Time, wishes, and raindrops

The Anniversary Clock that couldn't.

Today is Hawk's 4th birthday, which, to all you parents out there, is more than just a day of celebration.  It's also a day of remembrance.  Like, I'm sitting here at 7:49 am listening to the first rain in months and thinking, "Four years ago today I was in the hospital with Hawk nestled in my arms and happily latched onto my boob; Rooster was passed out from sheer exhaustion on the tiny little hospital bed to my left, his broad shoulders painfully folded in; nurses were coming in and out checking on my bleeding, asking me how I felt; and my heart and soul were realigning with the weight and honor of motherhood."

Yeah, so that's what I was doing on October 9th four years ago and today?  Today I'm alone in a dark apartment.  A massive rainstorm is bathing the parched ground outside and not a crack of sky is evident.  I can hear birds calling and raindrops on rooftops, the ticking of my keyboard and the purring of the cat.  But, I am alone.

Hawk is with his grandparents this morning.  I just called to wish him a happy birthday on the speaker phone.  Apparently, I woke up the whole house. "I can't talk right now because I'm too sleepy" he says in his Jersey accent. -- Goddamn, I love that little guy. --   But more importantly here, even if he weren't with PapaMimi, he'd be with Rooster.  He'd be apart from me.  On his birthday.

My life is so different from four years ago it seems almost unrecognizable.  The last month or so has been more brutal than all the rest.  I'm having a terrible time of reconciling my life today with my hopes from yesteryear.  I don't regret the divorce, but I regret needing one.  I wish that my life and my choices were the right ones for me and that my family were intact.  That I could get all my needs met and still be a "party of 3", be with my baby whenever I wanted to be, and safe with someone.

I don't want the old life I had, but I'm in such a place of flux.  I have no anchor, no base.  I'm in a transition and could be for years.

For our first anniversary, my parents gave Rooster and me an Anniversary Clock (this thing that you wind once a year and its pendulum twists).  The story goes that if it stops "ticking" then it's bad luck.  I'll never forget the day it did just that.  I laughed and said to my husband, "Oh my gawd!  Does this mean we're going to get divorced??  Say it isn't so!"  And he laughed warmly and said it was just a mechanical malfunction.  We never did get that clock to go for an entire year.

And yet, I wouldn't trade anything for Hawk.  I'll take all the broken clocks, the lonely mornings, the tears, the struggles and tribulations for one minute of knowing that kid.  I have to consciously beat down thoughts of losing him and remember to live my life with him as if we'll make it to 70 and 102 together.  The love and tenderness I feel for his little gassy, funny, precocious, sweet, thoughtful, and mercurial butt is all-consuming, all-defining.

Without trying to sound too dramatic, in some small way, motherhood is the negative space to my Me.  It shapes me without being me.  And so that makes today even more important because in a way I was born today, too.  It's still Hawk's big day, but I will also take this quiet morning alone to open my own little present to myself: knowing him and loving him.

Being awesome requires eye protection.

Waiting

 

Sunshine leaping into my arms.

In a few days I will be divorced. 

It will either be the day before my birthday or just after.

I no longer feel things.

This really should've been written in Haiku.  Divorce Haiku.

You hope beyond hope

Stars stutter your mind and heart

Wrong, pain, shit, stillness

My mother said something significant to me recently.  She asked if I was sad about the divorce because she "couldn't tell."

The truth is I am a master at concealing my feelings -- and let's be honest, it's a whole lot easier to believe that someone is ok rather than it is to believe they're unraveling one slimy scale at a time -- and I don't even mean to be. 

I don't try to deceive or misrepresent. I just can't share.

I've been loved and supported throughout this process and I have soaked it up like a desert-walker at a trough, but I only take what is offered.  I don't ask.  I simply cannot. 

This divorce has murdered me.  The Jessica that was is really no more.  And I don't say that to be dramatic or to illicit sympathy.  It really and truly just is.  I'm sure Rooster could say the same thing, or anyone who's ever gone through a traumatic and significant shift in their life.  It changes you.

I was changed after Dad died.  I was changed after Hawk was born. And now I am changed again.  Irreparably.

I have so much to say every day, but find that it's intense and sad.  I should probably write more to get it the fuck out of me, but I am embarrassed by the immensity of it, its boringness.  I read so many amazing blogs from people I really admire and I wish I could be more like them: pithy and bright, not dark and morose.  But... fuck.  I don't know what else to do. 

I have a post planned about how to muddle through a divorce with a 3 year old.  I think I have some really incredible tips, but I feel like such a failure (in life in general) that I haven't been able to muster the shell of self-acceptance needed to put it out there for public scrutiny. 

I can't believe one person even still reads this.  

But, here I am... tick-tacking away... doing my thing.  I'm ashamed and not ashamed all at the same time.  How can one human being be so goddamned conflicted anyway??  I'm exhausted.

Hawk is the light of my life.  He asked for me to come over and play with him while he was at Rooster's house the other day and I about had a fit I was so excited.  He's never done that before.  When he opens my bedroom door in the mornings his face is split in two with a smile and he says magical things like, "Good morning, sunshine!  Did you have good mommy-dreams?  I'm still a giraffe-tiger!"  What. the. fuck.

I'd like to say things will change around here, that the mood will get lighter, but that's a goddamned lie.  I have no idea when that will happen (at least I'm confident it's a "when" and not an "if").

Rooster is still my closest ally through all of this and that's almost as painful as if he were my biggest adversary. We're as thoughtful and considerate in the shredding of our relationship as we were in the braiding of it.  Ah, the irony. 

And there go the dozen emotions in as many directions.  I'm like a bomb that went off: shrapnel, broken bits, a splatter.  Divorced.

About a year later

I just realized it's been about a year since I first announced to the world that Rooster and I were splitting up.

And this morning I found my first grey hairs ever.

Coincidence? Mebbe.

I haven't colored my hair in 7 months in order to cut costs, so they've finally had the freedom to blossom among the dark wheat colored strands on my head --the little bastards -- but I'm certain they'd be there regardless.

Honestly, I don't really care. This past year has proven my mettle beyond a shadow of a doubt and I'm proud of myself.

Let me repeat that: I'M PROUD OF MYSELF.

I made the tough decisions, I strove forward, I didn't settle; I did the opposite of all those things when it would've been ridiculously easy to do so. Freakishly easy.

Some might think I gave up on my marriage, but the truth is I reinvested in myself and Hawk. I didn't want to suffer in that relationship for another 40 years and show my baby that misery and malcontent were acceptable in a longterm relationship. That was simply unacceptable to me.

Rooster wasn't happy. I wasn't happy. And though we talked endlessly, burned holes in couches in therapy for a year, cried buckets, and still loved each other, we decided reconfiguring our partnership was the best thing for all of us.

We earned the right to re-write our lives. We were never idle participants.

So wow. A year later. I can't believe it. And I can truly say, "I have the grey hair to prove it."

Put me back together again

All the king's horses and all the king's men 

couldn't put Humpty together again.

I don't feel as despondent as ol' Humpty, but I definitely feel as though I'm on a wall and I'm a big, giant, awkwardly shaped fellow about to teeter one way or the other.

• The job market is dire.  
• My divorce decree is *this* close to submission.
• I've been separated from Hawk for almost two weeks straight.
• I have no money.
• I am wrecked.  Wrecked, wrecked, wrecked.

It's a lot.  I told my mom that I need to by a Lotto ticket so at least that way it'd be one thing I didn't have to worry about. Her erudite response was, "Why don't you want to work on the other things, too?"

My answer?  "Mom, I can't buy a ticket somewhere that will solve my [job, divorce, broken-heart] problems, but I can buy a ticket that'll fix my money ones."

Still haven't bought that ticket.

I've been stuck in an eddy of self-doubt and reproach the last few weeks, but particularly this last one.  It took my sister calling on Saturday (July 9th) to give me a clue as to why.

"It's Grandma's birthday today.  I just remembered.  And 5 years since Dad died yesterday."

"Holy shit.  I totally forgot."  Though in reality, I don't think I forgot at all.

Our bodies do mysterious things.  We absorb every experience we ever have into our cells, our memories, our very fibers.  Consciously, I've been preoccupied with my here and now and my scary future, but my core... it knew.  It remembered.  We can ignore, deny, or even be so little as to not even have the language to understand, but still, experience is housed inside of all of us.

I've felt a lot of relief since identifying this particular rapid.  I can at least navigate it better now, face it head on, whereas before I had no idea how I'd gotten stuck in that eddy.  It's helped me feel stronger, more focused, less out of control and depleted.

But it's still hard.

I'm not going to say it's the hardest thing I've ever gone through, but it's very well tied.  And sometimes I wonder that maybe it's not more painful because I refuse to let myself go there - I really don't know.  Last time I felt this level of grief I was a newlywed, not a mother.  My guard is up.  High. 

After I realized I'd missed Dad's anniversary I called Rooster in tears.  He's still the only person whom I truly trust with my feelings about my father; he was with me every step of the way and helped guide me through the haze of putting myself back together that year. And, true to form, he was there for me again.  Listening and supporting and letting me cry my jagged little cry on the phone making no sense whatsoever.

So maybe I really have fallen off the wall and cracked and now is the time for piecing my shit back together again.  I can only see a new Me right now, not the old.  That woman doesn't exist anymore.  Only the new and improved Humpty is around here.  I guess I better get rolling...

What is a displaced homemaker?

Displaced dog-lover.

This is a displaced homemaker:

A woman who was once dependent on another's income, but is no longer due to a change in marital status (divorce or death) or a sudden change in financial situation (partner loses his/her job), and is forced back into the workforce.  

Apparently, officially speaking, I'm right on track with my loss of identity, confusion, and fear.  As is my defensiveness and unspeakable desire to run away from it all.  We displaced homemakers have a lot of bullshit going on (emphasis mine):

She must cope with the rigors of basic survival, provide for herself... and get on with the business of deciding what she will do with the rest of her life.  These are no small tasks under the best of circumstances.  Goal setting may appear to be an easy task, but for an individual whose entire life is in disarray, even setting the goal of picking up an employment application is a major activity.  The displaced homemaker, at this point, is usually struggling to make it out of bed each morning, and often feels incapable of more formidable efforts.*

So... now I have another label.  First it was small, like, College Graduate; then a little bigger, Owner of a Masters Degree; then huge, such as Wife and Mother (do they keep getting bigger in life??); and finally, Divorcee and Displaced Homemaker.  

Ok, I'll take it.  I'm a displaced homemaker, a mother, a woman, and struggling.  Really fucking struggling.

I mean, half of my life includes being wrapped in soft, sweet arms; kissed with innocent lips; snuggled with and adored; filled to the brim with purpose and meaning.  The other half I am alone; wholly grown-up; drunk with friends; adrift; empty, terrified, and jobless.

I am thrilled at my freedom to be Me, but also deeply struck down by it.  I don't entirely know who that is anymore.  I am a mother without a son half the time, I am a wife without a husband, an ambitious woman with no job, an animal lover with no animals, a care-taker with no one to take care of, a lover with no one to love.

This separation/divorce thing is splitting me in ways I didn't even know were possible.  Not only have I separated from my life partner, but I have been cracked away from ideas and identities that were integral to who I was as a human being.  I had no idea I would be this shattered, this broken.

I feel dead inside every moment I am away from Hawk without exception.  My heart is icy, downright black.  I care about nothing.  Getting out of bed, being industrious, holding conversations are all becoming feats in and of themselves.   I do it all, every day, but I'll admit it's a struggle.

As I see myself slipping I understand that it's part of the process.  I knew this was going to suck.  -- What?  Did I really think that everything would be peachy?  No.  I knew it was going to get dark, I just didn't know it'd also lose who I was in the process of discovering who that was in the first place.

I think, "If only I had a job.  It'd keep me busy, give me something to do, someone to be..." But it's not that easy.

I had a conversation the other day I wish I hadn't.  I can't tell you how many times people ask me about my job search and how it's going.  I'm getting used to it.  I know that people care about me, but it's like asking "So, how's the cancer thing going?"  I don't really want to talk about it (it's painful and terrifying), but I do because I know friends and family are worried.  But this particular chat struck me to the bone like the others hadn't.  I was asked, "Why don't you just open a private practice while you look for other work?  That's what so-and-so did."

The question is innocuous, I know, but the message I got was, "You're not doing it right.  You're not doing enough.  Look at this other woman, she did it right.  You have no excuse to not be working."

This is a perfect example of my current state of mind, of how goddamned wounded I am.  I don't really know if that's what this person thought about me by their "helpful suggestion," I just have no buffer because I am lost and I am mourning.

My face, neck and chest flooded with heat and I had to fight the tears as I took a deep breath and responded as non-defensively as humanly possible that a) I don't want to start a private practice right out of the gate after a 3.5 year absence from the field, b) I have zero capital to do so even if I wanted to, c) I don't want to be isolated as a new therapist from my colleagues and would prefer an agency setting or other cooperative, and d) I don't think it's as easy as this friend of a friend made it seem; I have friends whose private practices are only just now in the black after a year of work and they had monies in the cache to do so.

I was gently argued with on these points, then given a couple of concessions.

I felt somehow simultaneously vindicated and even more defeated when I walked away.

I'm treading water from technical skill alone, not strength.  I only look normal:  I bathe, put on makeup, laugh easily, socialize.  I don't think people understand what's really happening to me; how sensitive I am.  How hard I'm fighting to keep my walls up and remain protected from the outside world.  What a big fucking deal this all is.


I have lost everything I knew and loved.  Everything I thought I was.  This isn't just some fucking bad mood.  I'm not weak.  I'm not making this a bigger deal than it really is.  This is awful.  And I don't give a fuck if someone else has it worse or it could get worse.  Of course it could get worse.  I'm not so self-absorbed or ridiculous that I don't know that, but really, what good does that line of thinking do other than make me feel stupid?  It doesn't make my feelings go away.  I appreciate some perspective, but I'd really rather skip over the idea that I'm not allowed to feel this way just because some other schmuck has it worse than me.

When I visit Hawk and his dad, Rooster, at my old house my heart clenches.  I see the plants I painstakingly put in the ground, the wall colors I spent weeks debating on, the old friends from across the street, the hopes I had sunk into those four walls.  When I look closer I see nail-holes from removed pictures, rearranged furniture, a masculine feel, a new smell; Rooster feels different.  He doesn't need me.  Hell, he doesn't want me. -- But of course!  It's all (say it with me) part. of. the. process.  The mother fucking process.

I feel like that house and its inhabitants are my ghost arm.  I'm limbless and I can still imagine I feel it, but it's gone forever.  What I had is gone.

...

sigh

...

And in case you were all wondering, I'm actually ok.  I'm just hurting.  An ok, hurting, displaced homemaker.

*I did a search for the psychological definition of "displaced homemaker" and stumbled across this paper written in 1981. 

Locking horns with a 3 year old: Are there winners?

A wild Hawk captured.

 I remember growing up and hearing about "the terrible twos," this mysterious time of defiance and confusion for parents and their toddlers where nothing made sense and rules were thrown out.  As I closed the gap to adulthood the story shifted to, "It's not The Twos, it's The Threes you should dread!" Once a parent this new idea was pretty much confirmed by everything I read and heard.

The Threes are an interesting time for everyone.  Our children can speak to us in English (or whatever language it is they've learned), they understand rules, expectations, and relationships.  Their emotional development can at once leap ahead to tenderhearted concern then recede to vicious tyrannical tantrums (and I use those loaded terms "leap" and "recede" deliberately - you'll see why in a minute).  And despite their supposed understanding of things they continue to defy, push, taunt, and sneer in our faces as often as they caress, kiss, fondle and massage our hearts.

So.  What the fuck do we do??  How do we handle these tiny mercurial beings in a way that keeps our values in line with our own hearts, goals, and ideals?

Here's what I've learned:

First, you're gonna feel like shit.  Some days you'll actually get dragged into a knock down drag out with your tiny dictator and be left reeling.  Did you really drag him into his room and lob him onto his bed, then oh so maturely slam the door behind you?  Yep.  You really just did do that.

And you know what??  It can't be helped.  The most important thing I've learned throughout this process is that I am only human.  I can only be taunted, defied, kicked, hit, screamed at, and generally dismissed so much, especially when it concerns a rule regarding a non-negotiable, such as safety.  Picking up spilled food is another matter; I'll be pushed around to a much great degree before I start feeling that prick in the back of my mind that this bullshit ain't flyin'.  But safety in the kitchen?  Not following the rules when there's raw chicken and knives laying around??  Forget it.  Mama's puttin' the kibosh on that shit, and fast.

So, there we were.  Hawk screaming on the floor, refusing to leave the kitchen, me firmly explaining the rules and why he'd been banned - repeatedly - and then he starts jumping in the kitchen just a foot, then another foot, and at that point I had to physically remove him.  Tantrums ensued, kicking, punching, yelling.  Then I told him he needed to cool off in his room, but he wouldn't go of his own accord, hence the dragging by the wrists (as gently as I could, naturally).

I was angry, but I didn't feel my reactions were angry towards him.  I disconnected as best I could, though I still yelled back.  I'd just reached my limit.  I'm just a woman, not a saint.

Second, he's going to forgive you.  I never leave Hawk alone too long after a spell such as this.  I don't want a pattern to develop where he acts perfectly normally for a 3 yo and then I unduly punish him for it.  I just want a period of separation to get my own cool, mostly.

This particular time I went back in and straightened up his room.  He said he was cooling down and he felt much better.  I said, "Good, Mama's not quite there yet, but I will be."  He says while sucking on his paci and clutching his blankie, "Ok, Mommy.  I do love you."

And when we talk I remind him of the rules and that when he defies me like that it frustrates me because I'm trying to keep him safe; that it's ok for him to be mad and frustrated with me, but he may not strike me in any way.  He solemnly nods his head and we hug fiercely and tell each other we love one another.

Third, perfection is a myth.  Sometimes you react badly to a situation.  It's human nature.  No one is above reproach, but every situation is a launching pad to learn something new about yourself, your limits, those of your child, etc.  What you may judge yourself on is settling; settling for the status quo, for what worked for your mother even though it doesn't feel right to you, for not educating yourself about the development of this tyrant at your knees, for giving up hope that you can do what feels right the next time it happens - because, oh lord, it will happen again.

It's easy to think they're forging ahead in development whenever they're soft and pliant and kind, and taking steps back when they're bullheaded and unreasonable, but really it's all a push forward in development.   That's right.  It's a movement of growth, truly.

When a young child defies his caregiver it's as integral to his development as following the rules.  You can't draw a chair without the negative space after all.  They have to discover the depths of the emotional spectrum as well as the highs; no one is all or nothing and certainly not children.  They're incapable of such emotional blandness.  They're programmed to feel all of it and it's our job as parents to help them navigate it, fights and all. 

Lastly, when you're in the middle of it try to remember how much power you have.  It's a trick that always seems to help me keep my cool for a ridiculously long time, if not entirely.  You are these kids' everything: their sun, moon, and stars.  Tread as lightly as you can in the scare-/mean-factor to get your point across.  It's all too easy to loom and boom and knock them around to drive home your point, but finesse - even loud finesse - works, too.

So, yeah, I fought with a 3 year old and technically won, but really I felt like I'd lost.  Then, later, I felt like we'd all won.  Funny how that works, but that's parenting in a nutshell: two steps forward, one step back, and another half-step forward.

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!

Drop off, pick up, dust myself off

This last image is the one I lead with yesterday.  It's the moment that Hawk realizes something is different.  Mommy and Daddy are gone.  He is on his own.

You might be surprised to know that I didn't cry.  Somewhere between filling his cubby with his nap time things and dropping off his lunch then walking to the adjoining playground space I did crack.  Just a little.

I sucked in through my teeth, turned my back on Rooster who was beside me, and stared at the bare limbs of a small tree, the bright gray sky a bare palette behind.  I swallowed hard and thought, "You can do this," and walked back to my boy whose excited hopping was causing his hand-me-down pants to slip.

I rolled over his waistband and let him in through the gate.  We said hi to the teachers we'd met over the previous weeks and the director came to talk to us to reassure us that if Hawk was distressed when we left they would be there for him.

Naturally Hawk was already playing with the tractors he so loves and didn't think anything was amiss.  I called him over to give him a hug and a kiss and he did so sweetly.  Then Daddy.

Then we left.  And, well, you all know the rest. 

What you don't know is how barren I felt as I drove away.  How lost. 

I went to a coffee shop to kill some time before an appointment, came home, went to another appointment, then to another coffee shop; and listed through the hours.  Tick tock.  Tick tock.  Tick fucking tock.

The timing is right for this, divorce or no divorce, but I wasn't banking on having every other aspect of my entire life also different when my baby moved on to the next stage of his development.  And yesterday marked the dumping of the last vestige of my old life.

It is irrevocably gone.

All of it.

Every single piece.

In four weeks my entire life has been heaved over my head and thrown.

I couldn't wait to go pick him up at 5.  I missed his little face and energy and the way he likes to say, "I do love you, Mommy."  It was like I had been lost at sea all day and he was my lighthouse.  My 3 foot tall, gassy, funny, tempestuous, darling, inquisitive, demanding, loving little lighthouse.

It's a testament to something -- the universe, my parenting, Hawk, I don't know -- that when I called the school at 2 to check in the director told me that Hawk had only cried those couple of minutes and fell right into step with the other children, even calling him over to play with the tractors.  He got his own lunch, picked a place to eat, and fell asleep immediately at nap time.   

He felt safe there away from me and without me, I thought.  The boy is securely attached.  I'm doing my job right.

And when I finally arrived at the playground he was standing feet from the gate looking away.  I called to him and he ran into my arms, an enormous grin splitting his face.  He was sopping wet from his butt down, his shoes muddy.  The cuffs of his shirt were stained and his hands were filthy.  He looked amazing.

"You came back!!" he shouted gleefully and squeezed my neck tighter.

"Of course I did, baby, Mama will always come back."  I stood up and said, "Let's go get your things.  It's time to go."

"Ok!" he replied and he ran off like he actually knew what he was doing.  A little boy, not a baby.  He took me to a back gate and then a teacher met us and set up his outside cubby.  He'd picked a green cover and a silver pen with which to have his name written.  I've never seen him looking more proud of himself.  He had a cubby!  She explained that it would hold outside things.  He nodded and sprinted off around the corner.  I followed.

Little elfin picnic tables were scattered about under a canopy.  "Where did you sit for lunch, baby?"

"Right here!" he announced with a pat to a teeny little bench.

He expertly opened the back door to the house and we gathered his things; his backpack from the (elfin) kitchen table, his blankie from his indoor cubby.  He was so fucking happy to be running around in his new place with his mommy.  I could just feel it radiating from him.

I'd brought some spare pants for him knowing they'd let the kids play in the mud and rain and I peeled off his sodden ones and wrapped him in a warm blanket in his car seat.  I took pictures of his hands.  Proof of his glorious first day at school.  My heart was at once broken and soaring.

Traffic was bad and we chatted for a while.  He had played with Kaylie and Andrew and a boy whose name he couldn't remember, but had worn a red shirt.  He had also, "Pwayed and pwayed and pwayed."  Then we sat in silence.

"Do you want the radio on?"

"No."

"Do you want to talk about your day some more?"

"No."

"Do you want to just chill for a while?"

"Yes.  And I'm hungry.  I want food.  And I want to go back and pway some more."


It's true that I am alone in all of this, but I at least have the great pleasure of navigating all of it with him under my wing.  My sweet, sweet baby Hawk.

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.

Dream

Last night after almost an entire bottle of wine and hours of packing I lay exhausted on the couch.  A log burned silently and hotly beside me, Christmas music played through the TV.  I'd already packed the afghan so I curled up under throw pillows spooning Digby.

An hour later I woke up tense and cold, and bewildered.  I'd dreamed about Rooster.  He'd been sitting on the couch and lifted his arms to me wide, welcoming me to sit on his lap.  I felt such relief as I let him pull me down into his warm, safe embrace.  I knew everything was going to be ok now; I was in his capable arms after all, how could things not be ok?

Something about this sense of relaxation woke me up, stirred me from beyond.  This isn't right, I thought.  NO.  I'm doing this alone.

Then I turned out the lights, left the cats curled on their chairs by the fire and crawled into my own bed ignoring the labeled boxes that have replaced decorations this season.

I move tomorrow.

Hiatus

I'm taking a blogging hiatus for a week or so.  I have to focus on packing, moving, resume-writing, studying, job-hunting, and general life stuff.

I'll probably just post a bunch of pics or something.  Maybe nothing at all.  I have so many things I want to write about, but I simply must prioritize.  Writing about what I think about the Erika Jong article a few weeks ago can take a back burner to packing my vases for now.  My thoughts on it will still be around.  As will what I think about separation from your child after 3 intense, loving years. 

You also may have noticed that names have changed on this site.  My husband (now know as "Rooster") asked to become more anonymous.  I changed names for both him and our son (now "Hawk") as far back as I could one afternoon last week.  It made me cry, but such is life.  Hawk are my son's initials and Rooster was a nickname for my husband long before Hawk was around, so they seemed fitting.

Till then.  Catch you on the flip side, all.

xo
Jess

PS:  Who knows if I'll actually hold out and not post.  I'm just giving myself permission not to.

 Our hipster-haircut adventure:

 

 

The sun sets and the sun rises

My morning view.

My sister recently mentioned that every 20 months her career goes through an upheaval: new opportunities, inter-state moves, negotiations, lots of soul searching, etc.  I thought, "Huh.  That's interesting."

And then it hit me:  I'm on the precipice of one of the greatest upheavals of my life.  Bigger than moving away to a new state where I knew no one.  Bigger than being jobless for 18 months.  Bigger than weddings and graduations and new jobs.  My life as I know it is irrevocably changing forever in a matter of weeks.  Never to go back.  Never to be the same.  Never to be duplicated.  It feels as big as birth or as emotional as death.

Yesterday I toured the floorplan of the new apartment I'm leasing in the beginning of December.  Something about its plain-ness, its beige-ness, really hit me in the gut.  The home that I've immersed myself in for the last four-and-a-half years is about to be a thing of the past.  The wall colors, the drawer-pulls, the painstakingly chosen and placed decor are all going to be crumpled up into boxes and spit out into a beige, two-bedroom apartment with crown molding.

I've never felt very emotional about this house before now.  Rooster and I always said it wasn't our Forever Home.  It needed too many upgrades and re-designs to feel like our last home together, but here I am, three weeks away from walking away from it forever and I feel like I'm about to saw off my arm.

I paced the tiles of this house for hours while in labor.  I brought my baby home here and have watched him blossom in its strange nooks and crannies.  Rooster and I felt safe here, home here.  Our friends have always loved it here and remark on its welcoming energy.

I've gotten to know wonderful people who live in the neighborhood who are always game to drink margaritas with me and hang out under my looming oak tree in the sweltering Texas heat, shootin' the shit, letting our children toddle around together and slowly, gently getting to know one another.  Hawk romps in the front yard as I lounge in a lawn chair.

Of course, the house is a symbol only.  It's just a place, a thing.  The real issue here is change, upheaval.  It's here.  Dark, massive, and brooding, pounding on my door.  I cannot ignore it any longer.  Like my Feelings, Change will not be put off.  I must answer its call.

When things happen for me they tend to happen all at once.  Much like when Dad was dying and a million massive life events were happening simultaneously, my life today is also in tumult beyond just the house and its reasons for abandoning it.

I have a major career exam to take and pass; I must find a job;  I must re-learn how to support myself; I must separate from Hawk to earn a living; I must find a place for Hawk to be taken care of while I'm away.

Only yesterday did any of this creep into my lizard brain.  I've essentially been pretending my own life isn't happening to me.  How convenient, right??

I've told Hawk that he and I are moving into a new apartment together and that Daddy is moving into the house.  He says, "Ooh, nice!  We get to have a new pawpawtment, Mommy?"

And I say, "Yes, honey.  It will be our new home."

"Oh.  Ok, Mommy.  That's vewy nice," he chirps back.

Early this morning, before dawn, I heard Hawk's door crack open and his little feet pound down the hall to my door.  "Mommy?" he calls out.  "Awe you in hewe?"

"Yes, baby," I croak from deep under piles of covers.  I think I slept 4 hours last night; I kept waking up expecting something out of my reach.  Sleep was fitful, my dreams intense, my body kinked with tension.

He climbs up into bed with me and snuggles into the down pillows and comforter.  Soon he was softly purring through his nose and I drifted off to a deep blue place of peace and ease -- like the icy calm you see in the documentaries of sea life beneath colossal glaciers.  A place where I didn't worry, I didn't orchestrate, I didn't do anything except just be.  I floated in this place of calm, cool navy and azure for an hour.  It lapped at my skin and slipped over my limbs languidly.

Then Hawk awakens, pats me, and asks, "Where's Daddy??  Where my Daddy is?"

I blinked through the soft gray light oozing into the room.  "Mommy and Daddy don't live together anymore, baby." -- God, I hate telling him that --  "Do you miss him?"

"Uh huh," he affirms.

"I miss him, too."

I feel as though I am taking a deep breath before a dive.  I will be digging down into myself to get through the next several weeks.  Yet, by far the coolest thing about all of this is that I know without a shadow of a doubt that I will get through it and land on my feet.  I can't see how it won't happen.  It's just what I do: I land on my feet.

Yesterday Hawk and I were driving to the store for firewood at dusk and he mentioned how beautiful he thought the pink and blue of the sky was.  "What is that, Mommy?" he wonders.

"When the sun goes down we call it a sunset; it lights up the sky in the west."

"Oh."

"And when the sun comes up in the east, we call it a sunrise."

"Sunwise," he parrots.

"Yes, sunrise," I say.

Indeed.  A sunrise on a new life and a new me.  A sunrise restarts the clock and resets the heart.  A sunrise is hope.  A sunrise is unavoidable.

I welcome the sunrise.

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.]

The Universe giveth and it taketh away

I suppose I forgot to mention an important piece of my world in my earlier post: tonight is the first official night where Anthony lives somewhere else with my son.

I packed up a bunch of clothes and toys for Hollis and we "shopped" through his things for other odds and ends and when Anthony got home from work we almost immediately took off for the apartment; me chatting amiably with my small passenger about how Daddy has a house, Mommy has a house and he has two houses.

It's no small miracle (and blessing) that Hollis adores the apartment, and more specifically, Anthony.  The idea of spending a bunch of time away from Mommy with Daddy is a no-brainer for him, an enormously fancy treat that only fills his heart with joy.

So, you can imagine his pure jubilation at the idea of overnights in the apartment with Daddy. 

It made tonight better.  It was an immediate salve to my broken heart.  And this amazing Wookie/Blues/Ewok brilliance during our pizza dinner brought tears to my eyes and made me know without a shadow of a doubt that we would all survive this.

 Forty-five seconds of sheer genius.

And now that I'm home safely I will get happily stinking drunk because I'm really fucking sad and lonely, and I'll simultaneously do my best to not drunk-tweet, -dial, -email, -text, -blog, or -FB.

[Ed. add: I only got happily sleepily drunk last night, lest some of you worried about me.  A few friends all randomly texted me love and funnies and I had a couple of great conversations with friends millions of miles away.  It was a good night.  Sad, only a little bit lonely, and a lot pretty cool.  Only snafu was when Anthony called at 11:30 because Hollis was scared of the apartment and wanted me to come and get him.  I lovingly talked to Sweet Baby Hollis for a few minutes until he abruptly said, "Ok, goodnight!  Love you!"  I got a text a few minutes later of a picture of him sleeping.  All really is well.]

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.]