can throw it in and have it actually go away with the surf (while not having people look at me like I am crazy to throw “X” in) (like a wedding cake top), without some other unfortunate soul finding it, that works, too. I would NOT throw in my ex’s grandmother’s engagement ring. I would sell that shit. But a picture of the ring, taken as I box it up to send to the buyer, is perfect.

I think creatively here. I have thrown in a penny from a particular year to represent getting rid of financial dependence. I have thrown in a piece of tissue paper that represented frailty (Yeah, dumping that frail shit is fine!). One year, I threw in a bisque ceramic lovebirds-sitting-on-a-heart figurine that looked remarkable like something you would see at a wedding. (Cliff over China Cove. It arced perfectly. It sorta bounced on the rocks twice before shattering and hitting the crashing surf. The sound it made was musical, boing, boing, ching-crash, sploosh. It was awesome!) I don’t think I need to tell you what that represented.

This year I threw in a sheet metal screw that had been sticking out of my dining room ceiling since I purchased the house three years ago. I am thinking it represented procrastination and moving towards having my house (and my life) in a not-so-fixer-up state.

4) I MUST go. No excuses. Raining? Bring an umbrella or a trash bag. (I keep this in my car, just in case) Windy? I have seen Wizard of Oz. And it will NEVER get that bad in California. And I am not afraid of houses or red shoes. Boyfriend wants to watch football? Perfect, I am probably throwing in one of his torn t-shirts or crap DVDs anyway. Living a little ways from the beach? I have 24 hours here, start driving. I went to the beach one year when they actually had a high-surf advisory and the beach was “closed”, having driven three hours from Sacramento. So, um, yeah, whatever. Go. If I can take my 13-day old newborn to the beach in a Moby, I figure any other time should be cake.


I have taken my kids with me since they were born. They have touched the sand and, since now old enough to understand their eclectic mom’s ritual, have also thrown in items and made wishes. My son, remembering being sick on candy right before Christmas, threw in peppermint TicTacs, hoping for no illness this year. My daughter, ever the indecisive, could not pick something and finally settled for a rock, and made a wish to be better at making decisions.

I like that they get this ritual, and have decided to join me, because this year I actually gave them the opt-out option. I also like that I have a ritual at all that I have never skipped as an adult, because sometimes, in my head, it made all the difference in setting my tone for the year.

Remember the screw and the procrastination wish? That I posted this in one day might mean it is working already.