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.