Sh!t, Stupid elf!

I probably should have been thinking deeper thoughts.  And, I did for awhile.  Then I remembered that I had forgotten to move the elf before I left that morning.  So, thoughts quickly went from, "I told the girls  I love them this morning, right?" to, "stupid freaking Robert...I certainly can't blame them touching him on the ceiling fan."

And that was the rest of my MRI time.

Yeah, I wasn't going to start this with the stroke.  Because this isn't about that.

It's about my Maya, coming home from visiting me on a surprise visit to the cardiac floor of a hospital to discover a piece of magic isn't really magic at all - It's just mama moving a stuffed animal around the house.

And that simply breaks my heart.

She is the last one to believe, so I kept moving that ridiculous thing every night.  The fun she had looking for him was worth the stress of finding new places to stick him.  And, I forgot to move him.

So, while laying perfectly still for the tests that would determine what happened (just a small stroke caused by stress), my mind raced over how to fix the problem.  I half expected the tech to tell me he saw an elf laughing at me in my brain, but no such luck.

Anyway, love your kids and tell them every single morning,

And don't forget to move the stupid elf no matter what.  They need all the magic they can get.

Not to be placed on a mantle and too busy collecting them to simply be trophies

I'm not raising decorative girls.

Girls who chase boys and bat eyelashes.

I'm teaching warriors.  Lionesses.  Freaking goddesses.

Book reading, race winning, mind blowing girls.

Are they beautiful?  Hell yes, do you even have eyes?!, but that's the least of it.

They are strong enough to choose which games they want to play.  And skilled enough to beat you at each of them.  They are witty enough to out talk anyone, but selective enough to avoid the drama of idiocy.

Yes, their eyes are beautiful.  Wide open and dark, but absolutely never half closed in a flutter.

Extraordinary beauty, and power beyond my wildest dreams - but absolutely never voiceless in struggle.

Flexible yet unwavering girls.  

Wise and thoughtful girls.

World altering yet mostly humble girls.

Proud and confident girls.

These girls will be women that change you.  Those women will be the kind you marvel at from your perch outside of their wingspan.

So, for now, hold your breath and count my blessings. 

Because, while they have the kind of beauty usually reserved for sunsets and myths, I am not raising decorative pieces.

These girls, my girls, are now and will only grow to be more supremely compelling.

All we can do is hold on and applaud as they go by.

"You think you're good, bitch"

There were signs.

Warnings.

We tried dating, and it didn't work.  He was too suffocating from the beginning.  Wouldn't let me leave when I was ready.  Always wanted one more minute, one more try, one more reason.

When I broke it off, he kept up the barrage of attention regardless of how hard I ignored him.  So I tried the "nice" approach - responding to every tenth text, gently telling him it was too much.

Eventually, I told him I was seeing someone else - thinking it would get him to move on.  After a few days, he was back.  So, I thought we could try being friends.

There was no reason not to be nice.  He wasn't a bad person, we just weren't good together.

I tried to encourage him to try with other women.  Building his ego from the sideline was, I thought, the way a friend would treat him.

Still he always wanted to see me, take me to dinner, just hang out.  Anything.  

Finally, after months of asking, I decided I was just being silly and made plans for a friendly dinner.  Still very clear that this was not a date, I agreed to hang out for a little while.

I immediately knew, in my gut, that it was bad.  He was drunk and couldn't keep his hands to himself.  Still, I thought, be nice and stop taking it so seriously.  As calmly as I could, because this wasn't my first tango with too much liquor and not enough control, I kept moving further away and reminding him to stop petting me.

After awhile, the subtlety stopped.  On both sides.  And, it got ugly fast.

But there were signs that we were heading down the wrong road.  I could've derailed the problem dozens of times before I was shoved against the wall.  I had so many chances to deflect before the bruises shadowed my perspective.  It was in my hands to stop long before I was in his.

And that's why I can't keep quiet this time, though I desperately want to hide.  That's why, despite knowing I have let these things happen too many times before, this one has to be different.  

It isn't always a husband or a parent or a boyfriend or a stranger.  Sometimes, it's a friend you're trying to pacify.  Sometimes, it's faster than a long road.

And, in those times, being nice isn't defense enough.

I don't want to write this, and I really don't want to relive it, but everyone knows the darkness starts somewhere.  That place is different every time.  

And, this time, it started months before I was pressed face-first into the side of a parking garage.  

Control is not something someone should want to take from you.  And, when it happens in small doses, big ones are coming.  Even from someone as harmless as a "friend".

Being nice, especially in cases when no mountain of nice is enough, isn't the only option.  

No is an answer.

I thought of three things before it was finally over:

This concrete is cold.

I wasn't supposed to be here tonight.

I wish I could say that being called a bitch was the worst part of this evening.

And, I can think of only one now:

If it can happen to someone that has learned from experience how to fight back, that person has to speak up for anyone who can't.

Not all art is pretty

No one ever said I was easy.

I am not.

All those other things I've been called?  Yes, whether I applaud your nerve or shake my head at your ignorance, most of those labels fit just fine.

I am a mouth full of seemingly unfiltered thoughts.  I am eyes that have seen straight through masks.  I am fists clenched in anger and feet ready to run.

I know I am hard, and I have very little use for those who want me to pretend otherwise.

I am full of edges carved by hands not skilled in careful or beauty or love.

Venturing into me isn't for the weak minded or those just looking for a challenge.  Honestly, there are very few times I'm not holding my own breath when trying to climb inside my thoughts.  Those who have been here before left behind cliffs not safe for diving and walls not made for climbing.

The few who have ever tried to navigate my danger have all turned back.  It's not worth it.  The fight seems endless, the reward less than glorious.

No, I am not easy.  And, yes, even "hard" seems light handed.

But, my God, I care.  Immeasurably.  Unendingly.  Silently.

When I love, it's without boundary marked in time or pain.  When I feel, it has no bottom.  When I hand over my words, know that I have no other gift.

The edges protect me and the darkness comforts me.  These are not choices I made, and I would absolutely prefer the cream filled center of a teddy bear heart.  

But I can't pretend to be blind when the brush of a hand is sensory overload.  

I am not easy and probably not worth the effort.  These things are true, yet I love anyway.

Because no one promised it would be easy.  Because the center may not be soft, but it is safe.  Because I want there to be a reward if ever I become worth it.  And because, while it is not pretty, all of these edges have to be protecting something.

Grasping for control

Earth shattering fact about me (in italics in case you can't sense the sarcasm):

When things spin out of control, I like to hop on a less-than-merry go round heading in the opposite direction. You know, to realign my world.

I like to control the madness in the only way I understand...

Pile on the bad decisions.

Want to buy me another drink?

Make it a double.

Skip meals for days to ensure the girls get to gorge on their favorites?

No doubt.

Ghost of Questionable Judgement Past comes back?

Round 6 *ding ding ding*

As Oliver said, "please, sir, may I have some more?".  But, you know, less with the vital nourishment and more on the nine toes off the edge of a bridge side.

Can self destruction be classified a quirk?  Can you slap a cute name tag on the self-imposed scars and call it normal?  I hope so because otherwise:

"Hello!  My name is Surrender."  

"Unsalvageable"

"Derailed".

In every sense, I'd rather own certain disaster than put money down on an iffy castle in the clouds.  I will not wager one more losing bet on the risk of a warmth I don't recognize.  So, when everything is wrong, I see that and raise it a hundred.  I'm all in.  Checkmate.  Touchdown...or whatever, I thought I needed one more piece of gaming jargon to round out the random gambling reference.

I'd like to say I'm doing the best I can.  I'd like to say I see the light and am barreling through the tunnel.  I'd like to write on my nametag "Hello!  My name is Managing just fine, thanks".

Instead, in my lifelong goal to be honest at all costs, I've saddled up my pink horse and am determined to stay on this ride until the world outside stops tilting the wrong way.

Two years, four months

I am divorced.

According to the email from my lawyer, while I sat in the surgical waiting room with my sweet girl on Friday, a judge was declaring my marriage officially dissolved.

So, I've been divorced for three days without knowing it.

And I'm not finished sorting through the emotions that come with all of it.

But here's what I know so far:

Exactly two years, four months since he unwillingly moved out, he finally signed the papers that declare we are no longer a union.

It's been a long, torturous, exhilarating, learning curved, bumpy ass road.  Yet, I sit trying to sort out if I have moved an inch at all.

I hate it and I love it all at once.  I'm not ready to say happy though.  Can I be happy that a promise I made was broken?  Can I be glad for burning down the house my children knew?  Can I be anything more than numb to what should be the top of the roller coaster?

Do I want to go back?  Not at all.  Behind me is dirty and dark and blindingly lonely.

Do I want to keep moving this way?  Not really.  This road is unsure and terrifying and shockingly still lonely.

So, at least for awhile, I need to sit still and try to breathe.  Make some decisions that aren't life changing.  Close some doors I shouldn't have opened.  Let go of some desires I'll never be able to quench.  Drink some wine and calm some floods.

One thing is certain.  Above all else, I am not the same person I was two years, four months, one day ago.  

For better or worse.  Richer or poorer.  In sickness and in health.  I'm officially on my own now.

Fairy godmother

I've talked a lot about my grandma.  She was the absolute beacon in my life.  I spent more time at her elbow than anyone else on earth.  And I credit her with getting me through the childhood I can remember.

But there was another rock of a woman that took me on before that.  There was a woman, not much older than my mother, who took me in and raised me through a childhood I can't (or won't) recall.  She had a perfect, beautiful family of her own; yet, she still found a place for me.  She loved an unlovable kid as though I deserved it.  And, she has always loved me... especially when I wasn't worthy.

I can only imagine the broken kid I was.  But this picture says it all - I was held together by love and generosity and beauty.  Included in a family for the first time, I got glimpses of how it should be.

I remember watching her love and being dumbfounded by the depth.

I sat at her table and felt nothing but acceptance.

She was the mother I needed and the aunt I treasured.

She took me to get my first pair of glasses when no one else would.

She bought me the first bra that actually fit.

She took the time to braid my hair and didn't mind that I just loved the feel of her hands.

I watched how she carried herself and pretended to be her, but didn't have the confidence to show anyone my act.

More than my actual godmother, I swear she is my bippity boppity boo, magic wand and all, Fairy Godmother.

She cried at my wedding like I was her own.  And, although no one is as important to her as her actual children, she has never made me feel less than.

She has welcomed me into her home every summer since I was a kid.  And, now that I bring the girls, I get to watch her turn the spotlight on them in a way only she can.  They absolutely light up in her presence, and I can only nod in agreement.

She is magic.

I wouldn't have made it without her, and anyone who watched knows that.

She is generosity and honesty and a true example of a lady.

My fairy godmother, my aunt, my friend, and the woman I can point to and say, "girls, follow her lead."

Thank you.

I love you.

We love you.

Always.

It's ugly out there

Anyone who knows me knows that I mind my own business.  Always.  I don't involve myself in other people's lives, I'm strictly a by invitation only kind of person.  I keep my head down (literally) and move through the public blissfully ignorant of what's going on around me.  And I like it like that.  A lot.

So, to pull me into your life, you either have to be tall, dark & tattooed OR a raging fool who absolutely requires a reality check.

The lady at the store this morning wasn't really my type.

I heard this baby crying off and on the whole time I was there.  Then I caught up to them in the checkout line.  He stood, whimpering, rolling the cart inches back and forth.  Annoying?  Sure.  We've all been there.  Kids can work your last nerve.  Scratch that...kids seek out your last nerve, put a big red X on it, back up, take a running start, and break dance on your last nerve.  Every chance they get.  That's their job... Find your line and conga through it.  What is your job?  Well, in this case, it wasn't to almost dislocate his shoulder, spank him, and shove him back into the cart like the last cheez whiz can you're cramming into your overflowing trash can.  Cue the boy crying again.

I stood in the line next to hers, raised my eyebrow at her, and decided to see where this was going.

She left a couple of minutes before me, as it takes longer to weigh produce than it does to scan cans of sloppy joe mix.

In the parking lot, I find that she has removed his diaper and is spanking him through the van door.

Nope.

I've been told I'm intimidating.  Let's see...

Yep.

Look.  Everyone has a breaking point.  Everyone has bad days.  I haven't slept more than an hour at a time in almost a week.  I was nursing my venti macchiato as if it were keeping me upright at the moment this boy came into my life.  I get that.  Truly.  Kids are hard.  

Suck it the f*^% up.  If you have to remove a diaper to put your hands on a person, that's a good sign you shouldn't.  You outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds, so you had more than three people sizes up on your son, also a good sign you should keep your hands to yourself.  And, when confronted by this stranger in the parking lot, you backed down faster than you could replace his diaper - a definite sign that you shouldn't be laying a finger on that kid.

Anytime you need a reminder, feel free to replay our interaction over again in your head.  Meanwhile, give that baby a nap and redraw your breaking point.

I'm going back to my own, quiet world.  Please don't make me come out again, it's ugly out there.

Not a typical Friday night

5:24pm Facebook post "first kid-free weekend in months that I have no plans...this could be very bad."

5:27pm I call their father to give instructions on what kind of board Eva needs to complete the science project we did this week.  Phone call lasts 3 minutes, 18 seconds.  A long and excruciating time to talk to the person you least admire.  He won't put the girls on the phone but tells me they'll call me later.  I have no idea where they are, but it's loud in the background.  I assume it's someplace wildly amusing and germy that serves roller dogs and/or taquitos (a word spell check still refuses to accept as a word, despite how many times I complain about these "meals" in writing.)

I wash the dishes from their lunchboxes and go to change into workout clothes.  It's Insanity time!

5:49pm Maya calls.  "Hi mama!"  "Hello, love."  "Um, mama, Eva hurt herself bad at soccer."  "What do you mean, love?"  'Bad' to Maya could mean anything from a broken nail to disembowelment.  "She hurt herself". "Mami, put Papi on the phone please." In the background, I can hear him say, 'didn't need to call her, I've got it'.... "Sarah, Eva broke her wrist."  "WHAT?!  Where are you?"  "Taking her to Shawnee Mission".  Frantically hang up and stick other leg back into jeans.

6:12pm a crazy lady storms the emergency room.  Side note:  The drive should've taken 45 minutes.  I definitely used up some karma points not getting pulled over as I Fast and Furioused my old, barely running car down the highway.

Two doctors came in and explained that she "really broke some bones".  They'd need to be reset, which they would put her out for.  Then they'd splint it, and I'd need to take her to an orthopedic surgeon in a couple days.

All she wanted was to lay her head in my hand.  So we did that until they put her out, she stared up at me with those big brown eyes while I promised my big ugly face would be the first she saw when she woke back up.  Then they made me back up and I wasn't allowed to touch her again until she woke up on her own.  

Now, I have watched four people hold her down and put twelve staples in the back of her skull when she busted her head open at the school playground.  I thought that was bad.  Watching two really large men reset bones in her arm - so much worse.  I had to focus on only her face.  Her sweet, little, unconscious face.  

Then the nurse and I sat and waited for her to wake up.

8:14pm 

I wasn't allowed to touch, but in her sleep she was reaching to my side of her bed.  Her mouth was silently mouthing "mama, mama, mama".  So, I put my hand on the rail near her hand.  Not touching her because they had warned that she could have no stimulus until she was alert.  But she grabbed on.  

And that was it for awhile.

Finally, she opened her eyes and smiled at me.  "Hi."

She will be alright, and I am so thankful of course.  Several lessons were learned, though I would have appreciated a different test.

1.  Don't Facebook post complaining about having no plans.  Checkmate, universe.

2.  Spell check is correct, taquitos are not real, I know this because I held the bag while she got those back out of her poor belly as soon as she was conscious.

3.  Do not let a seven year old give out emergency information.  Grown folk should always be the bearers of news.

4.  If you're driving the speed limit in the left lane of the highway, and a crazy lady pulls up behind you, just move over.  This isn't lesson in patience time, she will pass you on the right.  And, honking at her doesn't change that fact.

5.  Letting her hold your hand without holding it back is hard, but counts as not stimulating your unconscious child - so carry on.

6.  Kids will always screw up your plans, whether they are actual or non-plans.  Darn kids.

Any other way.

I sat in my car, inside my garage, trying to work up the will to come inside.

I'd have it another way.  Today.  Twice last week.  And, venturing a wild guess, at least one more time before this Friday hits.

Yes, I would absolutely have it any other way.

I know I'll get a lot of shaming.  A ton of private "how could you?!" messages.  My phone will blow up with you know you don't mean that's.  There will be plenty of complete strangers spouting all the reasons I'm a terrible person.  Lots of oh, you know you'd miss them!  

But if there's one thing I cannot be accused of - it's being a liar.  And, today, right now, in this moment, I would have it another way.

Every day is spent worrying and stressing and fighting and planning and scraping.  

How am I supposed to take one more freaking step?

Where am I going to come up with the money for it this time?

Stop the lying and the stealing and the nonsense!  Just act the way I've always raised you!

If I skip this meal, I can get them the better ___________.

And, I can't do it for one more second.  I cannot take one more step.  I can't.

I just need a breath.  One deep, cleansing, soul-freeing breath.  

I am drowning in an ocean of (mostly) my own making, and I cannot lie and say it's everything I ever wanted.  

I would rather make simple choices that won't make or break a person (or three).

I would love to be able to follow a dream rather than fake smile my way through another day.

I want to be free to make mistakes without dreading how it will effect everyone else.

I crave the idea of falling asleep without clutching fists and waking up without shaking off nightmares.

Those mothers - those beautiful, giving, nurturing, self-sacrificing mothers - who would have it no other way... They are not me.

I sat in my car inside the garage trying to work up the will to come inside my own house.  I listened to my youngest child knock on the car door, wondering what was going on.  And all I wanted, in those moments, was to back out of my garage, down the driveway, and straight to the nearest highway.

I would have it another way.  Not the best feeling I've ever put on paper, but certainly the truth.

Instead, I came inside.  Because that's what we do, right?  We carry on.  We suck it up.  We lie to ourselves.  We do it this way because this is the way we chose.

Because the alternative hurts them.  Because running isn't an option.  And that's why another way seems so glorious - it isn't really there.  There isn't actually any other way.

Oh, but if there was - in this moment - I would absolutely sign up.

Perspective

Our marriage made the world a better place.

I read these words months ago and have held them since.

Our marriage made the world a better place.

Not the easiest sentence for me, no matter how many times I write it.

Our marriage made the world a better place.

I still can't say it out loud.

Our marriage made the world a better place.

Our ugly, hard, barely recognizable marriage made this world a better place.

But it did.

It gave the world three reasons to shine.

Three impenetrable points of light.

Our marriage gave the world three better-than-us people.

Since I first read those words, I've hung them on my internal Wall Of Survival.  And I've stood staring at that sentence every time it got even worse.  Every time I couldn't see what those thirteen years accomplished, I pulled those words through me.  Every time I watched a replay of my "wasted" time, I tried to remember the reason behind it.

Our marriage made the world a better place.

A place more filled with giggles and brilliance.  A world more prone to kitchen dances and driveway soccer.  Our marriage made three people who make the sun shine brighter on my horizon than on any other.

We did that.

Together.

Through pain and indifference, anger and loss, struggle and darkness.

Our marriage made the world a better place.

And on this, the anniversary we weren't supposed to reach, I stand repeating those words as though they are the only thing keeping my feet solid.  As though they make this fight worth it.  Because they have to - getting to the other side has to be worth it.

Our marriage made the world a better place.

And, even if I can't say I'm grateful for it (yet?), I can say the thirteen years weren't wasted life.  They gave me the only love I've ever grown, and that is better than the place that came before.

Crazy buffet

Crazy can't be crazy by itself.  Crazy needs a partner.  

I am not that partner.  I go with quiet interludes between passionate hours.  I pair well with honesty and humility.  On every third breath, I can match up with the best of the ornery.

But I don't do crazy.  I don't fight over things not worthy.  I don't search phone records looking for reasons to leap the line of sanity.  I don't blame the people who didn't know.  And I don't hurt people to feed my own ego.  

Some people need the drama.  Some people can't feel wanted unless there are two otherwise sane, fully functioning adults chasing them as though they were the last pleasure on earth.  Some people crave faked pregnancies and blocked numbers.

I am not one of those people.

I don't need my phone blowing up to feel sexy.  I don't need threats of murder-suicide to make it through my day.  And I certainly don't need to drag someone else into a mess of my own making.

One crazy person cannot sustain themself.  They need an equally idiotic partner.  Maybe they even need a third helping of insanity to complete the buffet-o-wacko.  

I will not sit at that high school table.  Keep the crazy where it belongs, gorge yourself on it even.  The rest of us grown folk will be over here, bored and peaceful.  

No vacancy

I don't have room for this hole you think you left me.

I have every moment I spent at my grandmas law school desk on summer vacations.

I have the echoes of rain on tiny apartment windows.

I am filled with the lyrics to every song I heard in my little Hyundai Excel running streets I wasn't supposed to be on.

I can remember the jab of my mothers chin in my collar that one time she hugged me so tight I thought she squeezed a little love into me.

This hole you imagine won't fit between the scent of rain when I left my best friend to move across the country and the sound of the first breath I heard my oldest child take.

There are spaces filled with the bad hair days of high school and those of the poor judgement days that followed for miles.

There are vast areas filled with first words and wobbly steps and long naps on my breast.

There is no room for that hole.

Of course, there are boxes in closets in rooms in me that are overflowing with real sorrow.

I watched my first soul take her last breath in a hospital room as I held her toes.  I can still hold the shape of his hand as the first little boy I truly loved struggled to come back to life.  I have been abandoned by too many people to remember their taste, yet I can recall the weight of the air that drowned me as their doors closed.  

I have made room for the struggles each of those things recall for me.

But you and the insignificant tear you made in my fabric?  Won't even leave a scar.  Not because I didn't care while you were pulling me in at three am, but because the one word message you left proved it wasn't real.  

Only the truth can leave holes inside.  And you, sweet boy, are a lie drawn in sand.

I do not have room for the hole you imagine leaving behind.  I am too filled with significance to notice your trail.

Oh, you're looking for the spark

Well.

Sometimes - most times in my experience - that feeling you're looking for isn't really a spark.  It's a warning flare.  A goddamn forest fire.

Run!  It says.  Bad idea!  It screams.  Come on, not again!  It pleads.

No one feels the spark with the nice guy because he isn't going to break your heart and leave you wondering.  The spark is for the bright blue eyes that saw you falling four steps before he even asked your name.  The spark crackles in plenty of time for you to lace up your running shoes, but it's that sound that glues you to the trouble instead.  

Like the first idiot to fall when running from the zombies, you walk up the stairs rather than out the front door.  Because the ever-storied spark is danger.  It is embodied in the urge to tear clothes from defined shoulders.  It is the heat that melts all your good common sense.  It is every self-preserving notion leaving your brain and headed straight to your ....well....you get the idea.  And the spark will be your downfall.

Because it doesn't last.  It can't.  Even if he isn't the Don Juan of Forgettabletown, USA.  Even if he doesn't have a revolving door installed next to his pool tabled living room.  Even if he's a good one.  Of course, the spark fizzles.  It's supposed to.  That's just the hook.  If you don't want to still tear those clothes off of the man who forgot to take the trash to the curb on Tuesday morning, than maybe you should stop searching for a spark.  When you come up for air - because you always have to eventually - and your returning good common sense tells you to fake a terminal illness and change your route to work, than stop running toward the fire.

Give the nice guys a chance.  There may not be a spark, but there probably won't be a required clinic visit either.  

Here wasn't on the map

This wasn't where I was going to be.  Not this table and chair in this art class-covered kitchen in this humble debt clouded house.  Not this lonely town in this passing through state.  Not this thoroughly used body in these well worn shoes.

This isn't where I ever dreamed I would be.

I remember like I always have.

I was headed to rain.  I was on a single lane road to pounding quiet and soaking emptiness.

From the days when other girls were dreaming of kids and houses on hills, I knew that wasn't my story.

I knew it like the broken sound of my voice.

And I made every turn I needed to get nowhere.  I shook myself out of every moment of maybe.

I was purposely lost.

And still.  I find myself here.

Where there should be dusty corners, there are soccer cleats.

In every darkness, there's a giggling dance.

Where there is supposed to be silence, there are eyelashes brushing my shoulder.

It still rains, but oh my the light show I am treated to if I just look up.

The storm rages in my chest and behind my eyes are waves held back by trembling hands, but this house is covered in the dreams of bright smiles.

This chair is not where I am supposed to be, that is certain.  I am made of too many wrongs to end up in a space so imperfectly right.

And yet.  I can be found, on any given day, staring at this art class covered kitchen table wondering how I got so lucky as to be witnessing the start of the three most gifted journeys the world has ever seen.

And yet.  I am found surrounded by the only three things I ever got absolutely right.

And yet.  Here is where I am.

Divorce sucks.

Seems pretty obvious, right?  Divorce sucks.  

Well, it's supposed to.  That's the point.  Stay married because divorce sucks.

You're weak if you give up on your marriage.  You're a coward if you run away from your commitments, especially the one to give your children an intact home.  There's no problem so insurmountable, no reason so set in stone, no excuse that makes divorce excusable.

Except what if there is?  What if you fought like hell until you were broken beyond repair?  What if the home you were holding onto was nothing you want those children to move into on their own?  What if divorce is the only answer?

Nope.  Even then, divorce sucks.

It's watching their little faces disappear behind an old apartment door.

It's late night pleas to come give them hugs.

It's excited squeals when he promises them the world.

It's their first firsts that happened on his weekend.

It's arguing over things that never mattered before he packed up his truck.

It's lonely Sunday mornings spent crying in a quiet house that never felt so empty.

It's realizing his control didn't walk out the door with him, it's only gotten stronger.

And.  It.  Sucks.

There are good and valid reasons for divorce.  There are situations so desperate that there really is no other answer.  There are people trying really hard to do the right thing for their children, even in the face of a crowd yelling that they're wrong.

And there are people who, despite the monumental effort it takes at each step, still think sometimes it isn't worth the fight.  Who still sometimes wonder if they shouldn't have just stayed.  People who get so worn down in the struggle.  Who just want divorce to not suck for ten minutes.

If you ask me, and some actually have, don't get divorced.  If you're just tired of the way he ignores you or tired of the way she treats you, stay for as long as you can.  Show up and stand in your marriage, even past the point you marked in the sand as "breaking".

Because divorce sucks.  A lot.

If you're hearing applause, it's in your head

I am a parent.  Have been now for 13 years, 3 months, 28 days, 7 hours - if you don't count the 44 weeks I was a mama before Sofia was where the world could see her.

I have been on duty for every minute of that time, but I'm not a mathematician so I cannot calculate that number for you.  What I can tell you, however, is that parenting is hard.  And, very often, it's not even a little fun.  There's a mountain of work required to call yourself a parent.

And not a single bit of it is done for an audience.  Not a drop of it can be shown on a receipt.

It's sweaty soccer socks and dirty kid panties being washed at 4am because you found them thrown behind the dresser.

It's the hours and hours and days and days of doctors office waiting rooms holding a kid whose nose is basically glued to your shirt with more fluid than can be held in a McBiggie cup.

It's standing in the rain/blazing sun/whiteout blizzard with them while they splash in puddles or practice their new dives or speed headfirst down the backyard slopes.

And it's cleaning... Behind ears and under toilet seats, blowout diapers and projectile vomit, mashed peaches and urine soaked carpets.  It's vacuuming suspicious things because you're afraid to touch them.  It's changing sheets at 2am.  It's bringing fresh clothes to the nurse's office.  

It's quiet.  It's listening to the same story again because they still giggle at the end.  It's calming tears from an hour away because there's nothing else to be done.  It's knowing your children, all of them, whether you understand their passions or not.  

Parenting is regardless.

Of your needs.

Of your schedule.

Of your agenda.

Of you.

Parenting is a lot of work. Boring, mundane, no-accolade work.  It's hard and it is, mostly, thankless. It's not done to impress or sway public opinion.  So, if you're only going to put on an act for the audience, step to the left.  Real parenting is done right.

Freedom isn't free

I don't have a 220+ lb weight on my back anymore.

I don't look at 2 am on my clock anymore in disbelief.

I don't go limp at the sound of a door being nudged open when I clearly closed it for a reason anymore.

And I don't quietly sob in the corner every single night anymore.

Nope.  I got freedom.

The freedom to not know how I'm going to do this for one more minute.

The freedom to have to wait for the kindness of others to get my knee-high grass shorn down.

The freedom to choose between cable and soccer. (Soccer wins every time.)

The freedom to walk out into the world to a job that bores me silly.

The freedom of every other weekend and each Tuesday evening without the three reasons I wake up every weekend and every Tuesday.

The freedom to start at the dirty bottom again.

I gave up everything when I chose to marry him.

And I gave up an all new set of everything when it was well-past over.

Today I lost the last little thing I was holding onto by my last thread of hope.

And I can't tell if it was worth it anymore.

Freedom isn't free.  It costs everything that mattered in the belief that what matters now is worth more.

Today it hurts...it breaks.  

Please let tomorrow be worth it.

Sexy

Know what's sexier than a man who unendingly adores his children?

Nothing.

I don't mean the guy who makes a show out of showing up to some of their public events.  Not the every other weekend man who can only cheer for one kid on the team because that's the only one he knows.  I'm not talking about the father who leaves his kids at home unless there's an audience to impress.

I mean the dad.

Who coaches his daughter's team with no regard for his busy schedule.

Who quietly holds his son's hand to cross the street on the way to the library.

Who takes a seat and lets her splash in the puddles.

Who gathers kids in his front yard for a pickup game.

Who knows the difference between the iwantattention cry and the thisreallyhurts cry.

Who is there rain or shine, audience or no one, regardless of what other plans he made, despite anything else the world is offering on a Friday night.

There is nothing hotter than a man who, without fail, chooses his kids first.

I've known some extremely physically attractive men.  Less than 10% body fat doesn't make up for less than 20% parenting time.

And, I know some *ahem* less than model types.  I don't care what your waist size is, if you know what your son's batting average is and the names of the last two girls he had a crush on - you are my kind of idol.

No, there is nothing sexier than a man who puts his children above all else.  Nothing.

Former daughter

I count the days since my last drink like I'm a recovering alcoholic.  One, two, three, seven...  Not because I am an alcoholic; truthfully, I occasionally have a glass after the girls finally close their doors at night, but never more than one unless they're out of the house.  

I subtly tell everyone I meet that I've never done a single drug or smoked a cigarette.  No, not even weed, not even held it in my mouth...  Not because I know drug addicts anymore; thankfully, the last one has been gone for awhile now, and I know there won't be a next.

I do it because of you.  

I've asked a lot of women whom I respect as mothers and almost all of them agree that they too have a glass or two to wind down after a long day of mothering.  Nothing wrong with that, we all say to each other.  Kids are hard.  Nonstop adulthood is hard.  Relentless responsibilities are hard.  It's ok to ease into a break once in awhile.  

It's when the easing bottoms out into cliff diving.

I've thought of you quite a bit these last few weeks.  It all started on my lonely Mother's Day.  I knew that you too were in a quiet room.  A place of your own making, so there was no pity.  Still, you may have known what day it was.  You may have thought of me.  You may have remembered.

You and I were not exactly a team, as I consider my girls and I to be.  More of an unlikely pair, we made do with each other.  And, not all days were bad.  When you did show up, I learned to relish the peaks of sunlight.  Both flawed and scarred, we managed our own paths.  I don't believe you tried to drown me when you lost your footing on that cliff.  I believe you loved me with what you had.

We don't talk anymore, mom.  But you built me.  From the bricks and mortar of trials and more errors than there are numbers for,  you prepared me for everything I've found along this path.  And, in a lot of ways, you made me the mother I am for the grandchildren you don't know.  While I don't look back fondly, I do look back sometimes and see you in a different light.  

I hope you let the sun warm your face sometimes.  In case you don't, the girls and I walked on this beautiful morning and I felt the warmth for us both.

Keep it to yourself.

Hey, you know that guy?  That one guy you used to love but now can't stand?  Yeah...that one guy who makes your blood boil just by drawing breath?  Or that one chick?  That woman you used to care about and who used to put up with all of your bs?  Yeah, you know the one you have absolutely nothing nice to say about.   You know how much you love to rip them apart to everyone?  How funny it is to recount all of the stupid, ugly, nasty, and often times made up things they've ever done?  How you entertain people with tales, both real and fantasy, about that person every chance you get.

You know who doesn't want to hear those stories?

Their children.

Their kids don't want to hear you go on a rant about every horrible thing that man did.  They don't want to hear all the reasons it's better that he's gone.

Those kids don't need to hear what you imagine their mother is doing.  In fact, it actually pisses them off.

Because that woman you imagine is suddenly a drunk whore is actually their mama.  The woman they look to and trust and adore like no other.

That man you have forgotten every redeeming quality in is actually their father.  The man that represents their only example of how a grown man should be.

Nothing you say is going to change how they feel about the other person, but it sure is changing the way they see you.  They see you as the attacker and it only brings them closer to the parent you're trying to alienate.  They see you as an enemy to their family, even when you're on the inside.  And, they see you as someone who will hurt them in order to make yourself feel better.

So, while I do regale friends with stories of the man I chose to have children with, the only thing my girls hear from me is "he loves you." Because while, let's face it, he and I will never be friends - he will always be their father.  And, that relationship is not one I want to damage.

And, they're not stupid.  Kids get it.  They know who loves them.  They know who is present and involved and actively parenting them.  They know who sleeps across the hall every night, who can recite every friend they've ever had, and who has stood in the rain for them.  No made up stories or outright lies can change who they know their parent to be.  And no sane person would want to try.

So, keep it to yourself.  The fiction you write, the horrors you remember, the darkness you should've left behind.  They don't want to hear it.

And really, they know who you are.  They know who he is.  They know who she is.  And they love you both anyway.

Appreciate it

Don't take it for granted.  

The teacher who quietly loves your kid so much that, on her last day of elementary school, she sobs all the way to the car.

The women who volunteer to give your kids a safe ride home when you can't be there and who send pictures of special moments you would have otherwise missed.

The men who cheer your kids on from the sideline as loudly as they do their own.

The friends who kindly smack your head when you have nothing nice to say about yourself.

The strangers who don't ask questions when your tears spill from behind the sunglasses.

The djs who play just the right songs to make your car bounce with giggles and the greatest dancing this side of the double yellow lines.

The boy who asks your shy girl to be his girlfriend...and the daughter who politely responds... "Eww...gross, no!"

The sunshine on a beautiful afternoon spent with the three most important people in the world.

The chocolate smiles of full bellies.

A stolen few minutes in an otherwise full day. 

The extra hugs they come running back for.

Picking your children up on their last day of school and being the first to see the relieved smiles of newly minted 2nd, 5th, and 8th grade students.

Appreciate every moment on days like this.  

These are the ones we can't take for granted.

Mother's Day

It's quiet around my house today.  Typical for every other Sunday morning lately, but a little extra so this time.  Today is Mother's Day.  So, beyond the frequent knocking of my phone alerting me to a new message from another thoughtful friend, my home sounds a little more empty today.

I found these when I got home from work Friday, but saved them for this morning before I could bear to peek.  The girls make me something just about every day at school, but I wait all year for the 2nd Sunday in May gift.  Eva's is a book of 3 coupons entitling me to things I would never actually cash in.  Maya's is a handprint and "All about" mama book complete with a drawing where I never looked better.  I'm not sure who the flower is from, as I haven't been able to get them on the phone yet, but I've already kept it alive longer than most.  I'm looking at the long empty day ahead of me as a gift too: I won't be breaking up fights or bracing my ears for whining.  

So, happy Mother's Day.

To the woman who gave birth me.  Though she is no longer available to me, she's the only person I ever called mom.

To the woman who did the lion's share of raising me.  Though she's been gone for almost fourteen years, my grandma is always the one my mind races to on this day.

To the women I know who are doing it right.  Though many of you are fighting the battles alone, you are always showing mamas like me the right way.

To the woman in the mirror.  Though you yell too much, cry too much, and often avoid too much.  

I can't wait for the 6pm hugs and sticky kisses...followed by the 6:10 whines and fights.

Dear Maya,

I should've named you cinnamon.  For the subtle tang you bring to every situation.

Feather.  For the soft, wispy way your eyelashes brush my arm when you're snuggled in close on movie night.

Rooster.  For the early mornings you refuse to let pass silently.

Ocean.  For the dark pools of your eyes that see for miles.

Fire.  For the way you engulf a room with your incomparable vigor.

Anchor.  For your singular way of tying me to the world you completed....and also for the weight you add to my lap when I have a million things to do but your hair in my face keeps me still.

Sigh.  For the only response I can muster to some of your more...colorful...shenanigans.

Finale.  For the fact that nothing is really finished until you've applied the bow.

Proud.  For the wrecking ball of esteem you carry over your shoulder.

Love.  For the heart you have and the warmth you emanate.

But, no, I named you Maya.  For the inspiration, strength, and possibilities the name signifies for me.

I couldn't have known seven years ago just how many ways you would define all that is sweet and genuine and ornery in our family.  My Maya, you could have been named so many things - but the title of daughter remains my favorite.

Happy birthday baby girl,

Always,

Mama

Things I've learned this week...and it's only Wednesday morning

If it's too early to drink, it's too early for an unannounced ex husband visit.

Things that could've gotten you chopped up in little pieces and buried in a backyard in your twenties get you smiles and stories in your thirties.

Even when you think you're making a private joke, your oldest kid knows you're really talking about the one hot teacher in the whole middle school...and she laughs too.

Playing hard to get is more effective when you aren't actually playing.

As soon as you figure out your kid's currency, they switch it up.  Today's overpriced clothes are tomorrow's....who knows.

Ending a relationship ensures that your song will play every 3.4 seconds - no matter the station - and the roads will suddenly fill with his vehicle.  But saying a silent f you every time soothes the sting.

When your friends find happiness, it makes you want to table dance and give nicknames.

Even if you don't see the desired results, completing a workout every day feels like an accomplishment... Though feeling the six pack abs would be nicer.

Not everything has to be sexy.  Seriously... People should stop trying all the time.

Gentlemen still exist, but they take some getting used to.

And, finally, just remembering the bottle you bought after that unannounced visit makes the 6 am texts from the ex husband more bearable.

Not a good match

For months I'd heard it, "That'd be perfect for you!  You should try that!"

For months my response was the same, "As soon as you do, I will."

Well meaning friends.  Just trying to help friends.  Looking out for me friends.  But not one of them wanted to sign up, and I knew it.  So, it wasn't a risky maneuver the I will if you will was really the I won't have to because you never will.

Until one of them did.

One of the most beautiful, successful, smart women I know signed up.  And she reminded me of my promise.

Match.com

We swore we'd never tell anyone.  We even have a story we worked out in case one of us (*she) met the man of her dreams.  But the lessons I gleaned from my blissfully short stint online "dating" are too valuable not to memorialize.  Following are the most profound lessons/warnings/giggles...

} The first thing you have to do is describe yourself, in detail.  Apparently, most women use this space to describe themselves via the early 90s or after they finish the insane exercise regimen they've always wanted to start but haven't yet found the time to.  You must include pictures...those of sunsets, pet llamas, and Backstreet Boys days are frowned upon.  I'm not kidding...every single person I met in real life (and no, that wasn't many, but still) they all were surprised I looked like the pics and description I put up.  

} Next, it's time to describe him, in detail.  This I found to be very difficult because, what if.  What if you're absolutely sure he's a tall, college educated, English speaking, 28-39 year old; but, he's actually a 5'8, multi lingual, 42 year old, self taught computer genius?  So, I was very vague in my requirements for him.  In fact, as long as he was at least my height and old enough that no one would mistake me for his mommy or his granddaughter, I didn't specify.  And, really, if you're so picky that he has to be 7'3" with purple hair, gold eyes, an athletic build, a ten figure salary, and three extra toes - well, you deserve to grow old with your cats and old copies of Murder, She wrote.

} Now, you're up there for everyone to see.  Give it about 12 seconds (I'm still not kidding) and the attention starts pouring in.  One minute you're a normal woman, walking through life relatively anonymously...then BAM you're the hottest thing around.  I really couldn't stop laughing at the silliness of it all.  If you're vain enough to believe it, good for you!  The rest of us know someone just rang the dinner bell because fresh meat was thrown on the table.  

} Every. Single. Man on there reports himself as "athletic and toned".  Now I'm no statistical or genealogical or even dietary expert; but if this is a wide swath of the available men in my area, than all of the average, overweight, and obese men we see out and about are all taken.  This leaves all those poor, neglected gym rats and sporty types with not a chance in the dating world, relegating them to sites such as these.  Or.... The boys are as big of fibber, fibber pants on fire as the girls.  I leave the final judgement up to the women who agree to meet these fine, upstanding gentlemen in the light of day.

} You will find yourself with the most odd assortment of characters.  At one time, I was "talking" to...and this is not an exaggeration... A car salesman, a civilian contractor living overseas, a perpetual student, a doctor, a factory worker, a business owner, a construction contractor, an electrician, and several military members.  Where are you ever going to find that kind of plethora of options outside of The Sims?  

}  No matter the age, race, height, body type, or hair color, 9 out of 10 first emails contain the same phrase... "Hey cutie".  Coincidentally, 9 out of 10 first emails are not replied to.

}  Remember Step 1?  That long profile you put together spouting all of your better qualities and artfully deemphasizing your less than stellar points?  You were so uncomfortable and it felt so egotistical and you worried that he would read it and think you were a snotty brat.  Yeah...no one reads that.  They look at the pictures and decide right there.  I was thisclose to changing my profile and sneaking in random sentences confessing my fetish for orangutan hair and secret desire to move to Idaho and start a sweet potato farm just to give myself a giggle.

Did I meet some decent people?  Absolutely.  

Were there some moments of well, maybe...?  Yes.

Was my time filled with entertainment and head shaking?  Yes and oh, yes.

Will I miss it?  Not even a little.

My imposed sentence of online dating wasn't the worst way to spend my time in purgatory.  It forced me to open up to possibilities that I normally would've eyebrow cocked at and scared away.  And, if nothing else, now I know that isn't always the best answer.

Meanwhile, my gorgeous, smart, successful friend is deciding if she'll need our concocted story... and I'm back to waiting for Mr. Right to appear on my doorstep.

Today I become the parent of a teenager. I don't think either of us is ready for that.

Dear Sofia,

As I write this, you're still sleeping away your birthday morning.  This, in itself, is new for us.  Every morning of April 6th for the thirteen years preceding this one, you've been up and full of energy bright and early.  Now, as a certified member of the angst club, you sleep more and there's a discernible drop in energy levels...to say the least.  My oh my, how things have changed.

Gone is the extra little kid fluff that made you look so young.  Gone are the days of snuggled in Disney movies.  And, gone are the days when I could say anything without an eye roll or a foot drag or the most infuriating shoulder slump.  The kid who made things easy is long gone.

In her place, I get the kid who is going to change the world.  You read books like they're air, you believe in things so truly that you almost make others believe,  and you are as loyal a friend as anyone could dream of.  Yes, you and I battle daily over everything; but secretly....very secretly, I sometimes want you to win.  I want you to change my rock solid mind sometimes just so that I can see how you will shape the world.  Unfortunately, you seem most determined to work on my hygienic standards, and those are pretty rigid.

Truly though, I know the kind of kid you are.  I know how lucky I have it.

You're kind and giving.

You're smart and thoughtful.

You're loyal and dedicated.

You're talented and hardworking.

You're becoming an involved sister.

You're proving a fierce advocate for your mama.

You're learning to accept people as they come.

And, you're doing it all with a wicked sense of humor and a laugh that swallows the room.

I love you, kid.  Through the tears and the drama and the war we'll be waging for years to come, I love you like no other.

Always, 

Mama

So, you want to date a single mom?

Let me start by saying there are two kinds of single moms.

1.  The kind that are doing it right, the best way they can.

2.  The other kind.

An easy way to tell the difference:  if they are out every night, dressed to impress, dropping everything to get your attention - there's a kid (or twelve) somewhere who only ever hears "I'll be back" from the woman who barely glances in their direction.  I'd advise you to avoid this type of woman for multiple reasons, but do what feels right to you.

Now, assuming you've chosen the first kind of single mother, you're going to need some insight you can only get from a mama doing it on her own.

1.  You're not number one.  Sure, you're cute and charming and can do things for her no one else can.  You are a prize, no doubt.  But she already has a number one (or several) and that position will never be reassigned.  Ever.  Nope...not even after you do that one thing she really likes.  Best you can hope for:  a distant second.  

2.  She's busy.  Maybe you're a single dad who sees his kids a couple days a week, maybe you're a doctor with a full patient load, maybe you're IronMan.  You're still not as busy as she is.  Until you've started every single day at 4 am, finished a full (non-mother) days' work by noon and still have ten hours of raising children and keeping a household running ahead of you, you can never know how busy she is.  Yes, she'd love to stop in the middle of her Wednesday evening and join you for drinks. I mean, she would kill for it.  But she has soccer practice and dinner and homework and...well.. You're already bored just reading the list so we will stop there.  Suffice to say, she'd make time for you if she could, but she won't take it from her kids.

3.   Be prepared to be patient.  In every way.  

On her blessed weekends free to give to you, she first has to coordinate with the father to pick up the kids.  He'll be late.  Just to be inconvenient.  She can't control that...be patient when she's late for the reservations you made.  Order her a drink, she's going to need it.

She'll get a zillion calls and texts from the kids.  She'll respond to each and every one.  Doesn't matter where you've taken her or how much you paid for that dinner, it'll get cold while she listens to the play by play of the cartoon her kid is watching.  She isn't any more interested in that show than you are, but she'll take the call anyway... Be patient and understand that she is ignoring everyone else for you.

She won't introduce you to her kids right away.   Of course she likes you, of course she hopes it works out, of course she knows it would be preferable to not sneak out before the kids wake up.  But she will gladly shove you out the door if she thinks she hears the stirring of little yawns.  She'll take chances with herself, but never with those kids.  You have to earn that invitation.  And it's harder to get than a White House invite, so don't hold your breath...be patient.

4.  She won't trust you.  For a long time, if ever.  Single moms have been, by and large, hurt.  Badly.  By someone they trusted enough to commit a lifetime to.  Most single moms aren't in that position by choice.  They carry the scars of someone the way they now carry that person's burden.  And, they will protect their world by any means necessary.  If you want it to work, you have to be ready to prove yourself over and over and over and over.  It's not fair to you, no, but it's a fact of dating a woman like her.  She knows you aren't him, but she's even more sure of who she is now.

5.  She's loyal.  Single moms don't have time for games that don't include colored cards or hungry hippos.  If she says something, she means it.  If she does something, it wasn't an accident.  If she chooses you, you're in.

6.  She's strong, but not invincible.  She's proven she can restart.  She's proven it to herself, her ex, her kids, and everyone who doubted her.  She has absolutely no desire to prove it again.  She's shown the world that she can do it all on her own, but she wouldn't mind your help.  She may seem hesitant, but the shoulder you offer is the lifeline she needs.  She's not going to ask, but your humble offerings save the day.  

7.  She can appreciate you in ways others can't.  She's probably seen the worst of people.  She probably knows exactly what nothing feels like.  So, she truly and wholeheartedly appreciates every inch you give her.  Small, quiet, unassuming gifts of you will never go unnoticed.  She doesn't need everything you own - only everything you are.

8.  If you get her (and her kids), you've hit the jackpot.  Whoever was there before you is missing out on every level; and, more than likely, he's somewhere kicking himself for it.  She's strong and smart and capable and loving and good...and you got her.  Those kids are strong and smart and fun and loving and good... and you get to be a part of it.  There's not a luckier man than you.  

All that's left is to appreciate your prize and reap the benefits of stealing a single mom off of the market.  Congratulations....now go do that one thing she likes, she's had a long day!

Miracles

I had a complete, screeching, sobbing, incoherent, breakdown last night.

It was ugly.

And it was stupid.

A clogged toilet.  

But not over the fact that it was clogged.

Not that it's clogged at least three times a week.

Not that, once again, no one told me it was clogged.

Not even that, once again, at least one person used it after it was clearly already clogged.

No.  I was melting down because I couldn't pass this ridiculous chore on to someone else.  Because I've never been able to yell out "Honey, could you help me with this please?".  Because there's no one around to say "hey, it's my turn.  I got this".

And, last night, I just wanted to have a better half.  Hell, I'd have settled for a half-assed half.

But that's not my path anymore.  Instead, I pulled myself together, unclogged the toilet, and moved on to the next task.  The next chore I can't share.  The next problem I don't have the Y chromosome for.  The next insurmountable mountain.  

And I handled it on my own; without the benefit of that storied extra set of hands, I performed the next miracle.

Because, single mamas, we know miracles.  We are masters of the slight-of-hand magic that others never see.  We got this.

Not every miracle is one they name saints for.

Sometimes the miracle is holding our eyes open though the entire story our kid just has to tell us well past bedtime.

Sometimes it's the birthday present they were sure we couldn't get them.

Sometimes it's a feast we saved up weeks for.

Sometimes it's figuring out the air compressor that's been dormant in the garage for two years so that we can air up the ball for driveway soccer.

Sometimes the miracle is showing up at school with the homework that was shoved behind the dresser.

Sometimes it's getting dinner on the table in record time so that she gets to practice in time to show them how it's done.

Sometimes it's keeping a roof over their unimpressed heads and clothes on their ungrateful behinds.

And, sometimes, the miracle is unclogging the toilet for the third time in as many days.

We single mamas may not necessarily want to be miracle workers, and we may be failing 64.8% of the time.  But, it only takes one miracle to keep the ship afloat.

And, sometimes, the miracle is that we don't just jump off that ship and let ourselves drown.

Mistakes made right

I made a mistake tonight.  One I've never made before and was completely out of character for me.  We missed a soccer practice.  Anyone who knows me knows I am anally early to everything.  Whether I want to be there or not, I always arrive ridiculously early everywhere we go.  Until this evening when we were 57 minutes late to an hour long soccer practice.  I felt horrible.  It was Maya's first practice of the new season, and mama messed up.  

But it was a beautiful night.

And we were already dressed for soccer practice - Maya and I in cleats, Eva and Sofia in sweats and tennis shoes.

So I asked the coach if we could borrow one of the team balls so we could practice a little on our own.

And we spent the next 40 minutes having the best night we've had in a LONG time.

We took over half a soccer field and we ran that grass raw.  We never stopped laughing and smiling.  

At one point, I looked around at the other fields where teams of little ones were practicing.  The kids were running and smiling....the parents were standing around bored and tuned out.  And, all I thought was: "Wow.  What a wasted opportunity.  Smile, damnit!  Get out there and chase your kid down the field!  Laugh, for God's sake!  Kick a ball with the little one waiting for her brother's practice to end!  Stop rolling your eyes at me!"

Yep, Eva and I belly bumped every time we scored on her sisters.

Yep, I trash talked my six year old, edited for content of course.

Yep, we yelled like crazy South American futbol champs every time we were awesome (which was pretty frequent, of course).

And, yep, we were absolutely having a better time than you.

Listen, life is hard.  It's stressful and trying to carve out time to just play can feel impossible.  I get it.  On our way out the door this evening, I was yelling at Maya because she couldn't find the jacket she had just taken off.  I was ready to pull all of my hair out.

Then we were 57 minutes late.  And, I could've kicked myself all night for it.  I could've gotten back in the car and driven back home to get back to the colossal heap of responsibilities that await me.  

But I would've missed the flushed faces of three happy kids.  I would've missed the intense feelings that only come from those tiny moments of "I'm doing this right".  I would've missed the best night we've had in longer than I care to say.

And that, so much more than the missed appointment, would've been a mistake.

And, I'd bet my shiny new soccer cleats that every one of those other kids would've lit up the field if their parent had run in for a high five.  I know all I heard from mine on the car ride home was "mama, that was the best family night ever!  Let's do that again!".  

Who knows, maybe we'll be late again next week...

A friend of a friend

A friend of a friend grew some feelings recently.  She put down her gloves and she unlocked her door and she let someone step inside.  As soon as she did this, her fear overcame her.  The moment the extra feet passed the threshold, she invited them back out.  See, she tried and tried to clean up the mess left behind by the last intruder, but there was no bleaching away the marks of a brutal death. The guest promised to wait while she freshened up, though.  So, she took a breath and started to fix up the place.

A friend of a friend saw the chance to change her path recently.  She tried really hard to walk like the new crowd and talk like the new crowd and believe like the new crowd.  She looked around at all of the smiling faces and, despite never having been one, she made it her goal to blend in without anyone noticing her effort.  "These people", she thought "they have so much to show us."  So, she put her head down and guided her little posse into the stream.

A friend of a friend was reminded recently.  Reminded of what she already knew.  Reminded of the scars she couldn't erase.  Reminded of how unfair lessons can be.  Reminded of why she stopped believing in magic.  Reminded of people who dress themselves in the costumes of sincerity and promises.  Reminded by the unseen change of seasons and the way the air suddenly disappeared from the room.

A friend of a friend.  Yes, she was familiar by face but I forget her name.  This friend of a friend of mine was a stranger in all but the way her voice echoes in my head.  A friend of a friend whose face I don't recall, but the creases in her back remind me of a map I once memorized.  And, as she walks back down the one way road, I remember what our friend once said... "Sorry about her, she just needs to do it alone."

It will get easier, but it doesn't get better

I read those words today.   Well, I read a lot of words today.  Those stuck out though.  Not like a sore thumb... they stuck out like a neon sign on the darkest of nights.

See, there's a lot going on over my head right now.  A lot of struggles and pressures and storms.  I'm sitting at my kitchen table surrounded by papers that I can't handle right now.  Tired in ways I can't wrap words around.  Broken in ways I know too well.

And, I needed a day to try to pull it all together.  I really needed to spend some time on the floor while I worked on growing some more strength.  I desperately needed to put the mask down for a little while today.

But the phone has been ringing almost nonstop since they left for the weekend. As they always do, the girls have called a zillion times on my weekend "off".  To tell me they miss me.  To tell me what they're watching on tv.  To tell me the sky is blue.  To hear my voice.  They do this so many times that I start to let it ring a few times before I jump up to answer.  They do this so often that I almost turn the ringer down when I'm trying to sleep.  But I don't.  I don't because I'm theirs.  I don't belong to myself or a man or the world.  Three little people own every piece of me, including the few peaceful hours I had been hoping for today.  So, when the phone rang before 7am this morning, I rolled over to answer.  My Maya.  I could see her plain as if she were hovering over my bedside.  Crazy morning hair, rumpled polka dot jammies, and half opened eyes.  She wants to come home.  "Of course you can, my love".

After hanging up, I sighed.  For the disappointment I shouldn't feel.  For the day I needed to regroup.  For the coffee I wouldn't enjoy.  Then I remembered - I belong to her.  

I am home.  For this kid, my lap is where she pulls it all together.  For this kid, I am where no mask is needed.  For this kid, nothing else will do.

One day, she won't want to spend a Sunday curled up at my side.  One day, I'll be calling her at 7am... And she'll turn the ringer off.  One day, she won't beg me to come hold her hand.  She won't always want me to come have lunch at school.  And she won't rest her head on my chest in front of all of her friends.  One day, this kid will not need me.

Yes, it'll get easier.  I'll get to sleep and read.  I'll complete a thought or a sentence or even a day without being interrupted by an update on the happenings in Gotham.  One day, I'll get to the papers that overwhelm me and I'll be able to fall apart in the solitude I would covet today.  I'll be able to go for long runs and take short naps.  There will come a time when my full time, no day off, just be happy you were able to slam the coffee before the raven haired beauty peeked around the corner days will be easier.

But it won't get better.

Nothing is better than being homebase.  Nothing beats being the only human on earth whose voice can soothe a hurting heart or an upset belly.  There is no greater feeling than a tiny hand sneaking into the hands you've been clenching in stress and fear.  A full night's sleep would be nice and a break in the barrage of problems would be practically orgasmic, but opening the front door to find a relieved smile and the gentle eyes of a child come home?  It doesn't get any better.