Let's do this bitch

I've been feeling a lot better later.  Lighter.  More focused.  I'm still jobless, but at least I don't feel like I'm slogging through waist-high mud anymore.

People have suggested meds for this bullshit, but it's situational, not quite yet chemically based.  I know the difference.  Not that I'm against meds -- oh, definitely not -- but a job-a-day will definitely get these blues to go away.  That and signed paperwork and a big step f.o.r.w.a.r.d.  So, yeah.  No meds required... just yet.

Basically, I'd be a really bad lottery winner.  I need shit to do and I'm rather bad at finding things when I'm paralyzed with fear and sadness.  Funny how that works.  But I'm managing.  Applying to jobs as I find them; dreaming up an Etsy storefront (anyone want small paintings of random flowers by an amateur artist??); watching marathons of Murder, She Wrote; crying and laughing (way more laughing, by the way -- I'm too dead inside to cry); spending lots of time with Rooster and Hawk on off-weeks, savoring every second of my on-weeks.

 

Season 3, ep. 8: "Magnum on Ice." 

Speaking of Rooster, we went to Hawk's first-ever parent-teacher conference the other day.  Here are some highlights as told by Hawk himself (well, not really himself, but you get the gist):

• I eat at just about any opportunity (both snack times and lunch) and I eat each piece of my lunch separately (chips, then sandwich, then fruit, but never a little of each all at once)
• I have forgone the pre-nap hug-n-kiss instead preferring to just go to my mat with a book
• I get along with all the kids and have begun sticking up for myself when someone snags a toy (“Hey!  That’s mine!  I was playing that!) whereas I used to just stand there bewildered
• Fleur and I will often have to be separated at nap time because we like to just stare at each other while holding hands instead of sleeping
• I frequently compliment the female teachers on their outfits to great appreciation of my observations
• I always like to help a teacher out and answer, “Of course!” when asked
• I usually nap, but Hannah can’t figure out what the combination is that makes it so
• I love the “Jump Up!” song
• I am particularly good at the “Guess What Animal This Is” game and it’s also my favorite
• If Hannah can’t find me, I’m usually in the sand pile
• Once, when Keenan kept hitting me and I finally hit him back, I got upset and Hannah had to reassure me that I wasn’t in trouble (though, hitting is never encouraged)
• I don’t share my food (as a rule), but I will occasionally ask someone else to share and then I’ll give something back in exchange
• I really take eating seriously: no funny business.  Just sitting and eating.  No playing and running around
• Hannah can always count on me to be mellow and stable.  I’m sometimes the only kid in Dungeon room who goes quietly to his mat before nap time. 
• I also just use the baño.  I don’t play in it

I totally cried.  But happy tears this time.

We also went to the Houston Space Station (or whatever it's called). Oh. my. god.  I don't even care about space except that it's beautiful and fun to look at and imagine about, but I was still awed by some shit.  Especially that Saturn V rocket thing.  Wow.  I mean, as a kid I liked the planets mostly because they were pretty -- not because of the science -- but building something that massive that flies to outer space??  Pretty fucking cool.  Even for this artsy, loved-English-assignments kid.

Did you know they put Model Ts on the moon? Either that or this is just a bad Grapes of Wrath re-enactment.

Space shuttle landing, natch.

Really.  Who looks more excited to be here?  He might have said something about how he's been "waiting my whole life for this moment!"

Saturn V engines.

   

Yesterday my sister told me she thinks I should start "hustling."  I wish it meant getting dates, because that'd be awesome.  But alas, she meant jobs. However, I've decided that I'm somewhat reliving my 20s, but in a much smarter way.  I mean, just look at this picture of me and my BFF.  Don't I look super smart?  The cigarette really proves it.  Can I get a job from being colossally cool on a Saturday night?

So, my next big project is to update this site.  It needs a new look and definitely a new tag line (I came up with that one during a crying jag - so lame).  Man, I gotta update my BlogHer profile and my FB one, too, now that I think of it.

Also, this blog is going to see more of me.  As in ME.   Not Mommy Jessica or Feminist Jessica or Natural Parent Jessica.  I mean, they're all in there, but I've decided to let more of the ribald, crass, grown-up in me come out, too.  It'll be like a French braid of feminism, parenting, pscyhotherapeutic rhetoric, and cussing.   I hope you'll like it.  I wish I could somehow make this site into a sex column and answer everyone's sex and relationship questions, though.  Non-sequitur you say?  Nah, not really.  I'm surprisingly good at that kind of stuff and I think it goes with everything else seamlessly. 

Ok!  Coffee's kicking in.  Time to dress and tackle the day, my couch, my life, and the world!

New bank card

I'm exceedingly sad today.

For some reason today feels worse than all the other days.  And I'm not at all sure why.

Maybe it's because the test is over and done with and I don't have anything to fill my thoughts but with WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?  WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU AREN'T DOING ENOUGH!  DO MORE!  WORK HARDER!  TRY HARDER!

I have to get a job.  It's very simple.  Yet, I still feel horribly displaced and out of sorts by all of this.  My baby is away from me every day and I only see him three hours a day during the week.  That barely feels like mothering to me after doing it for 24 hours a day for more than 3 years.

I know that many displaced homemakers such as myself have gone through this and it's comforting to know there's a universe of women who know what this is like... but it still sucks shit.  It sucks. fucking. shit.  And a half.

This past Friday my financials with Rooster split.  Meaning, half his paycheck goes into my own separate account now.  I received my cards in the mail weeks ago, but never activated them.  I thought I was lazy, but really, I was in denial.  As I slid the card in the ATM slot Saturday to activate it a little piece of me shredded.  My own account.  Alone.  Separately.


Rooster is cracking under the financial strain of doubling our expenses.  I don't blame him.  Meanwhile, I continue to shatter into a million tiny bits and pieces.  A little here.  A little there.


I look into Hawk's ocean-colored eyes with the dark blond lashes and I see love and hope.  I look into the mirror and I see sorrow.  Stark and lingering.


I'll be ok, I know this, but... but I don't know what.


I look at my friends and I see more love and support.  I would drown if it weren't for them, their belief in me.  I am dried up inside.  I care about so very little anymore.  I feel almost nothing when I am alone.


Every day I think about my future and my baby's.  I am proud of myself and feel strong then I get sucked into a vortex of fear and self-doubt.  I love my life -- love it -- but it also feels like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.  One week I am Jessica.  Rowdy, raucous, bold.  The next, I am Mommy.  Loving, responsible, devoted.


Each week causes me whip lash they are so utterly different and each so potent in their affect on me.


My bank card somehow proves this.  I am on my own.  Alone.  Both me and myself.

I thought I'd moved on

I've been thinking about my father a lot lately (yeah, you know this is gonna be a fun post now, don'tcha?).  The specter of his illness, both physical and emotional versions, have been looming over my life like a dark cloud.  The truth is, I haven't shaken it like I thought I had.

My relationship with him was based solely on me trying to live up to his impossible expectations and never coming even close and thus being punished for letting him down.  My adult eyes look back on me as a little girl and I cringe; I can't imagine doing that to a child.  It was just cruel and unusual punishment.

One of my best friends was in town this weekend and we talked about him a lot.  We also talked about my ex-stepdad, another father figure who treated me badly.  The funny thing is that I don't really remember much of those five years, but Linda does.  It makes me feel weird and sad that I can't remember my own life and how someone treated me, but there it is.

I know that a lot of my parenting is in direct reaction to my own childhood, if not all of it at times.  I am determined to protect Hawk from me and other adults and our particular pathos.  I want him to learn to navigate life knowing he's inherently good and if I can get him on board with that even a little bit I think his life will be on less painful trajectory than mine or Rooster's was.

Sometimes I worry that all my parenting is reactive.  I see other adults in my life and how they blindly swing through life trying to relive their own traumas to a more successful end and I don't want to be like that.  I know I'm fucked up, but I struggle to do the right thing every time, even if it's the most painful, even if sometimes I slip and I'm not my best Me.

I don't think my father ever considered breaking a cycle a day in his life.  He was mired in his own pain and history.  My mother, on the other hand, was a rock star and beat her cycle with a baseball bat.  Where her family was neglectful and cruel she was tender and present, but we were also enmeshed, too close for me to differentiate and separate gently.  It was a shock to all our systems as I grew up and became more independent and more than a little traumatic.

I talk to Hawk all the time about how when adults behave in a certain way it has nothing to do with him.  Maybe they don't like being kicked by him, but it's not HIM, his little personhood, that they're reacting to.  Sometimes he nods and agrees with me, other times he insists it's his fault I'm angry.  I get that he's the center of his own universe and I'll continue to work on this with him because (and here's why I think I'm so reactive) I remember so clearly thinking that I was responsible for everything my parents ever felt and it crushed me.   And it crushed me to the point that my dad's death was a relief.  It meant that the legacy of pain had ended. 

Or at least I thought it had.  Because here I am reliving it in a vicarious way in order to not pass it on to Hawk -- such a strange phenomenon.  And I'm grieving and stumbling all over again.

Also, unrelated to parenting, I've realized that my father's influence on my life is still very strong.  My marriage protected me from my tendencies for 7 years, but on my own I'm much like I was single.  And that realization has been a real slap in the face.  A good slap, but a slap nonetheless.

Ahh... I love writing heavy shit all the goddamned time.  Ha!  Here, let me end on something cute that happened recently.  I went to get Hawk from daycare the other day and as I passed through the gate I could see him digging in the sand with his teacher Hailey.  The side of his face looked discolored and my stomach dropped a little.  When I got to a place where I could see his whole face I realized he was covered in paint reminiscent of a bloody beating (it was also on his belly, back and forearms, but I didn't discover that until bath time).  This kid goes to Kiddie Heaven every day at this little hippie school and I love it!

The magic that is a child (this is not a year-end recap)

Every morning I am awoken by Hawk climbing into bed with me; my mattress is on the floor and he delights in the ease with which he can snuggle down next to me.  Today was no different.

Yet, somehow, today is different.  Just a little.

It's my 5 year anniversary.

I feel some sadness about this, though it's more like I feel a kind of heavy pressure regarding its presence rather than any real emotion about it.  Maybe it's more accurate to say, I think I feel some sadness about today.

Hawk rustled under the covers and my eyes blinked open to see the sunlight streaming in over the back of his spiky bedhead.  His little shoulder rising and falling with his breath accompanied by a slight motion from rubbing his blankie between his thumb and forefinger.

Then he rolled over and we were nose to nose looking deeply into each other's eyes.  His dark brown lashes blurred into white tips as they caught the soft light and his cobalt blue irises reflected me back like a tiny, tiny mirror.  Everything else in the universe ceased to exist as I stared at myself in his eyes.  He lifted his hand, placed it on my face gently and said, "It is a good day."

The last five weeks have been incredible; such a tangle of every emotion possible.  I am happier than I've been in years, yet I am also sad; I'm angry, I'm at peace; I hurt, I rejoice.  The death of my marriage has conjured up the ghosts from my father's and Levi's deaths and I have re-experienced that pain all over again, as well.  Apparently, despite my grief over these things being so vastly different, they're still all in a "grief file" in my brain and when I pull out one, I revisit the others whether I want to or not.

Grief aside, life is pretty fucking ok.

Rooster and I are doing well.  We have our moments of locked horns, but just as in our marriage our separation and road to divorce is full of decorum and respect.  We're like little barnyard goats, not bighorn sheep.  I couldn't ask for a better man in my life than him to share this with -- is it weird to say I wouldn't want to divorce anyone else but him??  I think you get the point: his kind, gentle intelligence is serving us now just as it did when we were working to stay together.

My friends have been supportive and caring; gently reaching out, but never crowding me.  I've had some incredibly low moments this month and if it weren't for the steady trickle of concern from far and wide my pain surely would have run away with me.  Thank you to all of you.  I cannot imagine my life without you.

Tuesday, January 4th, Hawk starts day care.  Full time.  I got him enrolled in an amazing school which is centered around child-led play.  Seventy-five children, aged 18 months to 5 years, run amok playing with potions, piles of sand, old tires, and the ugliest castoff toys I've ever seen which somehow magically turn into the shiniest, most spectacularly special toys when I use the eyes of my youth.

A lot has been going on, yes... yet, I haven't been dreading today as you might think.  I believe in regular days and their mundane power and try not to give importance to arbitrary dates (with the singular exception of Hawk's birthday and those days which those I love find important).  I'm having some of my dearest friends over tonight, people who were at my wedding 5 years ago, and Rooster has asked to join us.  Of course I said he was more than welcome.

So I will be ringing in the New Year much the same as I did five years ago: with hope, with expectation, with love and friends surrounding me.  The biggest difference now is that everyday I have a small, cherubic face to remind me what a good day it is today lest I forget.

And as his early morning words faded into the space over our heads comfortably cradled in my down pillows he moved his hand to rub my arm.  He took a small breath and added to his assertion about today's goodness, "You are so precious."

Indeed, I thought, but it's more like lucky. I am so, so lucky.

Where, oh where, are my feelings?

I used to be too sensitive.  Now I hardly feel.

The past several months have been an extended climax of emotion and pain and it's as if it's happening to someone else.  I have removed me from myself and am now driving a body forward, but am no longer experiencing it first hand.  I'm exhausted.

I wake up, I smile, I love my boy, I feel free and happy, but it is so one-note.  One color.  One flavor.  The deeper nuances are out of my reach.  I am numb.

I signed a lease for a new apartment last week.  Rooster is moving back into the house and I'm moving out the first week in December.  It makes sense: I can't do yard work or fix a goddamned thing.  He needs the garage and shed for all his crap.  I'm over the moon about it, really.  Seriously.  I have visions of a maintenance man at my beck and call, manicured grounds, a pool that cleans itself, a walk to the grocery store, a little closer to downtown and my friends who live north.

It's such a strange mix, numbness and happiness.  On the one hand I am protected, on the other I am held distant from really connecting.  I call it The Wall.  I've been accused of having it and warned of its ability to make me miss out on things, but then again, that's what I love about it.  Its other super power is apathy: I don't give a shit if I'm missing out on things.  (I feel like I'm finally understanding all the asshole boys I dated in my 20s.  They really and truly didn't feel anything after all!  It can happen!)

Though,  to be honest it's not shielding me from worry.  I do worry that all of these things I'm not feeling are going to come back and bite me in the ass.  Yet, I also believe in the process  -- oh, how I believe in the process -- and that what's happening to me and how I'm handling myself is the exactly right thing to be doing. 

You see what's happening here?  Up, down, back and forth.  Holy crap, I'm a bloody mess.

When Rooster and Hawk were in Kansas City for a week last week I hung out with an awesome blogger (holla, Allison!) Friday, Saturday I went to Bloggy Boot Camp (more on that later), immediately after the conference I drove to San Antonio (1.5 hours away) for a surprise 59th & 70th birthday party, drove back to Austin and caught the tail end of a bachelor party including a party bus and drinking until 3:30 am.  Sunday, I was spent.  And raw.

I could feel a mountain of emotions just around the corner (exhaustion and being hungover will do that to me, apparently).  A friend came over for interior design advice and I could feel the tears prick in my eyes as we looked at catalogs to feather his nest.  I remember poring over images looking for just the right pillow or rug to make our house a home.  Now I spend all my time cataloging just how to dismantle it.  Which couch to take, which plates, which decor.

Pluck, pluck, pluck.  The nest is gone.

When my friend left the tears had vanished, as had the tremor of emotion that had begun.  I was back to Robot Jessica.  And so I did something dramatic: I gathered up everything Rooster had ever given me as a gift, his box of pictures, one of his fantasy books that he loves so dearly, and the one photo of us as a family I've left framed in Hawk's room and put them all in a pile on the bed and I sat and looked at it.

I stared at it until the tears came and I shook with sorrow.  I fondled the sunglasses, the mini iPod with the 1-year dating anniversary inscription that reads "Thank you, Jessica, for an amazing year!", I held my platinum wedding rings and remembered their weight on my finger.

Finally, I was feeling something: disappointment, uncertainty, fear, sadness.  My broken fucking heart.

I slept for a week with that pile of things on what used to be his side of the bed.  It made me feel something and for that I was grateful.

Rooster and I are getting divorced.  It's a done deal.  We're unraveling the life we made and rebraiding a new one based on friendship and partnership.  It seems fast, but we've been emotionally disconnected for much longer than we have been physically.

I wonder if I seem different to my friends and family because I definitely feel that way.  I feel immense strength at going about this the hard way, the kind way, the painful way.  I feel distant and cut off.  I feel free as a fucking bird.  I feel crushing disappointment.  I feel fear.  I feel hope.  I feel happy.

I'm so proud of how I'm handing this, how we are handling this.  It's a rite of passage, doing this the hard way.  I am not a coward.

So, Feelings, I know you're out there.  I'll try to check in on you every once in a while, but I know you're not going anywhere.  Until then, thanks for keeping your distance and I'll see you again soon.

Revolution, schmevolution.

(Family, this post isn't for you.  Please read this post, too, if you  missed it from a while ago.  If you choose to read it, keep it to yourself.) 

Under the Mopac bridge, 9 am today.

Last night was a late, pleasurable night at home alone and so it's not surprising that today I've been exhausted.  But it isn't a bone-weary thing, it's this weird brain-weary feeling.  I have been thinking so fucking hard, for so fucking long.  I think my brain is finally feeling it.

I realized a year ago that shit was going down.  If you go back and look at my August archives you can see it with your own eyes.  Of course at the time I had no idea.  None. Nada. Zip.

I had no freaking clue that in a year I'd be facing hysterical mothers, broken dreams, floundering toddlers, and gaping, open space in my closet - and, lo, my heart.

This week has been a big week on so many levels - oh so many levels.  I feel like I'm in different places at once, even different time periods.  I can feel like my 8-year old little girl self who only ever wanted her daddy to stop abandoning her.  Then it's to feeling like a warrior mother who will stop at nothing to protect her baby.  Then a loving, helpful friend and supporter.  Then I'm an almost-single woman on the loose and enjoying half-naked, glistening men on the running trails. Then, back to 19-years old and struggling to feel the way I want to feel in a house that absolutely rejected such a concept.  And finally, I'm simply a woman who someone doesn't want at all. 

All these different, big, imploding bodies pulling me in so many directions.  I am a taut rubber band, resolutely hanging on, determined not to snap.  I won't snap.  I never do.  It's not what I do.  But fuck.  This is hard.

Tonight has been particularly difficult because I came face to face with the fact that Anthony will not always be there for me.  It is the nature of a break.  And, obviously, I won't be able to offer him that same flavor of solace either.  And in the mean time, my life goes on and I continue to find myself needing someone to lean on. 

No one's going to stop being hysterical for my benefit.  No giant "pause" button will be pushed.  People will continue to do what they do regardless of what's happening to me and I will now have to endure it on my own, whereas for the last 7 years I've had a companion, a confidante, a champion to stand by me.

...

Some minutes have gone by and I've just sat here thinking and feeling and really sinking into a calmness.

I'm quieter now for having written the above angst and I feel more connected to the wonderfulness that has been coming my way the past several weeks since I went public with the new things in my life.  So many of you have reached out to me and lovingly reminded me that I'm important in some way, either to you or to the universe.  I feel like a parched, lost traveler with a glass of water in my hand when I get those missives from you.  I feel found.  Grounded.  Better.  (And, thank you. Thank you thank you thank you.)

I am about as far from being an island as a person can get.  I crave connections and attachments of all kinds, but am ultimately terrified of putting myself out there too far, even on a good day.  I feel I often misrepresent myself and I confuse and unsettle people frequently.  I am too boisterous, too intense, too weird.  I can drink too much and behave ridiculously.  But truthfully, I am more tender and sensitive than all that.  I am intuitive and caring and thoughtful - at least I strive to be.  I only want to be loved and accepted for me.  That's it.  It sounds so utterly trivial, but it's true.  The more the sands slip by the more convinced I am it's my one true quest in this lifetime. 

And all of this is tied up with the multi-tiered, multi-layered bullshit feelings I'm experiencing because although I'm going through a present-day crisis my entire freaking life is flashing before my eyes and I'm having to re-experience critical moments.  I don't want to be stuck in a hamster wheel.  I want to be able to explore more of myself.  I don't want to be chained to faulty expectations and motivations.  I want to be noticed for the woman that I am and loved because of it.  I don't care who you are.  I want you to love me because I'm me.

Hello, Sanity? It's me, Jessica.

 My tree.

I have so much to say.  Tons.  And tons.  I don't know if it's even worth trying to put down on paper (or whatever) it's so prolifically overwhelming.

I spent the better part of this morning in my underwear and t-shirt re-reading old This is Worthwhile posts.  Like the one about Levi dying.  And the ones about my dad dying and being an awful dad.  And the one about me being curiously unhappy. And the one about me not wanting my marriage, but reinvesting in it anyway.  And the ones about some boxes, my grandmother, my mom, my sister's wedding, plus-sized assessments, Hollis' birth story, and last but not least, the one about my the sex dreams.

And you know what I thought when I was forced to walk away from the computer and get dressed?  I thought, "Damn." 

Yep.  That's it.  Just DAMN.  Nothing insightful or honest or even remotely understandable because I think right now my head is so far up my ass I couldn't see the forest through the trees or the goblins in the garden, or whatthefuckever that saying is, if it was a snake and it bit me.  Did I get all those right? 

Basically, I'm a hot mess.

A hot mess with an after-school special waiting to happen to her.  Stick that in your hat and suck it.  Or... whatever.  I give up. 

I'm realizing now more than ever that the thing I'm going to have to be most aware of and careful of is my decision making, or lack there of.  In this particular instance it means not drinking too much and not using social media as a bedfellow.  It means forcing myself to slow down, "enjoy" the process, and to not get too hyper about my new-found freedoms.  It means blogging every goddamned day if I have to in order to get out what I need to in a productive, worthwhile manner with people whom I trust even though I know hardly any of you - but I'm like a Golden Retriever like that: pat me once and I'm your friend for life.  No questions asked.  Just keep patting.

I guess the other thing I thought about after I read all those depressing and intense posts is that, "Damn, I'm really depressing and intense!"  I swear to God I'm actually, marginally funny in real life.  You can ask the handful of real-lifers who read this blog.  I just also happen to dive into the depths of my own psyche.  A lot.  Maybe too much??  I don't know.

You'll never hear me sully Anthony's name on this blog.  I love that man, I do, it's just he also happens to be the wrong man for me and me the wrong woman for him.  Not a comment on Anthony in the least, it just is.  But it's also really hard to avoid the thought of, "Anthony doesn't want me," and therefore, "I am useless/not good enough/unworthy/wrong."  You follow me?  I don't think there's anything wrong with him for not wanting to be with me.  I think there's something wrong with me that I can't figure out how to make this work.  AND I think there's something wrong with me that I'm happier now than I have been in forever.

It's bad enough admitting that a relationship is over, but it's just outright self-harm to blame yourself for its demise.  And then on top of that to be really, really happy right now, too?  Oh my God.  I'm dizzy just writing it.  How can I possibly house all these conflicting thoughts and emotions in one body?


 I think this is why I went back and re-read all those posts.  I've been meeting people lately that I know read my blog and I'm curious as to what I look like to them.  I'm not the most scrupulous editor when it comes to this space, yet I am still intensely private... in an open way.  Do I come across as bat-shit crazy?  thoughtful?  loving?  funny?  sad?  weird?  self-absorbed? 


Ugh.  Whatever.

I've recently met someone by random happenstance who reminds me that there are really cool fucking people out there and that I happen to be one of them, too (at least according to this fine friend I am).  Despite the fact that I'm an utter failure at this marriage and I'm on the verge of being a complete idiot most of the time, this friend of mine assures me that it's those very things that make me the great woman, mother, and friend that I am.  How nice is that??  No really.  How very fucking nice is that??

I'm so all over the place with this.  I feel like I should put a disclaimer at the top of my blog apologizing for (what potentially could be) months of this bullshit.  Months!  I shudder to think of it.  But I'll just say "sorry" now in advance, because I am.  I'm really sorry that there will be a theme to my posts about my sanity and me striving for it, because honestly there's nothing more intensely boring (to me, anyway) than someone ranting on and on about their search for meaning.  I mean, just go find it already!


Wow.  Ok.  This might possibly be one of the weirdest posts I've ever written.  In any case, thank you, friends.  All of you.  New and old, real and virtual.  Your words heard and read mean the world to me right now, so thank you.  I also promise to not wallow in all my weird, intense posts anymore.  There's just no good in that.  Maybe I'll update my "Lighter Fare" section in the mean time...


[By the way, I may take this post down later.]

I shouldn't be drinking coffee at 3:30 pm

 

He's caffeine-free.

I got iced coffee for the first time today in years and I've been nursing it for 3 and a half hours.  *sip*  *sip*  I know I'm going to regret it later, but I can't seem to stop myself.

That's been a theme for me the last few months, whether it be watching TV into the wee hours of the morning, polishing off a bottle of wine by myself after Hollis is in bed, or smoking a cigarette (or five or ten), any kind of disregard I can inflict on myself I've taken the opportunity.

Of course, I've simultaneously striven for balance with a healthy diet, lots of exercise, intense therapy, and lots of communication with Anthony as we go through this chapter of our relationship (read: the final chapters of romance), but it still doesn't negate the fact that I self destruct - though "destruct" is too harsh a word.  I'm thinking self-spank is more apt.

I remember being a kid and having no power in my life or over how I got to express my pain.  I immediately turned inward, blamed myself, sought outlets where I wouldn't feel.  I'm not a kid anymore, though I still seek outlets that let me disengage.  Thankfully, they're just those spanks I mentioned before, but I'm still confounded by them.  Why do I still do anything of the sort?? 

All of this brings me to a question that I've been pondering at great lengths lately: how do I teach Hollis to feel (and deal with) those feelings that are painful, difficult, stressful, and otherwise wearing on the soul?

I was given no skills in this department as a little person.  Zero.  And I know most aren't given the tools to work through feelings deemed "negative" or "troublesome."  I feel like it will be a major parenting win if I can somehow manage to do this (don't ask me what it means if I don't somehow get this achieved - that's another post) . 

I want Hollis to express his rage and sadness.  I don't want him to internalize it or be afraid to show it like I was.  I don't want him to grow up and go on benders or hide for months and years at a time behind drugs and shallow relationships - all things I attribute to my inability to process my pain.  I want him to have avenues of expression, be they artistic or otherwise.  I want him to feel the discomfort and grow from it.

Like every parent I want him to live a better life than me; not pain-free, but expression-full.  And expression that moves him forward, not backward like mine always seems to do.

As an (almost) 35 year old woman I've learned how to counteract my unhealthy coping mechanisms, but I'm still at a loss as to how to avoid them all together.  I get it now.  I don't even beat myself up over it like I used to.  I just trudge on and love all the weird ass parts of me; all the contradictions and idiosyncrasies.  But teaching a little person how to do what's always alluded me??  Eesh... how the hell do I do that???

I'm open to suggestions. 

Wherein I break with all common sense and spill my guts

(Family, this post isn't for you.  Please read this post, too, if you  missed it from a few days ago.  If you choose to read it, keep it to yourself.)

 

Image via Lucynka55.

I'm "home sick" today.  Literally, and for the first time since becoming a mother almost three years ago.  I woke up this morning before dawn and had a 101.5 fever.  I patiently waited until the sane hour of 6:30 am and called my mom.

"Mom," I croaked.  "I'm sick.  I give in.  Can Terry come get Hollis later today??"

So, Hollis went off with Papa for a day (and night) of fun and frolic and I am left in an empty house, an empty city, and with an Ibuprofen-controlled fever.

And I don't know what the fuck to do with myself.

Forget for a minute that my son is gone for the day, but really: I. don't. know. what. the. fuck. to. do. with. myself.

Like, in general.  My marriage is all kinds of fucked (let's be honest here, I am not hopeful and neither is Anthony).  I don't have a job, though I'm perfectly educated for one.  I feel like I have too much time on my hands to think/feel/worry/wonder/fantasize.  I feel adrift, to say the very least.

Even feeling like this confuses me because I know that I'll land on my feet.  I always do.  I may prefer dogs to cats, but I'm very cat-like in my nimbleness.  For instance, I got a $100 check card in the mail the other day during a month that we're particularly hemorrhaging money.  Just more proof that I'll be ok.

I consistently feel like what I really want is out of my reach, too far away, destined never to be in my grasp because I'm not smart enough to figure it all out.  How do I get that fucking holy grail of happiness and contentment?  Why am I compelled to reach for it in the first place?

I hate limbo.  I'm such a shit or get off the pot sort of gal.  You'll never hear me complain about something unless I'm prepared to try to fix it.  Therefore, Anthony and I have decided to take the separation a step further: he'll be moving in to the apartment full time and Hollis will be going back and forth.  It's been too hard on all of us, this weird sharing of space and pre-dawn commutes.

When did my life become a series of moves to disassemble??  I spent so long putting it all together in the first place.

One minute I'm extremely excited about my future and its possibilities for greater happiness and the next I'm disconsolate over my complete inability to make what I have work.  But how can I possibly change who I am at the core??  This isn't a communication issue.  This isn't a behavioral issue.  It's a person issue.  I am the wrong woman for him.  He is the wrong man for me.  It's no one's fault.  It just fucking is.

It's taken me hours to write this, all day in fact.  A friend came by to see me today for a few hours, I chatted online with friends, I perused/sifted/day-dreamed about so many 1s and 0s, then Anthony and I chatted and we discussed official separation papers and "Do we know any family attorneys among our collection of friends?"  I've kept the fever at bay, but not my insidious worrying that I will fail at this transition somehow, that I'm failing now.  

It's interesting that I can at once believe in my abilities and failings so completely at once.  A sign of the times, I suppose.

I want it to be two years from now so badly; to just skip over so much bullshit emotion and pain and be on the other side of this.  Full of piss and vinegar again, ready to tackle anything.  I'm so tired.  So, so tired, and yet, I wish I were busier.  I'm plagued by my free time.  I'm envious of Anthony and his skills at compartmentalizing.  I've never been good at that.  Occasionally I get a whiff of what that's like when I lose track of time writing or talking to a friend or working out, but I can't consume myself with those things all day every day, can I?

I miss Anthony and what he represents, but I don't miss our combined energies.  We're both happier apart.  This is really the right thing to do.  All of it.  Every last drop.

Swirling confusion.  I feel like I've been blindfolded and spun around, then spanked smartly on my behind.  I'm titillated and interested, confused and stumbling; I'm eager to swallow the treat.  So eager.

Just keep rolling with the punches.  I can do this.

Breathe.

[Ed. note: I went to bed last night thinking, "I should probably put a disclaimer on my post reminding people that I'm ok", so, here it is.  If we hung out we'd joke and laugh, and I'd make inappropriate jokes as per my usual, and we'd talk about your house renovations or your PhD program or your son.  I'd answer any questions you had about what's happened with me and Anthony and I might tear up (a little), but I wouldn't cry.  Then I'd tell you all about how Hollis named the underground garage at Wholefoods a "car-house" and how I've fallen back in love with my boobs.  I might even tell you about my new found resolve to most definitely not get another dog.  It's not all doom and gloom over here.  I just had a moment yesterday.  I have them regularly, though not continuously, and once I get it off my chest I feel better.  Thanks for all the love you give me, everyone.  Truly, it's amazing and overwhelming and it's such a wonderful reminder to throw open my front door each and every day and smile into the the world and to keep doing what I do.]

A Worthwhile Post #4: One-Sided Momma

All the Worthwhile Posts I've talked about so far.

Clearly, I'm not the only one wiped out by BlogHer.  Anyone who reads a handful of blogs probably came across a post either criticizing it, hailing it as the best thing since sliced bread, or attributing post-convention exhaustion and feelings of being utterly lost in real life to it.

Honestly, I'm in the third camp.  Either I'm not smart or naive enough to be in either of the first two.  I'm not sure which.  In any case, my extreme fatigue has already been written with such eloquence and skill that I'm spared the task of even trying.

Erin, of One-Sided Momma, is a former teacher, a current military wife, and mother of two two-legged and one four-legged wee ones.  She's smart, emotive, and real and she weaves threads of narrative into colorful patchworks with ease.  And this post is no different.  (I also had the very great pleasure of touring the MOMA with her and can also add she has an easygoing demeanor and alabaster skin.)

It's not just because her content hits so close to home, but also because I think it goes beyond just this week for so many of us.  We all have days, weeks, months just like this, where we question our own fortitude, sanity, and will.  Her candor and skill at sharing it is what really grabbed me.

Enjoy.

Man, I Miss Me

Holy blog deprivation, you guys. Since being home from my little hiatus I haven't been able to find my mommy mojo and get back into the routine of making time to write while also doing the 456, 732 other things necessary for oiling this family machine. Nothing like a break in your typical program to kink up your momentum and make you feel like the substitute teacher without hand-outs and teacher's key. I have lesson plans (if matching shoes and going to the pool count as lesson plans) but no "insider's knowledge" of how to get through them smoothly.

I think the real irony here is that time away from home usually makes other people in your family appreciate all you do but this time it made me realize all I do. And now I have no idea what kind of super human freak I was before I left because seriously there isn't any "leftover" time in the day to write. There isn't any kind of pocket of unused minutes I can dip into for uploading pictures, organizing thoughts, and posting some coherent story about our day. Did I once do this at 2am? Did I give the children bags of gum drops and looped cartoons around noon so I could blog? Was there a slow CO leak I didn't know about? Whatever the case, I once was crafty enough to find the time. Now? Two weeks later I am putting Abby in her brother's T-shirts because suddenly her own clothes don't fit. I am forgetting to make eye contact with Grayson who has a running dialogue with my thighs lately as I whir a blue streak around the house with Windex. I am cleaning up doughnuts that Sadie heisted in our absence, not because she loves sour cream cake, (mind you, this dog has been known to turn her snout away from steak if it's too gristly), but because she's bored as hell (or is assuming that I am bored as hell too and want to play hide-and-doughnut-seek when I return). And don't even get me started on that guy I haven't seen in going on three weeks now but whose aftershave leaves me breathless because my nose tricks me for one millisecond into thinking he's only in the next room. Seriously you guys, what the hell is going on around here? Where is my children's mother? Where is that dogwalker, cook, maid, nanny, split decision maker, multi-tasking gangster? Where is that girl who could whip everyone into shape by 10 am and have enough brain power to post relevant images and daily meanderings?

She must still be shopping in NY.

I just hope she remembers milk and eggs.

Posted by One Sided Momma at 8/16/2010 03:18:00 PM

With my sidebar feature, "A Worthwhile Post...", my hope is that I will spread some blog love and give due nods, props, and high-fives to the writers I stumble across (and repeatedly visit) without having any rules or strings attached.

If I ever feature your post, please feel free to grab a "This is Worthwhile" button. There's no obligation whatsoever. Do whatever floats your awesome writer's boat. My feelings won't be hurt if you don't use the button.

I'll also do individual codes for each blogger, because I want anyone who clicks on this button to come directly to the post that says why I think it's worthwhile.

<a href="http://thisisworthwhile.blogspot.com/2010/08/worthwhile-post-4-one-sided-momma.html" target="_blank"><img alt="This is Worthwhile" src="http://sphotos.ak.fbcdn.net/hphotos-ak-ash2/hs192.ash2/45569_428159326449_525551449_4830782_6934852_n.jpg.jpg" /></a>

A new blogging promise to me

There's something about this picture that really speaks to me.

As you all know by now I went to a big blogging conference in NYC called BlogHer.  In a nutshell, its purpose is to bring together female writers for networking, skill-building, and fun.

(And here I just SIGHED trying to collect my thoughts.  This is gonna be a long one...)

I don't really know where to begin.  First off, it was amazing.  Absolutely fucking amazing.  Women everywhere you looked laughing, hugging, talking, squealing, conversing intensely and seriously, drinking, eating, dancing, looking uncomfortable, nervous, happy, stressed, lost.  You name it and you only had to look to a different pocket of people to see something new and real come to pass.

I had two sets of two different roommates for my three days there and so felt doubly fortunate to share close quarters with twice as many people as everyone else might get to.  I also made connections with women who (for reasons I can't really speak to because it still seems a total mystery to me) actually (and truly) wanted to meet me as part of their conference experience.  - Even typing that now still makes me smile and shake my head.  Hearing those words and knowing them to be heartfelt and true makes my heart swell. It feels like fucking magic.  If I say it too much a genie might appear and demand repayment, so I better stop.

It was nothing short of utter chaos.  Beautiful, overwhelming chaos.  I did everything I wanted to do.  I skipped almost all of the parties, instead preferring to be under-scheduled.  I'm about 90% certain it was the right thing for me to do because it allowed me to go at my own pace, though the other 10% is me missing hanging out with friends who were going to scheduled events.

One of the very first people I got to meet on Thursday was a woman whose writing touches me and challenges me in the most fascinating ways.  She tweeted about being barefoot in the lobby in a green dress and I looked up and there she was, rushing past.  I called her name and we hugged.  Fiercely.  Multiple times.  I was just SO happy to meet her finally even if it was in a crowded lobby and all we got to do was hug.

Then I dressed in my favorite blue dress and went down the initial BlogHer party whose lone purpose is to help everyone relax.  I saw bloggers I'd met at pre-BlogHer meetups and we hugged and laughed and drank wine bought with our limp little drink tickets.  I thought to myself, "I definitely need to hang out with her again!  And her!  And her, too!"  Then it was time to meet up with the DinHer ladies and catch a cab to a trattoria a stone's throw from Times Square.  I ate, drank, made lewd disgusting jokes about having "the COCK---les" for dinner and inadvertently made everyone take a group photo again when they realized I had missed the first round due to taking a phone call.  Later, I'd roam the streets surrounding the hotel in stilettos looking for the dive my roommates were in eating pizza, order a drink they couldn't/wouldn't make, and then happily head back home blistered and sober in the company of two nice smelling girls.

Friday I hit up a session about inspiration, then ducked out after lunch and hid in my room for a while chatting amiably with my roommates as they did a quick outfit change before dashing off to party #13 (or maybe it was #27 -for real, their party schedule was inspired).  I showered, relaxed and then headed off to the NYC public library to meet a friend I hadn't seen in a decade.  We hugged tightly and I noted his hair had thinned a tad and he very much looked the part of a distinguished and handsome librarian.  (I'm sure he noted the years on me, too.)

As the head librarian for the rare books division he gave me a personal grand tour of the archives and the library itself.  Each room filled with volumes of leather-bound books and each room having a distinct scent of worn paper and ink from the previous.  (Michael's office, sequestered in rooms stuffed full of books all about tobacco, reminded me of the way my grandmother's encyclopedias used to smell.)  I saw The Columbus Letter with my own eyes, inches from my face, and original art, historic pieces, and craftsmanship that were awe inspiring to say the least.

The library closed and we took the subway to Lombardi's and drank wine and ate pizza cooked in a coal-burning oven.  Then we walked through Little Italy, SoHo, Greenwich Village and Washington Park to grab a drink at The Algonoquin.  - Actually, we grabbed three drinks.  Side Cars for me, Stingers for him. - We talked, caught up, shared.  We talked about my situation, my life, Life in general, his life.  It was incredible and rejuvenating.

Then, we walked some more, filled my eyes with art deco paintings and tile work in atriums and lobbies, swung by Rockefeller Center and finally dropped me off at my hotel exhausted and happy. Only for me to head back to the hotel bar and hang with more new friends, laughing, and cussing more than I think I ever have in my entire life (if that's even possible) because, I thought to myself, when will I ever get to do this again?  I didn't care how exhausted I was or how even more exhausted I'd be the next morning, I was determined to wring out every scintillating second out of this weekend if it killed me.

Saturday I caught a session with a woman I greatly admire (and who earlier in the conference got to hear me gush about how I loved her work), but had to leave early to check out of my old room and into my new one.  Then, down to the lobby to meet with another great woman who wanted to come to the MOMA with me.  We ate paninis with bread too hard and crusty, and swapped sandwich halves like an old couple.  Roamed the halls filled with Matisse, Pollock, and Rothko, women's photography, and different languages filling the spaces overhead.  Eventually, we were spent - done filled up with art and beauty, as it were - and sat out in the courtyard on the stone steps and talked.  And I mean really talked.  It was incredible to share with her in ways I can with only a select few. 

Later that night, I'd do it again, with a different, wonderful woman sitting on the lobby floor under fluorescent lights wishing I could pack myself in her bags and go live next door to her, too.

I didn't cry as I spoke about the pain and confusion of my life right now.  I only gritted my teeth and sunk down into a trove of strength I didn't know I had.  I was so proud of myself for finding this new reserve even I didn't know was there as I let my words flow with big, bold emotion.  A new me was found, it seems.

And even later than that, I would continue to spend time with a woman who tucked me under her wing and was lovely, wonderful, hysterical, and real and who I hope like hell comes to visit me some day.

Peppered into all of this were more dazzling conversations with other women; stolen moments sitting on marble retaining walls smoking frou-frou cigarettes and watching all of humanity roll past; drunken toasts; ass-shaking to music clearly spun by someone born in the 70's, too; picture-taking; elevator-bay SEO sessions; Swag Mountain; meeting bloggers with tens of thousands of followers and a heart and hug so big and warm you'd never know it she was a blogging giant in her own right.

I could go on.  And feel like I have, but I still haven't gotten to the point of all of this: What I learned about myself from this weekend.

Well, a couple of things: 1) I am a sensitive woman-of-my-word who is a wine-drinking, foul-mouthed, feminist-mother, who practices attachment parenting, is a breastfeeding activist, occasionally uses the word "retarded," who likes to be connected to a select few, but part of a bigger group, too, and who also likes light-hearted and not always politically-correct or personal-belief-aligning blogs, and 2) that that's all ok.

For so long now I have tried to be too many things to too many people because that's me.  I want to please everyone.  I want all the feminist writers I admire to admire me, too.  To consider my blog as "feminist" and to list me as so and not think I'm frivolous or don't care about changing the world, too.  I want the humor writers to not think I'm a drag and so fucking serious all the time.  I want the life bloggers to think I'm well-rounded and good at just, well, being.

I'm actually this close to getting rid of my blogroll just so I can start fresh and clear my head.  This blog is for ME, after all.  Not for anyone else.  If it resonates with anyone else that is purely lucky, amazing, spectacular mojo.  Not intentional.

So I hearby have a new Blog Mantra:

I will no longer feel bad when I blog about something silly or otherwise "meaningless."  I will stop trying to prove myself to people who, I'm certain, don't think twice about it one way or the other.  I will write about whatever I want with honesty, clarity, and a vision of filling my own shoes, and proudly so.  I will write about causes that I care about.  I will share things about my life as I see fit.  I will let this blog be as much a representation of me as I like.  I will assume that everyone else does what I do whenever I read their writing: just read and enjoy.  That simple.

Wow.  This ended up being really fucking long.

Oh, that reminds me, I'm also going to start swearing on here more.  Deal with it.


BIG LOVE to everyone who made BlogHer so unbelievably special for me.  I hope you know who you are.  If not, then I've done a terrible job painting the picture.

Isn't it obvious?

Everytime Hollis sees this he points and says, "That's you, Mommy!"

A lesser woman might have asked, "What about this reminds you of Mommy?"

And a lesser woman might also have been relieved with, "Shes eating grapes!" as a response.

Should I really have just left him??

 The little person who owns me.

This week Hollis started yoga camp.  My mom saw a little blurb about the studio in the paper back in May and it looked like something Hollis would enjoy while also getting our collective feet wet regarding separation and autonomy.

It's Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursdays from 9 am to noon.  The kids do crafts, eat a healthy snack the parents have packed and if diapers need changing that's taken care of, too.

I've never left Hollis with anyone he didn't already know before so this was a really big deal for me.  We talked a lot about yoga camp and he was excited before he ever showed up and I felt I'd done as much parenting prep work that I possibly could.  Day 1 went swimmingly.  Hollis gave me lots of hugs and kisses as I departed and happily dove into a gigantic toy-filled trunk.

When I came back at noon he was very determined to tell me how I had been gone.  "Mommy, you were gone!  You were GONE!  But you back.  And you hold me.  Kiss.  Fun!  Mommy, you were gone!  But come back."

I held him tight and he waved goodbye to Amy and her assistant Remie and they told me he'd done wonderfully.

Day 2, same scenario as I left: lots of kisses and hugs, no signs of strain, and when I picked him up we had a similar conversation.  Unlike Day 1, however, we had plans with my step-dad for lunch which Hollis was very excited about... until, that is, I wanted him to sit in a booster seat.  He clung to me, wouldn't lift his head and sobbed big, hot tears.

What in the world???  This child is the antithesis of clingy.

I picked him up and held him on my lap while he continued to lurch with sobs and bury his face in my neck.  Obviously yoga camp was taking its toll.

That brings us to Day 3 and it's now 10 am.  He was very excited to return to camp and see his friends (that'd be Amy and Remie, naturally).  He shoved his Crocs into a cubby and ran to the yoga room where half a dozen kids wandered around kicking balloons, reading books, or pulling toys out of the trunk.  His warm little hand gripped mine and pulled me inside.  Remie said hello while Amy balanced three little girls on her knees.  And Hollis just kept gripping my hand.

That's when I knew today was different.

I parent Hollis with a keen memory of my own experiences as a shy child and also with the educational awareness of a counselor - I want very badly not to project my own childhood personality (and issues) onto him - I want him to navigate this world as Hollis, not as Jessica's Son, so when I knew he was going to protest me leaving I was truly torn.

Do I stay and hang out??  What message does that send?  That when he's a little scared Mommy will stay and that makes everything better? Or do I go?  And the message is that Mommy leaves and I can  rely on myself to get through a tough spot of emotions?  Or do I leave and send the message that MOMMY LEAVES when I'm scared?

It took a couple of tries before I could get out of his sight.  By that point Amy saw our little drama playing out and she came to intervene. She asked him if he'd ring the bell to start the class, to be her special helper.  He warmed up to that, but kept a wary eye on me.  He gave me more kisses and I took a deep breath and walked away as if to the front door, out of his line of sight.  I could hear him crying and Amy talking to him about kicking balloons and playing with his cement truck toy.  The cries weren't alarming other than the fact that he was upset and the receptionist, who had a direct view of him, confirmed to me that his face was affect-less and he was just making the crying noise to show his displeasure with the scene.

I told her that this was new for us and had to take another deep breath to fight back the tears... I was sweaty and dusty from the trail, basically looked a hot mess, and felt vulnerable enough without breaking down in tears in front of a complete stranger.  I managed to ask, "You'll call me, right, if things get worse?"

She smiled and said, "Oh, of course."

I walked the last few steps to the front door and walked out into the blanket of heat that is Austin in nine in the morning to the woeful moans of an angry child filling my ears.

And I still don't know if that was the right decision.  By leaving him under (mild) duress am I upbraiding all the work I've put into instilling complete trust in me and the adults who love him?  Is it wrong to leave him?  Or, shit, is it just my own personal abandonment issues wreaking havoc on my perspective??

In any case, my plan this afternoon is to take him to get some ice cream and reconnect and cuddle and reassure him that MOMMY ALWAYS COMES BACK.  If not for him, then definitely for me.


What do you guys think??  Any suggestions?  What did you do to get through this kind of anxiety and milestone?

Austin, I don't hate you anymore

A couple of weeks ago I started walking on the Townlake trail on the river.  It's a 3.5 mile loop and it has invigorated me.   A lot is going on for me personally and even though I am a trained therapist and know the benefits of regular, vigorous exercise I'm still surprised at how good I'm feeling.

It's hot here, like really, really hot.  By 9 am it's 80 degrees with intense humidity, but I'm not letting that stop me.  I sweat, I push, I challenge myself, and for 50 minutes my mind wanders to happy places while my muscles burn and my skin glistens.

I see so many different bodies, all so beautiful in their many permutations: heaving, wet, muscled, soft, jiggling.  I'm reminded that my body is wonderful and lovely and that I'm lucky to have this life and this shell.

Hollis is with me in his (I originally typed "my") fancy-schmancy stroller (I highly recommend it for anyone with back pain and a city/country-mouse personality like mine) and I am well-equipped with snacks, tractor-books, lots of water, and bread for the critters we visit along the way.

I feel as though I could do anything just by completing this one physical act each morning.  I miss it on the weekends when I let life get in the way; I fall asleep exhausted looking forward to it in the morning; I want to at once share it with others and keep it private, for my heart alone.

This new ritual is rejuvenating me.  I can feel it in my soul.  I'm falling back in love with Austin and its sultry, liquid summer.  I can't look away from the beauty that is this town: skyscrapers nestled among green, rolling hills and a languid, lazy river.  It breaks my heart it's so many parts of new and old all tangled together.

Thank you, Austin... you're saving me.  Not only are you reminding me why I'm here, but you're making me feel good about it.  One sky full of cotton-ball clouds, one canopy of luscious green trees bending over me, and one young, hungry swan-family at a time. 

Looking east from the ped-bridge.

Looking west.

Crossing Barton Creek which feeds into the Colorado River.

The sidelong, surreptitious stroller glance all toddlers seem to have down pat.

Herd of turtles.

Thank you for your patience

 

Image via zshare.

Just a heads up that posts will be anemic and sporadic for a while.

I have some great post ideas about body image and gentle discipline, and some carnivals to participate in and I'm hoping I have it in me to actually get some of these out there, but I'm not really holding my breath.

Sorry.  Lots going on and I just don't have it in me to write these days.  If you're a FB fan, though, I'll still be around there more frequently.  It's easier for now.

-Jess

I tried on my wedding dress today

It was nap time and I was bored and I was watching one of those "pick the wedding dress" TV shows because that was the channel the TV was on when I turned it on.  These women were agonizing over their dresses with teams of loved ones in tow.  The bridal consultants were consummate professionals always able to help "her bride" find "the perfect dress." 

I was once one of those women.  I poured over magazines and spent hours online hunting for the look I wanted.  After half a dozen boutiques and a couple of different groups of participants as an entourage I eventually found my dress 1200 miles away while alone in CA.

It was ethereal, soft, sexy, and had just the right amount of sparkle.  It really was perfect in every way.

I wore it with a homemade birdcage veil with white feather-flowers and later with a faux fur wrap.  I danced and imbibed for hours in that thing only to, literally, tear it off my body and party with 25 of my closest friends in my corset and a pair of Anthony's jeans (my maid of honor, my little sister, had forgotten to bring my bag of clothes to the honeymoon suite).

She was a good partner for the 8 hours or so I wore her, though I treated her badly.  I never had her cleaned afterwards, nor repaired.  I did, however, zip her up in her big clear bag and carefully hang her up in the back of the closet... until today.

Something about that show made me curious about the dress I'd chosen and what I'd think of it today.  Would it make me look as amazing as all these women looked at the boutique?  Would I still love it?

The sheer weight of the garment bag seemed to mirror the intensity of the day it was intended for.  It was full and heavy, yet glimmered in the light.  I carefully pulled it out and unzipped the bag.  I could smell the uniquely wedding-dress fragrance of the fabric and practically feel my round-eyed hope from 5 years ago.

I took off my clothes and looked at my body - so similar, yet so different from 5 years ago.  I stepped into the dress and started to zip, but stopped half way.  Yep.  That was all she was gonna go for this time around.

I pushed her back down past my knees and ran to my dresser to grab my corset.  I think it was still tied to my old measurements because it cinched me in and my breasts spilled over the top, whereas this hadn't been the case at all before.  Encouraged that this might actually work I stepped back into the dress and tried zipping up again only to be stopped at my ribcage once more.

I turned this way and that admiring my waist and the beautiful dress.  I felt bad for occasionally thinking I had chosen the wrong dress in hindsight, because apparently my hindsight in this regard was completely and utterly wrong.  Even with it unzipped 8 inches on the side it was beautiful and I felt special and somehow more womanly with my curves emphasized by the folds of the fabric and cut of the dress (go ahead, roll your eyes.  I'm a feminist, but I also love fancy dresses, what can I say?).

And that was that.

It was weird that I wasn't upset about not fitting into the dress.  Yeah, it was a bummer because I couldn't play dress-up, but I wasn't upset about my body changing.  I've borne a child, I've aged 5 years, I have breasts that I love, and a confidence and swagger that I can still rock it.

The emotions I felt wearing and looking at the dress felt like old friends were hugging me, and maybe they were.  Maybe that dress was wrapping her gossamer arms around me and telling me it was ok to say goodbye again.  I felt warm and fuzzy and not a little silly.  I remembered all the wonderful toasts everyone gave us and the moments when Anthony and I exchanged vows; all the hope and wonder was there in me, but it felt like another world and part of a wonderful dream that I will always have with me no matter what all at the same time.  And it felt good.

Really good.

So, if you have it in you, I highly recommend a little walk down memory lane yourself.  You might be surprised by how you feel.  I know I was.

(Ed. add: Ok, a couple of people said I had to have a picture of the dress, so here you go:)

 

Not enough for you?  Ok, ok, here's a better one: