A stronger place

A week from today, my sister comes to California. 

I will see her.  I don’t yet know how I will react.

The story, for those that don’t already read my blog and have heard about it is that I have three sisters, and three brothers.  As an adopted child, I never even knew about five of these siblings until I was in my late 20’s, just the one I consider my actual brother, raised in the same house, also an adoption.

The ones I was not raised with live in Germany.  I don’t know them, not really. I met one of my sisters, the same one that is coming next week, 11 years ago.

This is where my story gets to be rated as drama.

Back 11 years ago, when my sister decided to visit from Germany, I had only been talking to *that* family for about 3 years.  This had been through letters and emails.  We had talked on internet chat, and once, a phone call.  We had exchanged pictures and polite Christmas cards. The sister that was the most in contact (and eventually the one that came to visit) was naturally the one that has the best English skills, and the best access to computers.  It was exciting to talk to her, learn about the way she and my other siblings grew up, and had I not been adopted, would have been a part of.  The idea of meeting, in person, was the most perfect thing ever.

She came to visit when I was still married.  I also happened to be 7 months pregnant with my youngest child.  I was in my deliciously and delusionally happy phase of my relationship, with a toddler who made me smile every second of the day, and having an easy pregnancy even with my own deep-seated fears about death of a baby, and the unreconciled depression I had not yet dealt with from the stillbirth of my first son 3 years earlier.  I was happy to be entering this new relationship with a sibling, and introducing her to my family and friends, not to mention my husband and daughter,  and it was fitting in perfect with the way I thought I wanted my life.  It seemed like my trust and fear issues were being resolved in one planned 16 day vacation.  I was in heaven.

The first two weeks were delicious.  My husband and I had to work during the day, each for a few hours, me at my interpreting job, him at his office supply job, and my daughter went to her grandparents, while my sister borrowed my car and did all her exploring.  In the evening we went to dinner, or cooked, or went to friends, just like we did any other time, and she just came along.  We played with clothes and make-up and giggled.  We dressed my daughter (then only 18 months old) in funny outfits and went for walks. 

About 5 days in, she told me about her day at the beach, and about a man she met there, and how she was going back the next day to see him, and maybe they would have lunch.  I listened intently and a bit jealously because he seemed divine, and a summer fling would have been just my speed when I had been single.  I did not begrudge her anything because she had already told me about the very recent and tragically painful end (like 6 weeks before her vacation) of her 7 year long marriage to her first love.

So maybe you all saw this coming, but it hit me like a ton of bricks.

The man she met “at the beach” was my husband.  The time they spent together was time he secretly took off of work.  It was not until months and months later, after she had left, we had started counseling, and she met someone else did I really even begin to understand the depth of the betrayal.  He told me about it on the drive home from the airport when we dropped her off, and he could not stop crying.  He told me about it again when I found the emails he sent asking her to come back.  He told me again when he said it was all my fault for being so stupid fat and ugly, and her being so beautiful and smart and perfect, the he could not control himself.  He told me again when the $347 dollar phone bill arrived and I refused to pay it. I gave him a kind of ultimatum that said if she came back, I would leave, and take my beautiful daughter, and my pregnant-fat-ass-soon-to-be-son away, and that she could have him, but that no, I had zero interest in seeing either one of them again if that was their choice.  I did all this of course while begging him to pick me, telling him I would do better to make him happy, get thinner, have more sex, love him.

 They carried on via email and chat for several months after she left.  Then she met someone, and wanted it all to stop, and asked me to tell him to leave her alone.   I ignored the request, and let her deal with it on her own because by then I had a newborn and a serious depression taking all my time. I don’t think I ever really forgave my husband, even with the hours of counseling, and weekends away trying to be together.  I hid a lot of it, maybe for survival, because I never stopped being blamed for his infidelity.

She and I have never talked about it since then, not really.  She went on to marry the guy who she met after leaving, and having a daughter herself, and having that same husband cheat on her and leave her.  She has remarried again, her third, and together they are the ones coming to the area for their vacation.

My marriage ended five years ago.  I still have trust issues as some of the men I have dated will attest to. I am fine with that because sometimes it has helped me see the red flags I would have never noticed in my pre-affair days.  I am stronger because of it in some ways.

What I do next I am not sure.  I don’t even know what she and I will talk about, or even how much time we will spend together.  She contacted me, and asked to see me, which she didn’t have to do.  California is a big state and she could have avoided me without my effort, so I am trying to give her the benefit of the doubt that she is making some kind of amends.  I have yet to figure out what I want to say, because maybe it is too late.

My daughter, now 12, and my son, now 10, get to meet their cousin, now 9, and if nothing else, that is a good thing.  They just got swept in the wake and have no responsibility here except to themselves.  I am good with that, and will not deny them the chance to have actual family in their lives.  Me?  Oh, I think I will play it by ear and see if I am still hurting and afraid, or if I really am as strong as I believe I am.  Strong enough to get back a piece of a connection I was so happy about before.  Or maybe strong enough not to even need it.

 

 

Spilled Perfume

This took me three days to write, so forgive me that it is long, and kinda all over the map.  Maybe you will understand.

I woke up on Sunday morning desperately lonely.  Please don’t think this blog is now about some poor-girl pity party.  It isn’t.  Read on.

On Saturday, after having an experience that is all too few in my recent years (my last blog, if you want to know what happened), I went off and did some other wonderful things, all by myself. I shopped for clothes (something I rarely do).  I went for a drive up the coast.  I took out my drawing materials and played with watercolor pencils I hadn’t gotten around to trying yet, though I purchased them over a year ago.  I rode my bike. I went to the movies.  I read.  All completely delightful, and totally needed, and refreshing in a personal kind of way that we all need once in a while.  Especially in the happiness I had been feeling since early that morning, and the adventure I had opened myself up to. I could even use the word divine.

So Sunday, when I woke up, what I most wanted to do was share that.  And by share (I confirmed with a friend via Facebook) was collaborate.  I wanted Sunday to not be about me, per se, but about the possibility for connection and trust.  About giving and getting, without having to walk around any issues, or hide any feelings, or pretend to be something I am not.  Or to ask, and for no other reason than convenience, have your really basic needs rejected.  I wanted someone else to totally get what I was saying, and “share” their perspective and help me move forward, as I was helping them.  Staying in the moment, because if I don’t have the time to do it right the first time, when will I ever have time to fix it.

It took me a long long time to get motivated.  I had woke up alone, in my house that was empty, without any clue who I could find that piece with. 

I was gratefully enough to find one friend that dialed back after I had called him.  I hadn’t left a message, because my need felt too immediate to wait through a voicemail.  I was lonely, and before I could move, I needed a human voice.

It shocked me that at first, I couldn’t speak.  The word “hello” came out more as a sob as I realized I hadn’t actually spoken to anyone, not one person, in over 24 hours.  All that time I spent in my own head, and doing ONLY things for me had left a void.  It had not made space for real connection.  Real communication.  Real people. Voices and words, and not typing on a screen, or a post to the ether of a social media site.  I had missed that PEOPLE in my life are not just a function, but a necessity.

After he and I hung up, I made a plan for the day.  A little experiment based on things that I was unsure about from the previous 48 hours or so.  Social connection or solitude?  Friendships based in mutual dynamics leading to deep understand, or head-clearing aloneness?  Me? Them? Us?  How did it fit, what did I want, where are my strengths, and what is missing?  And when I have known what is missing, did I ask for it?  And more importantly, did I ask the right person?

As part of my now motivated quest, I made some rules for myself to follow for the rest of Sunday.

First, I had to try to see if what one person I know suggested would help.  (Trusting the advice of others is part of the whole building real connection thing I am going for here.) He said what works for him is going to the beach, and “seeing” the white noise.  My thought was that every time I have tried one of those “white noise” machines I have only heard nails on a chalkboard.  It annoyed me, like mosquitoes in my ears, and the idea of having that be my visual scared me.  Would I get lost in the noise, or would it, like it does for him, help you think of nothing? A perfect little tool of not having to have the noise in your head at all.

So I went to the beach.  I tried to think of the waves washing over me, the light being just a warm spot, of the noise from the crash of the surf as the only thing I needed at the time.  A way to slow down.

I failed miserably, if the idea was to see and feel nothing.  The thoughts in my head are always there, always require my attention.  I noticed the way the sand felt under my feet, the way it shifted, the grains, the change in colors as each swell retreated and the water absorbed back into the shore.  I noticed the people, swimming, walking, playing.  I saw them getting wet, the legs on their pants changing from pale to dark.  I noticed how their shirts pushed against their bodies in ripples as the wind shifted.  I watched as the birds did the same, moving their bodies to give them the balance and grace to stay aloft.  I picked up sea glass, but left the shells.  I smelled the seaweed and the ash from the night before’s bonfires.  I heard the laughter. 

And each little piece, each little space of someone else’s experience was interwoven with mine.  I knew the sand, and could remember days at the beach.  Foggy ones. Bright ones.  Rainy ones.  Days filled with talk and play, and hand holding, and searching, and every other thing I could have possibly done at the beach was right there with me, right in that moment.  There was no white noise.  The space was full.

I did learn a few things while there, though. 1) I have a hole in the bottom of my (formerly) favorite sandals. 2) I can’t touch the fronts of my knees and the backs of my heels together at the same time (admit it, you just tried).  If you just said “yeah, um, duh”, then I have to confess that I have never tried this before, or probably never even thought about it before Sunday.  And 3) I don’t want to find the white noise.  I absolutely, without a doubt, want to think, feel, see, hear, remember and know EVERYTHING.  It is all going to be there anyway, so trying to push it away in hopes that I can find nothing is not even remotely appealing.

So this brings me to my second “rule”.  I had to talk to people.  There were no rules about what this talking would entail, just that it would happen.  I was going to start conversations with anyone and everyone I wanted to. 

One conversation was between me, the sales lady, and another customer in an art gallery, about these beautiful artisan made earrings, and the story of calla lilies that inspired them.  We talked and laughed, and shared stories about our own favorite pairs of earrings, and getting our ears pierced and our daughters.   The lady and I each ended up buying handmade earring the sales lady had behind the counter.  She apparently had been making these earrings for a long time, and was too shy to ask her boss to put them out for sale, so she just had them in a plastic bag near the cleaning supplies.  This could have been a really good sale ploy, but I doubted it.  The woman was shy, and not at all confident about just how much her artistry would be appreciated.  She did not have them priced, and I paid $10 for my pair of silver and amethyst dangles.  I wore them all day, smiling.

Another conversation was with a man buying an antique lamp for his wife for her birthday.  He knew what she wanted (apparently she had picked it out the weekend before, good man!) and he just wanted to know why women liked these things.  I thought the lamp was ugly, and told him so.  He laughed and wondered how long it would be before he could sell it at a garage sale.  He hoped she was not putting it in the bedroom because it was a serious mood killer.

I overheard as the owner of another shop I wandered into left a message on someone else’s voicemail.  He told the guy (I assumed it was a guy) on the other end that he understood about never being able to reach him because of his overwhelming social calendar, but did he realize that when he died, there would be no one at his funeral because just because you are always busy with people did not mean you actually had any friends (I have no way to describe just how much sarcasm and humor was in this message, except to use the word “dripping”.)   This cracked me up, made me sad, and was the most perfect opening for a conversation I have ever heard.  I asked the shop owner about his message, and why the recipient of the message did not have any friends.  We talked about how friends actually share (see, there was a theme here) and connect.  I agreed, and told him that I did not expect anyone, and especially not friends or partners, to have a clue what I need if I don’t bother to tell them.  They are not mind readers, divining my desires out of thin air. We did both think that if we asked someone directly for something we wanted or needed, and the answer was vague, or worse, complete rejection, maybe we ought to decide if their role in our lives is friendship, or just an event on a list.  Both would be okay, but confusing the two is what we both had a problem with.  In his case, the person he left the message for really was just a social engagement, but that he enjoyed the little bit of smugness that went with reminding the person of just how shallow they really were.   I told him that in my case, it seems I was trying to ask for what I wanted, and I had recently either been getting crickets or flat-out refused.  We both thought that maybe picking that kind of “friend”, one who wouldn’t or couldn’t connect in any real way, could move over into the “pink pages”  (so glad he knew the Chronicle reference) of our lives.

After that conversation, I had one of those light bulb moments as I figured out the lonely part of how I started my day.  I want, no, I CRAVE the genuine connection.  Without it, I am feeling lost.  I don’t want a full social calendar if the people in it are superficial.  Dancing is fun. But it is always more fun if you have someone (even just one person) who also thinks the band is not really that good but will dance anyway.  Parties are fun.  But it is always so much better when you find someone (even just one person) who will sit on a couch in the corner and tell you about that summer they spent on a crowded train on the way to Paris.  A concert is fun.  But it is always so much nicer when you have someone (even just one person) who understands why you can’t sit on the blue blanket, or why you need a band t-shirt in mint green.  It would always be because some how you had a connection.  One that kept both of us in the moment.

There is a line (from a country song, of course) about the difference between being lonely, and being lonely for way too long.  I am somewhere in between, but seeking the connection. It is missing, and I know it. 

So I am asking.

Boldly going

This morning, while thinking about the potentially stupid way I may have acted last night, I decided to do one more potentially stupid thing.

 

I read that sentence to my breakfast partner, and he says that stupid is not a good descriptor.  Reckless, and serendipitous (there is a wonderful word in Spanish that I can’t even begin to pronounce that this is the best translation for, I am told), but not stupid.

 

Okay, so after drinking more than I should have, and putting faith in someone I should not have, I get this gift. 

 

Guiermo sits next to me, reading over my shoulder periodically as he types away on his laptop and watches the soccer game.  He is from Brazil. And only in Monterey last night and today for a few hours before heading off to LA.  I vaguely remember giving him my email, and potentially a phone number, though if it is mine I cannot say. (He is looking at the slip of paper.  Yep, mine. The fact that he had it in his wallet is shocking and makes me smile at the same time).  I completely remember the kiss (oh, I just made him blush, which got another kiss, so not so bad).

The reckless, serendipitous, potentially stupid part is that I did not go home with him last night, and instead hunted him down this morning where he was staying and brought him donuts. (He laughs). This could have backfired in a ton of different ways.  It didn’t.

 

This is new.  When I was writing yesterday about moving into the unknown without fear, this was not what I expected.  I was totally thinking about someone else, and trying to fit an open friendship into a space where none exists.  Sitting next to Gui, (a man I have now known for about 2.5 hours), as he checks his email, and drinks an Americano (he thinks this is a funny name for coffee with milk), is already more intimate and vulnerable than I have been in years.  He is 15 years younger than me, has beautiful green eyes, and when we kiss good bye after breakfast (he just asked if it will really be only a kiss?), we will more than likely never see each other again.  The conversation has been about love, and adventure, and being present.  It has been about risk, and about the benefits of actually being open to anything, in a way that is not words, and not selfish.  Donuts, it seems, is a very open gesture.  And the same thing that made talking to him last night amazing, is what makes me miss him already.

 

He makes me promise that I won’t forget what today feels like. That he knows that I know this, but that somewhere along the way I pushed it aside.  This part that is life, all flaws and unknown.  A kindred spirit. 

 

No rocks anywhere.

 

It is time for him to go.  I am excited for what the rest of my reckless day may bring.

Becoming Captain Kirk

I have some amazing friends in my life.  I cannot deny how grateful I am for them, daily, for love and support.  They constantly challenge my beliefs about myself, and, when necessary, make me think about it when words won’t come.  At least not words that make any sense while I am saying them for sure.  I am a pretty articulate woman, so when those times happen (and they are not explained away by the half a bottle of wine sitting on the counter), I have to go back and figure out why I could not explain what I really meant.  Did I actually mean it at all?

This happened the other night while talking to a friend. Granted, I had been drinking wine earlier in the evening, but I drove myself home, and hadn’t had any more.  So when he and I were talking, and the topic of relationships came up, of course, vulnerability was part of the conversation.

Vulnerable is one of those things we all have to be, while also being strong and in control.  It is the process of trusting someone else to not fuck you over if you share a part of yourself.  

So the conversation went something like this:  

“What keeps you from being vulnerable?”

“Fear.”

“Fear of what?”

 “The unknown.”

 (Yeah, he and I probably need to get past some of our one-word responses.  It is a process.  We will work on it.)

This is what had me inarticulate. 

Sure, we all have fears.  I am not a really big fan of snakes, or being in really really enclosed spaces (that might have snakes).  But the unknown?  I am not so sure.

So I thought about it.  Like, a lot.  And what came out of it (besides this blog) is that no, I am not fearful of the unknown.  I am completely and totally afraid of the known.  Not all the known.  Just the painful known.  Of the known, happening again. 

Imagine this scenario (because we are talking about vulnerability in relationships, right?).  You are on a date.  Maybe you have been on a few already, and getting to know this person is going well enough.  And then something is said.  Maybe it is something about a childhood trauma.  Maybe it is something about the way a former relationship ended.  Maybe it is a comment about weight or exercise, or parenting.  Maybe it is about alcohol. Or drugs.

 Whatever it is, all of a sudden, in my head, I know everything about this.  I have done all this.  Don’t like museums?  Yeah, one of my exes didn’t either.  Don’t have the patience for children being sick?  Yep, a guy I dated before didn’t either.  Been in rehab, had a “fat” wife, won’t get on an airplane, passed out at a cousin’s wedding, can’t read a novel, allergic to chocolate, hate cats?

I get lost in all this noise.  I hear all the things I already know spinning in my head.  I write the story before you tell it.  Have the questions and the solutions to any problem you have, and you don’t even need to ask me about it.  I got this.  I know what is going to happen next.  I have already been there.  In the cases of things I have no desire to repeat, the big red flag I threw for you without you even knowing it has just made me shut down.  Vulnerable? Oh hell no.  That giant pile of rocks you see in front of you?  Yeah, that is the scrap left over from the monstrous wall I just built.  You are not getting in, because I know how this ends.

So this makes the unknown my friend, right?  What is so scary about having something brand new? 

The known, for some, is a comfortable place to be.  It feels warm, and homey. Settle in right now, and don’t worry about the shit in the corner.  I don’t like that place (read some of my other blog posts if you need specifics).  The place most people feel comfortable, for me is lonely.  I know it too well.  I have lived in it too long.  It is not an old pair of jeans that fit all the curves, that you love.  It is pair of shoes with holes that keep getting pebbles.  I can throw the pebbles away, but the pain from having to do it over and over is old. I don’t want those blisters anymore.  I think I may have already run out of Band-Aids.

So, back to the gratitude I feel for friends.   They are showing me a new way.  Challenging me to think about it in a way I haven’t before.  The unknown.  It is actually a good place to be.  I am not fearful of that.  Creating a new world, one small blog post at a time.

 

Crackerjacks and Insulin

Last week, my father spent five nights in the hospital.

It was not the first time this year he was there, and I have no doubt it will not be the last.  He is 84.  He is diabetic.  He has had colon cancer removed.  He has a heart issue that can best be described as failure from an unknown cause.  He has severe back pain from years and years of climbing in and out of a dump truck and using the heavy foot-operated pedals to do his job.

He was a heavy smoker for almost 60 years, quitting only after his heart doctor could not hear his heart with a stethoscope through the congestion in his lungs. I think that might have something to do with all the shortness of breath, but no one wants to say that because he quit 13 years ago, and no one wants to admit that crappy choices for decades could have anything to do with right now.

And right now, well, that is all we are concerned with.  Comfort, prolonging, and more comfort.

Our conversations while I visited him in the hospital usually revolved around his medical condition, his medications, and his daily routine.  And baseball.  Always baseball.  So while looking up the scores for the day before’s games, we talked about the nose bleeds.  While comparing pitching stats, we talked about sugar levels.  While watching the play from third for out number two, we discussed how to get in and out of the shower, and if we need to install grab bars, or ramps for the outside stairs.

He did not want to have any of these conversations. I don’t blame him, I didn’t want to have them, either.  We will need to have more because my mom is exhausted, and worried, and couldn’t possible lift him to help him get to the bathroom if it comes down to that.  Right now he is home, and stable.  But he is tired, so tired.

In the midst of all this conversation about health and baseball, the one thing my dad did want to talk about was me, my kids, and what, in his opinion, I am not doing right.

It took all my effort not to yell at him, or walk out. Instead, I listened to him say that my house repairs are behind, my yard work and fence needed to be taken care of and made presentable, and how he had not, in his entire life, ever taken more than a two-week a year vacation.

All those things are true.  I probably should finish putting in my baseboards, and replacing the sink and toilet in the Master bath.  I probably should pull out the dead plants in my front yard, and take the ugly watering hoses to the dump.  I probably should care that I don’t have a lawn, nor will I be winning any Yard-of-the-Month awards from my city. I actually feel blessed that they have not ticketed me for leaving my garbage cans on the street for days after the regular pick up.  What is not true is that I have any regrets that I take my kids on vacation to wherever we can go at every opportunity I have.

I knew, as my dad was complaining about my yard, and my garage, and about my vacation choices, that he was not really looking for me to say anything back.  He wasn’t even really mad at me about what I was doing, and why.  I don’t think he was really expecting me to suddenly like yard work (I haven’t in 48 years, so not like I will be starting that up any time soon), or for me to put a priority on painting my hallway. I will get to it, eventually.  I always do.

 And while I know that he thinks I should probably not be taking my kids to Kansas City in July (our next road trip) in favor of spending the money on a weed-whacker and a good handyman, I don’t think it was about me at all.  I think the entire conversation was about him.  About his decisions.  And about him being scared that I was judging his choices, for a perfect yard and no vacation, as something missing in my life, and maybe, in the long run, something he missed in his, by doing something different.

I will admit, I made that choice a long time ago, to not be him.  Not because of any judgment I have that his choices were wrong, but just that I wanted something different with my children.  I am grateful for the home and the security of my parent’s house.  I never wanted for anything, all  of the basic needs taken care of, though we were not rich.  I had clothes and food. I had a bike.  I always had gifts and parties for birthdays and Christmas.  I also have zero memory of a movie with my parents, or a museum with them, or a trip to a national monument or place of interest.

Every year we went on vacation.  Two weeks of camping, and either fishing or hunting.  The camping involved a trailer and cooking every meal.  The fishing was trout, either stream-fishing or fly-fishing.  The hunting was deer or boar, but since I never went out with my dad, I don’t actually know what that was about.  My experience of it (contrary to the memories my brother is sure to have) is that I sat around a lot, bored because I never brought enough books or paper or art supplies, in the dust and heat of whatever remote campsite near a lake that we were at.  I should sound more grateful that I was allowed nature, and any form of recreation, but I feel like I missed something.

The memories I have of vacations with my dad is of him, as I watched from the bank, as he fly-fished.  I have one intense memory of a wasp nest swarming because we parked our trailer a little too close. I remember the rifle shot that echoed from the hillside as my father and brother went after a deer that was illegally shot by someone else, and was now suffering and dying because of it.  They never fired a shot, but the sound is still in my ears, and I am still a slight bit frightened by the memory some 35 years later.

I have never been anywhere else with my parents.  No skiing trips.  No drive-ins.  No city cafes.  We never took a ferry.  We never went on a train.  We never took a trolley, or a gondola, or a horse.  We did the same thing, every year, once a year, for as long as I can remember.  There is no judgment about if this is right or wrong.  It is just is.  I wondered why the memory I have of losing a fish from the line one year is so strong , when it struck me that it is just because there were no other memories to hold on to that could make this small one less significant.

I picked something different for how I spend my time with my kids.  We have been to Yosemite, and Washington DC.  We have taken a train to Denver and a plane to Seattle.  We have visited monuments and historical places, and taken ferries to offbeat islands with weird little artist’s colonies.  We have gone to plays and movies and festivals and concerts.  We have road-tripped, and accidentally met potters who gave us pieces of clay to play with, and poets who wrote haiku for us about the color of our shirts, and musicians who sang us songs they just made up, and laughed at all the silliness of the moments as we let ice cream melt on our chins from homemade stands on the side of the road.

So back to my dad.  I did not point out to him that I was making specific different choices based almost solely on the lack of choices I had as a child.  That would have been cruel. And I am not cruel, I love my dad.  So I sat there, and listened as he planned how I was going to have to buckle down and get my lawn planted, and how I should not be driving my kids half way across the country in the heat of summer.  I knew he was not judging me with his words.  He was, in fact still taking care of me, like he did when I was little, knowing maybe that his time to do this is getting short.  He didn’t want compliance.  He wanted validation that his choices would be remembered.

I get that, dad, don’t worry.  If there is nothing else we can ever say to each other amidst all the talk of medicine and home safety, we will always have baseball.  As a matter of fact, on that road trip you don’t want me to take to Kansas City this summer we will be going to a Royals game.  Stay out of the hospital long enough for me to tell you all about it when we get back, so we can have some more memories together, with baseball at the center. I'll bring the Crackerjacks.

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.

Taking it to the streets.

Do you all know I write a blog?

I guess if you are reading it here, you might have been here before.  I write about my life, as I see it (my blog, duh) and I don’t make any apologies for it.  Okay, to be fair, I apologized once for calling this one guy a pussy whipped pathetic loser.  I didn’t actually apologize for what I said about him, but for not having warned him that I was calling him a said pussy whipped pathetic loser in a public blog that as high as a dozen people (not any of his friends) might read.  That, and that although I did not actually use his name, I would not feel bad in divulging his name if someone asked (mostly so they could avoid him, I am sure).  He called me a whore right after that (awesome!) when he read a few of my other uncensored blog posts and thought we couldn’t be friends then because of the sexual nature of them (again, awesome!).  My regret was that I hadn’t come up with anything more colorful to call him than a pussy whipped pathetic loser, but I can learn from my mistakes.

So back to writing this blog.  You still reading?  Good, because I need readership.  Yes, perfectly self serving and possibly a little desperate, but today I would really like people to read this stuff. And what does that have to do with you, you ask?  Here goes:

1) Read this blog.  You are already here, so thank you!  I get a little obsessed about my numbers sometimes. Yes, there is a way to track this, and every blogger (okay, most bloggers) out there knows how many hits they got on a particular post at any given time.  I want this number to be higher.  So while you are reading it right now, I want you to also log on and read it from your hand-held device, your smart phone, your work computer, your boyfriend’s computer, your second cousin’s pet tarantula’s computer, and anywhere else you so desire.  See, each time you read it from a different device, I get a hit.  Hits are good in this case, and more (in this case) is what I am shooting for.

2) Follow this blog.  You already read it, so now click the little button in the right hand side that says “JOIN THIS SITE” and you get to be one of my fans.  I don’t know what actually happens after that, like if there is some “Follower Genie” that will send you emails telling you when I have once again posted something amazing for you to read, but you might as well have your little icon picture right there on my page.  Oh, and let me know if you have a blog.  I like to follow blogs.

3) Tell your friends.  You are enjoying reading and following the blog, so share the wealth.  You can have book club meetings about it even, all of you reading the blog, sharing with people what you gleaned from the amazing value it brought into you life, and how inspired you are to continue to read and grow.  I suggest you do this over a few (I suggest a half dozen) glasses of wine or pints of beers,  in a smoky dive bar, in a part of town you are not likely to be seen.  It is more fun that way.

4) Give me feedback.  No, I don’t really want you to point out spelling errors.  Or grammar errors.  Or suggest that I use too many non-sentences.  I know all that.  It is a style thing.  I am good with that part.  But, what do you want to read?  I have a gazillion stories about the woes of being a single mom with amazing kids and an idiot for an ex.  I could talk endlessly about surviving my mother. I could brag on my kids forever.  I can save you a little trouble here and say that I don’t post pictures because: a) selfies as a fad needs to go away, b) I want my kids to have a little tiny bit of privacy (I will use the pictures against them later at my discretion), c) If there are no pictures of me I have deniability in court, and d) you do not really need me up in your face with scary pics of myself in a too tight tank top, or some silly graphic that I pulled off bing.  But other than that, tell me what you DO want, and I will listen (as much as my creativity will allow).  And since you are now a fan (remember you are now FOLLOWING my blog, right?), you might as well have some semblance of ownership, no matter how false it actually is, and read what you like.

Feel free to go back and read older blogs.  I never actually read them myself, because honestly I was a huge mess back then.  If you do like to read expose-type blogs, reading from the first blog forward in time will give you the best picture of who I was, who I am, and where I am going.   It will also give me tons of hit-counts to my page views.  Win Win.

Are you still reading here?   Awesome, Thanks! Now go tell someone else, and feel free to share the link anywhere you want.  I won’t mind.