Though, there were some bumps.  This wasn’t “my year” to have her on Xmas eve and Xmas morning.  I suddenly found myself sobbing on Xmas eve as I sat by my tree wrapping a few remaining gifts.  I teared up when I sat at my boyfriend’s house watching his nieces and nephews open gifts while my little girl was at her dad’s. 

Honestly, I was glad to know I still feel something because I admit, 2 ½ has been kicking my ass.  She’s beautiful, hilarious and wicked smart and also firey, strong-willed and argumentative just like I was.  My grandmother said I should be a lawyer because I argued about EVERYTHING.  Now I get it.  SORRY GRAMS!!!

It’s not her fault it’s kicking my ass, by any means.  But I find myself having to daily remind myself there is a balance I need to find.

It’s amazing how your life can give you that balance if you sit up in bed at 2:00 a.m. and yell out “I GIVE UP!” as you are sobbing while your kid is flipping out next to you.

We recently spent about 3 weeks solid of her having night terrors at only my house, 5 nights a week like clockwork.  It was maddening that at her dad’s she was fine but at my house she’d wake up between 10:00 p.m. and 2:00 a.m.-ish screaming, kicking me, hitting me and yet when I’d try to comfort her she’d flip out.  If I left the room she clawed at me in a panic.  It took anywhere from 45 minutes to 2 hours every night to calm her down.  I never knew when it would happen so I’d stay on pins and needles every night, barely sleeping.  It reminded me of when she was a newborn.  That newborn mother sleep that wakes you at the slightest little sneeze or purr.

Let’s just say I wasn’t at my best.  At one point I was ready to call either a priest or a psychiatrist.  I finally consulted Google and mothers on Facebook.  Who knew.

What I found out?  My kid needs structure along with her freedom.  It’s my responsibility to provide both.  Thank you night terrors for teaching me that.  Apparently night terrors can be triggered by sleep deprivation.  A quick rally conversation and plan between her dad, babysitter and myself and after 1 day, she’s sleeping in her own bed all night, no problems for the past 8 days. 
Let’s just go ahead and see that in all caps again: ALL I NEEDED TO DO WAS PUT HER TO BED AT A REASONABLE HOUR AND MAKE SURE SHE WELL RESTED DAILY.

Why is she sleep deprived?  Because I let her lead too much of her own life.  My loosey-goosey mothering might not be the best idea for this particular child.  Some of it is still my guilt over breaking up her family and having her go between 2 houses, etc. Now I know it physically isn’t helping her by letting her get away with going to bed when she wants, eating whatever and not instituting some sort of time-out for punishments.  She needs structure and she needs me to be the rule-maker. 

I hate making rules for her because I feel like in the 2 hours I see her a day now that she goes to bed early, I spend it just disciplining her.  I want her to paint her entire body and run around naked dancing to “princess music” if she feels like it.  I want her to mess up her room and just create chaos for an afternoon.  I mostly want her to tell me what to do because most days I don’t have a fucking clue.

So now, in order to not sob at 2:00 a.m. (me AND her) she can still paint naked and make a mess and call me a “meatball sandwich” because it makes us both laugh.  But she can also go to bed at 8:00 p.m. on the dot in her bed, she can sit in her “time-out” spot when she hits, she can also have healthy food and less snacks in between meals and eat at the table every single day.  Now I see they go together, not either/or.

I also learned it’s really difficult to not feel guilty about dating and being a mother.  I’d feel it when I would count the days until my Friday off because I can’t wait to wake up naked with my boyfriend, a little before sunrise the next morning.  We lay in his comfortable, warm bed and be lazy while the sun comes through his blinds on a Saturday morning and I pretend as hard as I can I have nowhere I have to be.  I push that experience up through breakfast until the last possible minute before I have to run into town and pick her up.  I usually then have a great day with her where she’s just hilarious and I think I should just STFU.  However by about Tuesday, the countdown starts again to my Saturday morning in bed.

After a particularly long day, I’ll put her to bed but she still stirs for about an hour.  As I’m back at her bedside rocking her for the third time, I see him sitting peacefully on the couch watching our shows and I just want her to go to sleep, please.  PLEASE.  So momma can sit down for the first time today and lower my IQ with TV.  Then she puts her little hand on my cheek and says “Just hold my hand, mama.”

I know, I know.  These times are short, but the days are endless.

My boyfriend is absolutely wonderful, thank god.  He sat up with me during a night terror and helped calm us both down.  He’s an active part in giving me ideas on how to be a stronger rule maker.  He also tells me he’s constantly amazed by how much I tell her I love her and let her be her.  He’s like the inner voice I need to tell myself!  He takes us on hikes, doesn’t lose his temper and now shows up by 7:30 so he doesn’t miss storytime with her almost every night.
I’m eternally blessed and I deserve it.

Looking back at 2011, there really seems to be a theme in my life.  I moan and bitch about wishing someone would just write a handbook on a normal life so I could follow it like Ikea instructions.  Then I go about writing my own without really trying.

My theme for 2012: Gratefulness.

So let’s start off with Theo McCancerPants. If you have been following along with my stories you will know that my mentally ill drug addicted brother is suffering from cancer. I went to see him a few weeks ago. We were supposed to attend a family session through his rehab joint to discuss how his decisions have affected our lives. We made it as far as the parking lot of the church it was being held. I knew he would back out at the last-minute and not go in. When we were kids he would mysteriously vanish right before family portraits. Security guards would have to chase him down in hospitals when he was sick with his stomach problems and he would try to escape. I knew when I pulled up and saw him sitting there that we wouldn’t go in. I explained that perhaps this flight philosophy he believes in so much isn’t working for him. It didn’t work though. We sat in the car for a while, and then went for coffee. It was the first time in about 5 years or so and we didn’t miss a beat when we saw each other. Still felt the deep sibling love, and the total inescapable feeling that I am sitting with an alien in my car.

By the way, in case you ever wondered what he looks like, I will go ahead and put it out there that he is from the stereotypical crazy addict school of design. I know that mental illness doesn’t always have the same face, body or spirit. Some look sharp and relatively normal, ala Patrick Bates. Others, like my brother, go the long scruffy beard and layers route. His vague notes of stale smoke and his grandmother’s polish cooking kind of permeate around him as well. I’m kind of shocked he is wearing shoes, as I remember a few years ago he vetoed them full-time, along with car insurance which he didn’t believe was necessary.

Aside from his physical appearance, health wise he looked ok. He tried to tell me his cancer came because of the nuclear disaster in Japan and called it The Simpson’s Theory. I can’t tell if he is serious or joking, so I just look at him sideways and he awkwardly laughed. Historically speaking this means he isn’t sure if he is joking or not either. We drink some coffee, we take a picture together, we hug, and I drop him off around the corner of his house and he walks through the neighbor’s yard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he crawled through the basement window to get in.

I talk to him briefly a few weeks later, and the following day I find out he arrived at court for a date with a judge regarding a prior incident he was involved in. He was supposed to have reported to a rehab facility a while back and didn’t. He is now in jail with a very high bond. I am not surprised or even disappointed. He is, relatively speaking, safe. He is warm. His medical needs are being taken care of. Perhaps he will be there long enough to become lucid enough to try and get it together just a little bit. The saga of Theo McCancerPants is not over though. Stay tuned.

The reason I only talked to Theo ever so briefly was because I was dealing with issues with my mother in law. Some of you may remember her as the culprit who has a brief shout out in Inflatable Metaphors for Life for bringing a Little Caesars Pizza to Thanksgiving dinner one year. She said she needed something to eat with her pills. So she brought an extra-large shitty ass pizza. Makes sense right? Yeah well, the issue with her was that she died. She hurt her back somehow, got stuck in her lazy boy, went to the hospital for 11 days and died. My husband traveled halfway across the country to be with her in the hospital because he just knew she was going to either leave the hospital and go to a nursing home, or leave there dead. This is all sad because it wasn’t necessary for her to die. Also, she was young. Really too young to be so old. I feel badly for my husband and his sister. They are good people, and their relationship with their mother was complicated at best. My relationship with her was almost non-existent. She was a hard woman to respect. I pitied her in many ways. But all I ever saw in her was the negative effect she had on her kids, who are mostly my responsibility. It’s like having 2 teenagers to take care of because their most basic emotional needs weren’t really always met. I have to give it to her though. I have never truly believed one could will themself to die. And she did.

I’m completely afraid of her haunting me. So much so that at the wake, I apologized to her for making so much fun of her to my friends. They all played Mother In Law Bingo at my baby shower. They should be sorry too. In case you were wondering, I created a list of things I knew she would do at my shower, and made a game out of it. In a completely coincidental event, I created a party game based on my life long friend’s equally as annoying mother in law who had her foot amputated. Needless to say, Pin the Foot on Peggy was a secret hit in our minds. We didn’t have the heart to actually play it live for real. Jesus, I’m as asshole. I am prepared for the karma I will receive when the boy marries one day. Fully.

I guess what I am trying to say is, I am certainly sad that she died so young. I am deeply saddened for my husband who is left with a vague memory of good moments with his mom. She is now in whatever better place she imagined herself to be  when her time came. I still can’t look at a Little Caesars without wanting to scream. But somehow the anger seems wasteful and sad now. So I will work on making peace with her, and with crappy pizza.

Last but not least, no post of mine would be complete without the mention of poop. The boy has encopresis, which is a behavioral issue that means he withholds his poops for fear of painful movements, which in turn, cause awful horrible painfully enormous movements. Humans are so silly with their survival instincts. It’s not at all uncommon among kids like him, and it hinders potty training like nothing else. He is on a special diet, stool softeners, extra fiber, the sticker on the potty chart plan, and “let’s kick mom in the face as many times as possible” self-defense plan.

Every night I come home after 12 hours of working to the boy and the dad. The dad tries his absolute hardest to understand that much of the boys poop problems are not within his control right this second, but honestly, dad’s best isn’t good enough. He is a nervous wreck that the constant pants pooping is going to destroy the boys chances of being President, or at the very least, an Elks Club Member. So I have to work on calming them both down. The boy poops a ton now, but the consistency is never typical, and mostly, it’s a mess. He tries to clean it up, but mostly, it gets everywhere. I mean it. Everywhere. Floors, walls, blankets, towels, me, him, pajamas, probably even the ceilings. I am covered in poop every night. Until I figured out that wipes of all kinds burn the living shit out of my son’s ass, literally, I would get kicked in the face. Every night. He wasn’t aiming at me, he just flails around in pain, and I’m just the right height. It’s awful to see my guy go through this. I know it will come together eventually. I know that we have made a lot of improvements. I know that a large part of being a mom is to be prepared for shit your whole life, one way or another. But honestly, it makes getting off the train, getting into my shit free zone car, and pulling into my garage nightly really hard.

Last night, a few hours after I had my axis epiphany and right after a shitty emergency bath, I am reading books with the boy in bed. He is reading his numbers, telling me the story, and gets pissed when I ask him to read the numbers in Spanish. It doesn’t matter to me really, I just like to outwardly acknowledge my kid is bilingual and confident enough to be all “screw you, only one language tonight!” I am not bilingual by the way. He just goes to a really fantastic preschool. I turn off the lights and lay (lie?) down with him for a while. This is a new thing. He usually tells me to leave so he can go to sleep. He has a spot in the bed, we aren’t to fuck with it. But lately, he has been kind of dependent on me and I like it. So help me, I like it. Just please goddess don’t let it get really bad. I’ve been slightly spoiled by a kid who loves to sleep. He whispers to himself that he is going to sleep by mama. He crawls up by me, and spoons with me. He holds my hand and buries his hair into my nose. He is perfectly still. I smell his hair. I pick up subtle scent of menthol from his Johnsons & Johnsons snot clearing bath wash. A slight sprinkling of fabric softener coming off his pajamas. A deep earthy whiff of shit, possibly vintage 2 weeks ago?  A dash of jerk here, a sprinkle of pure angel heaven there. When all of these scents combine I determine that this is what my axis must smell like. It’s within my grasp. Close by. I know it.

Bebe

I don’t know that any one relationship completely changed with my divorce, etc. but more like I was put in a place to really see how those relationships were all along.  How they affected me when I was my most raw.  When you get to the bottom of the “crab bucket” ahem, you are smacked in the face with every single little issue if you open yourself up to that level of sensitivity.  I admit, it’s painful as hell but I highly recommend it.  Like labor & childbirth, it fucking hurts but the result is life-changing.  No one ever says “Yea, fuck that.  I started to go through labor and just said it isn’t worth it so I stopped pushing.  My kid is still in there, but who cares.”

I eventually welcomed that rawness because on some level I was tired.  Tired of being half of me.  Once I let go, I saw this great opportunity to just get it worked out.  Have my best life.  When you get to the bottom you’re only destination is up if you choose.  Starting over was my theme and still is.  I think this is what ultimately saved me.  This choice of directions and the way I decided to go.

Being raw certainly isn’t easy and I did my part at times to put back on that thick coat to survive the hurt.  I’m not proud of putting on that coat, I admit.  I know now that rawness is a healing pain.   It’s almost as if your skin is peeled off and all you have are your nerves, bare and feeling every single emotion: hurt, joy, even a gust of wind, a kiss, a hug feels intense on a level not previously known.  As you grow back your new skin, your new life, it dulls but I believe, and I’m GRATEFUL, I was changed by that time of rawness.

It’s Halloween, indulge me in some disgusting visuals. 

Those I thought would support me didn’t always.  Those that I didn’t know were able to came to my aid in ways that still ripple though my daily life.  I formed close relationships with people that are healthy and I am thankful every single day.  Other relationships I thought were originally close are now set with healthy boundaries around the areas I need.  The biggest piece to all of this that I learned, and even about myself, people give to you what they can through their own filter.  No one I’ve met can give you everything of what you need.  Not a spouse, friend, child, etc. nor should they be expected to.  You cannot and will never be able to offer the same to them.  I think I’m slowly learning that you have to give it to yourself first.

 You can only control yourself and you can only provide everything you need to yourself.  I’m starting to believe that if you care about yourself first, you end up surrounded by people that fill in the spaces in a very good way.

 The harshest reality that brought me to this ultimately positive conclusion was that my family wasn’t my rock.  My family and the way we act, including my ex-husband, was not helpful or loving or supportive.  That vicious “I’m just joking” follow-up after biting responses to one up each other constantly, the resentment disguised as sarcasm would just build and build all in the guise of jealousy and hurt we each were feeling personally.  Maybe not even hurt towards the person we were “kidding” with, but it was put on each other in handfuls.

 I know now it’s disgusting and I don’t want to do it any longer.  It masks resentment and it’s hurtful.  I can’t stop those I love from doing this, however, all I can control is me.  I’m hopeful if I ask for an apology for every single bit of unhelpful “joking” someone will get the hint eventually and direct it elsewhere.  Regardless if they say a real “I’m sorry” or not.  I will still ask.  I hope my daughter will see this and never have to reach 33 years of age before she stands up for herself.  The important change in me is I will do my god-damndest not to have to ever apologize for being this hurtful to someone else again either.

 As my very wise friend L says: “You get back what you put out there.”  Surprise, surprise.

 I’ve tried to be in the habit lately of being thankful whenever possible.  Even if I am unsure of the reaction, I’m trying to put it out there that I am so grateful for my life, even the bad bits.  So I recently started a love letter to give to my boyfriend one day, possibly Christmas.  I got 2 sentences in and realized I should be writing this to myself first.  It applies to him, it applies to some of my friends, including BeBe, but ultimately it needs to be said to me first.  Afterwards I’ll start a new letter to him, to all of them.

 “ You get back what you put out there.  You get back what you put out there.”  I hear you loud and clear, L.  For the first time, the surprise now is this letter is very easy to write to myself and actually believe.   

 We’re all going to be okay, folks.  We really are.  Just choose to be.

Dear Self,

You are important to me.  You make me feel at peace even when everything around me is in turmoil.  You center me and keep me grounded and focused.  You make me feel loved and known.   I am thankful for you in ways I will never be able to fully articulate, but I will spend my our time together trying.

Xoxo,

-LuLu

My husband told me recently that he doesn’t know what to think about my brother and his diagnosis, mostly because he has only known him as a mentally ill prick. Yes, he is mentally ill. And yeah, he is a prick. The two are sometimes related, and sometimes not. Sometimes, someone can just be a prick. I can relate to his feelings. More than once Theo did or said something foul and rude and harsh, often in the middle of a perfectly nice conversation. His triggers are really sneaky and you really just never know what’s going to set him off. I guess my husband heard me sob in the bathroom after talking to him one too many times and put the kibosh on giving a shit about him. I can dig it. So in a display of newly found empathy and surprising articulation, hubby asked me exactly what it is I needed from him from here on out, because he cannot find any emotions regarding the subject. In the past, he would have just acted like a giant brick wall and quite possibly not have noticed had I started on fire. But that was then. His actions with this one request show why we are still married, and why we work when we probably really shouldn’t.

My response to this was that he is to just be there when I react however it is I am going to react when the tough stuff starts to happen. And by tough stuff, I mean making contact with my estranged brother. Namely, speaking with my estranged step-grandmother or seeing my long estranged and very much ex-step-father. He raised me for roughly 20 years, and I never really considered him a step father until it occurred to me that he had let go of any rights to any loyalty from me a long while ago. I made a long and conscientious decision about cutting ties for my own mental health and well-being. It was a good choice that I don’t regret. Next to being in that circle of people again, my brother dying is secondary to my fears. I say that only because I know my strengths, and I have been with two different loved ones while they died, and while I am not a stranger to the harsh realities and emotions that come with this, I know I am equipped with a weird and uncanny measure of accepting what is in front of me and knowing that death is a part of life, and being there when that happens is a rare and profound gift.

The next thing I told my husband I need is to be in charge of the boy, who will have nothing to do with this process. He has no clue who these people are, and he won’t have to. He has two fully functional sets of grandparents; my mom and her wonderful husband and my dad and his incredible wife. In the process of cutting ties and figuring out my life, I found a whole different level of relationship with my biological father and we have worked our way to dad and daughter. My kid can be in the same room with his grandparents, all of them, and enjoy life. Something I didn’t have the pleasure of experiencing.

On the flip side to this really positive interaction between hubby and me, I also warned him that if he felt like saying something dumb, or felt like looking at me like I was a fool, he needed to remember the following: the word of the day, month, and year is compassion. And I have it in spades, by nature, nurture and sheer force of will. While I did segregate myself from my family members, I didn’t stop loving them in a certain way. I didn’t stop thinking about how they wasted every chance they got in life to be better people, and it didn’t escape me that in doing what was right and continuing to love these people and hope the best for them, that my immediate family will benefit. I helped to raise my brother from the time he was born until the day I left home. He has known only small amounts of joy in his life. He is dying. And if hubby were dying, and had all sorts of baggage (which, he does) I would hope and pray that his sister stood by him no matter what. I told him to know that the reason why we are always such fucked up humans is because very few know how to be compassionate, or just don’t want to be. Rightfully so for some people. I am not here to judge other people’s emotions. The reason why I called my family typical is because the pain never stops and the compassion never overcomes and it goes on and on and on. I don’t know one family who doesn’t have some kind of family dynamic that never changed because no one thought to change it, or heal it, or lay it to rest, or whatever healthy verb that needed to happen to set it right. No one taught anyone in that family what was acceptable, what was right, and what was healthy. My mom slowed that cycle down by leaving and working hard on a new life. Now it’s my turn to slow it down a little more. Maybe even stop it.  

I asked him if he understood what the ramifications would be for our son, and for him, and for me, if I chose to not care about my brother, ignore his suffering, and not work with the people who scare me the most throughout this unfolding drama. How would I handle that? What regrets would I have? I am already beginning to mourn the loss of a big part of my mom’s spirit during all of this. She will never be the same, and I need to accept that. Would my son see me crying for hours on end on some random Sunday three years from now? Will he look into my eyes one day and think to himself that there is something wrong with mom? Will he say she has never been the same and I don’t know why? No. Don’t misunderstand, I don’t intend on sheltering him from the realities of the world, and emotions that he will need to have and learn to process. Lord knows I can list right off the top of my head the various things about me he might find himself being embarrassed by, annoyed at, or struggle with. But none of that will be something I carried over with me from my old life. Not if I can help it.

That sounds so loaded and so sanctimonious and I truly do not mean it to be. I am not trying to be a martyr or a saint, and I am not going to turn the other cheek when things start to get hairy, which I know they will. But I am a different person now than I was all of those years ago. I see them differently. I see myself differently. No one is allowed to mistreat me or speak ill of anyone I love, whether it be from Sickly McCancerpants, Chief Drinks Continuously or Old Spirit from Enables-Alot. I will state my business and do my job as a sister, a human being, and someone who to bring love, peace, and fond memories with him to where he goes.

I called him a few days ago and he was asleep. He called me right back though, and we spoke for about an hour. He immediately professed his love to me, how much he misses me, and what life has been like for him without me. I ditto all of that and more, but I also winced every time he opened his mouth, because I was waiting for the trigger to go off. It didn’t. We ended the conversation with the hope that we could slowly talk and piece ourselves together. Prognosis, timelines, angst, and kin were not mentioned. With the exception of how dumb the spelling of my nephew’s name is. I couldn’t argue with that one. I don’t know what my sister was thinking.

I think that from here on out my portion of The Bucket is going to be primarily about this cancer business and how it affects my already fractured, fragile yet resilient ridiculous family. It will be about the various ways I choose to react to what is put before me, because that’s the only thing I can control. My reactions. Theo’s prognosis right now is fairly decent, but not permanent, as nothing is, and while he isn’t at death’s door at the moment, the path seems to be paving itself. Of course this time should be spent praying for miracles and tracking down Dr. Greg House to save the day. Of course I would rather I work on finding a cure and imagining my brother alive and well in twenty years. But it’s not twenty years from now. It’s now.

Bebe

I found out yesterday that he is suffering from pancreatic cancer and it’s not looking good. Actually, I was informed a few days earlier that he had cancer through the grapevine that I typically try to ignore. I didn’t believe it. I discussed it with other siblings, and they didn’t either. We had no doubt he was probably ill. He has been ill his whole life. Stomach problems, arthritis problems, mystery illnesses, asthma, basically everything. Looking back now, I feel like Theo’s whole existence was akin to when foreign matter enters your body and your immune system won’t accept it and tries to destroy it. He is the foreign matter and life is the immune system. The fact that he is now dying of cancer only makes it far more literal.

My siblings and I held a quick meeting about the validity of this claim and I decided that our mother, who made the difficult decision a long time ago to cut Theo out of her life until he could get better, should know about this. She would clarify this with one phone call and we would do what we could from there on out. And it was true. She is understandably beside herself with confusion, fear, sadness, regret, and insurmountable motherly love, and has nowhere to place it. He most likely will not agree to see her or spend time with her, or any of us. My hope is that his physical sickness puts to rest his mental sickness if not only for a moment, so that he will allow his mother to do what she does best. Love. Nurture. Nurse. Make everything ok.

As for me, I still only picture him as a small child and I feel helpless and sad for all involved. I’ve allowed myself to think that when he dies, he will finally be at peace. It’s not something that I will broadcast to my immediate family. I think that they probably feel the same way.

As someone with a strong viewpoint and belief that lessons are to be learned from everything and that death is all part of the whole river of life, I have already seen some good come out of this. Within the one phone call my mom made to her ex-mother in law, kind words were spoken between two women who had a very complicated relationship. The words “I never once doubted you loved all of your children” was said with the same voice that defended her abusive son. The same woman who very clearly stated that “perhaps if more meat and potatoes were on the table, my boy wouldn’t be so angry with you.” As this process takes its course, the only line of communication will most likely be between these two women. One that picked up the pieces of her life and created a brilliant new one, and the other too old to change now and in a weird prison of her own. One that wants desperately to nurse her son; the other who will be doing the nursing. I don’t know if that balance is harmonious, or even fair, but it’s balance. And hearing her say those words brought a lot of closure for my mom.

I do not know what happens next. I do not know what else to think. I will keep writing my brother’s name down in that book and I will keep meditating and carrying Theo on my hip.

Bebe

Thank Buddha I have incredibly understanding girlfriends that want the best for me.  Seriously, these girls sustain me.  I try to tell them as much as possible.

But I find myself asking them things that I feel like I should have known a long time ago, about love, self respect, trusting people to take care of you.  I have a lot of compassion for the girl I was 13+ years ago, even the girl 5 years ago but it’s amazing to see how much can change in a year.

I know 100% that my husband was not a loving person to me ever in our relationship.  We had moments but overall, no.  He’s a good person in his own right but he was not kind to me in the way I needed or deserved.  His lack of self confidence was acted out in ways that hurt me unintentionally to keep me down to whatever level he believed he was at.  I was never cool enough, thin enough, funny enough, smart enough, etc and after awhile I started to believe that too.  Then, thankfully, I stopped.

The difference now is I do not blame him for any of it.  I have my responsibilities for our marriage failing as well.  Just like I come from a line of women that have very little self worth, he came from a lineage of people that did the same thing to him.  Withheld love, or just didn’t know how to unconditionally love and still be confident enough to let the other person flourish.  He didn’t and I think he’s seeing that now.  I hope desperately he is for his benefit and for our daughter and for whatever relationship he finds himself in.

That’s another thing.  I get asked a lot about how I feel that he is in a relationship too.  I was thinking about our daughter’s next birthday party recently and I realized I might have our girlfriends/boyfriends under the same roof.  I was pleasantly surprised to learn it didn’t bother me at all.  Sure I will clean and decorate like a motherfucker & maybe laugh a little louder, but I have no jealousy.  None.  That made me incredibly happy.  I think it would be the same even if I wasn’t with someone.  She didn’t steal him from me, I left him.  She doesn’t affect my relationship with him at all, or with our daughter and I’m actually grateful for that.  I wish her the best.  If he hasn’t done some soul-searching, then I wish her good luck.  She will need it.

I thought I was ready to date right away when we separated.  I put my profile up, I met a few guys randomly but was so terrified and unsure and just grasping for straws and it was awful.  A year later I tried it again and had a completely different experience.  I didn’t meet my soul-mate online but I had lovely dates with lovely men and it was fun!  Everything it was supposed to be.

So what changed in a year?  I guess trusting myself, not relying on the familiar but demanding the best, and being open for good things to happen to me, even when they aren’t.

What I’ve learned is that completely trusting another human being not to hurt you, to know that they have your best interest at heart even when honoring their truth, to feel peace and calm…that’s love.  And I’m in it.  No questions asked.

 -Lulu

Believe

Maybe the camera crew is at someone else’s house,
a spotlight haloing over another’s fleshy story.
Maybe the mailman is delivering the good news
to your neighbor, or a different city entirely,
and you come home to a rash of catalogues,
the second notice for a doctor’s bill, a plea
from the do-gooders for whatever you can spare.

Maybe you haven’t cleaned your kitchen floor in weeks,
forgotten to nourish the front garden, spilled too much
coffee in your car, weaving through traffic.

Maybe you are 10 pounds heavier than last year.
Maybe your skin is betraying your age.
Maybe winter is ravaging your heart.
Maybe you are afraid, or lonely, or furious, or wanting out
of every commitment you entered with such vigor and trust.

Maybe you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick,
chosen your meals badly, ignored the advice of those
who know you best. Maybe you are stubborn as a toddler.

Maybe you are clumsy or foolish or hasty or reckless.
Maybe you haven’t read all the books you’re supposed to.
Maybe your handwriting is still illegible after all these years.
Maybe you spent too much on a pair of shoes you didn’t need.
Maybe you left the window open and the rain ruined the cake.
Maybe you’ve destroyed everything you’ve ever wanted to save.

Still.

If anything, believe in your own strange loveliness.
How your body, even as it stumbles, angles for light.

The way you hold a dandelion with such yearning and tenderness,
the whole world stops spinning.

I love Andrea.  She’s brilliant!

-LuLu

I went tubing on a lake. Simple enough, yes. But let me break down a little bit my feelings on water and my place in it in general.

I have never been particularly keen about water. As a child I knew swimming in a pool on a hot summers day was a lot of fun, and I spent summers near a big lovely lake in Wisconsin where I would paddle boat, fish, and jump off of piers into the unknown. It was just a way of life and something I did, and I am sure I had fun. But over time I began to realize that I didn’t like it much. I didn’t like pools that much because I just kept thinking of them as crowded toilets. I hated water in my ears or in my nose. I hated the feeling I would get when I felt like I was being consumed by all of that water, or the highly ridiculous and farfetched idea that some criminal mastermind was going to cover the top of the pool with a heavy piece of Plexiglas and I would die there. I hated the feeling of walking around wet and touching things while wet. To this day I have to go to bed with my hair bone dry. I hate seeing wet towels anywhere near fabrics or on beds, and there is this scene from Will & Grace where Grace breaks up with Woody Harrelson and goes right from the shower dripping wet into bed under the covers. If I could surgically remove that scene from my head and replace it with visions of dogs pooping day in and day out, I would.

Lakes were no different, though my stance on lake swimming was a bit more nature-conservation based from a very young age. I stopped fishing once I hit a certain age, not from an animal rights point of view or affectionate feelings towards worms or fish, I just felt like it was sort of an unfair advantage on humanities part. There was an entire civilization of creatures under those waves, out of sight, minding their business, and here are all of these people teasing them with worms, catching them, killing them, or even worse, throwing them back. I felt it was such an invasion of privacy, if that makes sense. I hated that boats and jet skis dumped pollution into the lakes too. They are out of our sight, so I feel that they should be out of our minds too. And don’t get me started on sharks, and my completely absurd fear of them in any kind of water, salt, chlorinated, lakes, puddles, dunk tanks, etc. Interesting side note: I found out my grandfather never took actual baths in his lifetime because of the same fear, and my cousin also harbors the same stupid issue as well. Come to think of it, this is the same grandpa who threw us into deep water as children to teach us how to swim. Maybe he is to blame. I will jot that down later for therapy purposes. Back to the subject at hand here.

We spent the weekend with family at their lake house, and went for a ride on their pontoon boat. It was really quite lovely and I have to say very relaxing for what it is. I appreciate things as they are and I am not personally offended by much. Just because I wouldn’t do that type of thing every day doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the beauty of it overall. I want to enjoy everything life has to offer me, and this weekend, it offered me family time on a lake. It also offered me going tubing. Yikes.

The boy is developing a fear of water and not being able to touch the ground when we are in a pool. He fell off some pool stairs at a party and took in a lot of water and now is visibly nervous and shaky at the thought of being near water. I hate seeing that. After his initial fall, I held him for a while, put a life jacket on him and took him to the deeper part of the pool so I can just hold him and let him float and learn to trust me. It wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but I owed it to him to not run out of the pool and never climb back in. I gave him a few minutes and then we got out of the pool. It’s been shaky ever since but I don’t regret that decision. The tubing, I felt, could be a great example for me to show him that you don’t always have to like something, but you should never be afraid of it. As part of my life appreciation project, I decided to kill two birds (or fish) with one stone (or one chunky girl in a seal black swimsuit) and teach both myself and my kid a lesson.

I got on the tube.

I don’t have a lengthy description of what this was like for me. I got on, I got knocked around, I laughed, I put my head down, and I peed myself a little bit, but honestly, I probably would have done that anyway. I heard the boy yelling “hi mommy!” for about 3 minutes until he got bored and went about doing other things. My shoulders felt like they were going to fall off, and I just spent the rest of it killing time until we came to a stop. Silly me, I thought we were done. They took off again, and the tube went underneath the water, the water went up my nose, down my throat and over my head. The rope connected to the vessel of doom wrapped around my ankle, and I panicked. In my mind, the fish were pissed I invaded their privacy, sharks were hungry and found lake life boring, and perhaps this whole zest for life thing was just a precursor to me dying out in the middle of a stupid lake. I made my way out and uttered a string of obscenities at my cousin, who only replied “she’s done, let’s reel her in” and they got a picture of my face as I was cursing up a storm. I looked like a beauty queen while in labor compared to that picture. But I kept a smile on my face, kept staring at my son, and climbed up and gave him a hug. I told him that water can be fun too. He was thrilled. I was feeling accomplished, for the both of us. I won’t do it again though.

We went to the nearby beach and the boy promptly ran from the beach into the water and jumped. No bickering about sand or weeds, no nervous tension other than walking on the rickety pier, and no tears. He was having a blast and didn’t want to leave. He even proclaimed to have found a chunk of ham on shore. I was initially completely afraid of both real ham on the beach, or whatever it is that looks like ham on the beach. It was giant chunk of driftwood, thanks be to Ariel. When we left he just kept singing “the beach is closed, the beach is closed” and “I love hot dogs”. Just as it should be for a 4-year-old, right?

I touched on this when I wrote Inflatable Metaphors for Life as well. I really have no clue what I am doing a lot of the time with him. But sometimes, big lessons do happen along and I am so grateful to know them when I see them, even if that means him having the memory of his mom looking like a manatee on a tube on a warm summer’s day.  

He may not like water as he grows up, but he sure as hell will no longer be afraid of it.

-Bebe

I took a walk for lunch and stopped at the local farmers market. White tents everywhere, bright flowers in buckets on the pavement, a terrible live band playing on the stage. The sounds of the fountain in the center of the plaza, ethnic food stands celebrating this week’s contribution to our melting pot. Fruits, vegetables, breads, and even scary ass live bees at the honey stands mix in with the earthy scent of all of the fresh herbs. Honestly, it’s my absolute favorite place to be in the city from summer to fall. I don’t leave there with a trendy reusable bag full of strategically placed baguette and bundles of bright flowers like the polished women do in every movie I have ever watched, but I do get honey for the boy and berries for myself and just kind of feel part of it all when I am there.

On to the cheese portion of the market. More importantly, those who sell the cheese. I always walk to the Amish stand that sells bakery goods and cheese, for I love the Amish so. Especially the men. No, they don’t always look conventionally handsome and it does appear that they in fact, really do not use any electricity at all. But I will keep this short. They aren’t preoccupied with all of the filler and garbage in life. They build the communities they live in, the furniture they sit in, and they grow righteous beards when they marry in lieu of wedding rings. All of this and cheese too? Sisters, please. Judge all you want, but it makes me want to give it all up and build a cabin somewhere and render my own lard.

The snooty French crepe guy sweats his ass off making sweet and savory crepes for us, all with a look of sheer disdain for the portly Americans waiting in line for his goods. He seems actually annoyed that we patronized his business. I think he just wanted to stand there, be French, and let us all know that he makes crepes that we don’t deserve. But it’s hot, and he wears sexy t-shirts, and I can’t judge him because this post is about pleasantries. Besides he once made me a wickedly delicious fresh blueberry, lemon and goat cheese crepe. To that I say Merci!

I stop over at the fancy natural soap stand, hoping to find fancy, natural women working there. But instead I find a hipster. I ask if any of their fancy natural soaps are suitable for washing my hair with, because my hair is a mess. He says “sure! I do!” and I look at his hipster mop and could feel the grime itching my scalp as we spoke. So no. However, olive oil soap that smells like basil and lemons really should have its place in society. It also doubles as emergency pesto. Thanks, hipster!

I stroll over to buy some giant sunflowers for the older ladies I work with because it just seems like that kind of a fucking day, you know? The flower lady is all sunshine and smiles and acts like anyone would if they were peddling petals all day. By this time, you should just picture me skipping through the crowd, blue birds flying around my shoulders, cellulite free, no debt, and no need to ever wax my mustache again because it mysteriously vanished. Because that’s how I felt. It’s how I genuinely really felt. Moments like this are seriously worth remembering and sharing. To know they exist and will exist again the next time I am feeling like I ate dirty sand for dinner and then had no toilet paper afterward.

I grabbed a delicious cold leek quiche on the go from a pastry stand and ate it on the way back to the office. It was absolutely divine. I walked past a church and made a last-minute call to drop in, say thank you and leave. Regardless of what my thoughts are on religion or God or Buddha or Goddesses or The Golden Girls, someone or something deserved some props for this day. I came back to my office, distributed my sunflowers to the ladies, grabbed a glass of water and then welcomed a visit from my boss who stopped by to show me plans for the new space where I will be Grand Poobah. Honestly, what a soul-sustainer of a day, dudes.

I have some theories on good moments and  the people who worry about the other shoe dropping so much so that the moment is no longer good. It’s two-fold. The first part is that when you wear ill-fitting shoes, the shoe will drop. Just like when you are living in a manner that isn’t you, or when you are making the wrong decisions, or compromising things you shouldn’t. Of course it will drop. The second part is that if you just take the shoes off and skip through the farmers market, you have no shoes to worry about. Only flowers, Amish men and their cheese, and the sounds of the fountain in the center of the plaza. Pleasantries. See?

Bebe

This compliment is huge to me for a lot of reasons.

I’ve been actively working on staying in the moment, being grateful for what I have and where I am and looking for what I need and want. If there is one thing I’ve learned the most in the last year it’s don’t pile on tomorrow when you’re still in today. There’s plenty to worry about today, or not worry about.

Though I’m currently pretty peaceful, I laugh with my mouth wide open so much more now, and I’m falling in love with one of the most thoughtful men I’ve ever known, in my darker moments I still get nervous and anxious that I’m not “healed” yet. That I’m in a dream I’m going to wake up and have to go through the last year all over again. That I’m not good enough for this great man, that I am damaged. I suppose this is some leftover from a childhood spent worrying about the other shoe dropping, but it’s in me and I battle with it. So hearing a friend that doesn’t see me often compliment how happy I am after just 30 minutes of pleasantries is a HUGE thing. I wasn’t faking it, or even able to hide my genuine joy in life. I’m happy.

With depression I always thought I’d get medicine to make me at least able to fake it more on the days I really couldn’t chemically. That just didn’t seem good enough though. I want real happiness, I want real joy, I want real love.

I have handwritten signs up all over the place. In my wallet, on my desk at work that say things like “You are good enough right now.” Or “You are doing this, be proud and watchful.” The one I love the most that I laminated says this:

“Please let what I need show up and help me to remain grateful for what I have, always.”

It really is true, if you don’t love yourself how can anyone else.

I recently completed a “How to CoParent in Divorce” class that was mandatory for our divorce. I went in dragging my feet, having only slept 3-4 hours the night before because we had went to a concert (whoever said divorce was all bad didn’t take advantage of their free nights with no kids!). I was exhausted and smug, thinking I wasn’t going to learn a thing, that I was already doing this. We hadn’t fought, we shared her, we were able to talk, etc.

Yea. The universe sure likes telling me I’m a smug asshole but that’s why I love her. 

We watched this sad video of kids that had parents who didn’t co-parent well, we read literature, we got into small groups where I heard a very young woman talk about her ex and how if he’d just stop drinking they’d get back together, etc. It was scary and sad and eye-opening. I texted my ex halfway through and thanked him for doing this with me for our daughter. Then I took a shit load of notes.

Kids, just like us, have to go through the mourning process eventually. Either early, late or in their adult life, but they will have to and we need to make space for them to do this openly with love. I thought I was in the clear because my daughter was so young, but not the case. And rightly so. I can’t put one over on her just because she’s young. Not like I do with hiding veggies in her mac & cheese or telling her my beer is Mama’s yucky juice box so she won’t drink it. So now I know to look for signs and to encourage her to ask whatever questions she has, feel whatever she needs to feel. God I hope it’s earlier rather than later.

I also learned that the hardest part for kids, at any age, is the transition period. The time when they switch houses back and forth. That it’s best to make a ritual out of it. Like go to the same restaurant on that day or do something special routinely on the day they go back and forth. It creates a pattern they can rely on even at a young age. This made a boatload of sense after hearing it.

My daughter still sleeps with me and has no interest in her own bed. I bought a toddler bed and put it in my room. It’s been a raging success. She falls asleep with me, I put her in it and she’s fine all night. EXCEPT the nights she comes home after being at her dad’s. She will wake up out of a dead sleep as I put her little body on her blanket and yell “MAMA’s BED!!” Before I was frustrated that we were going back in our progress. Now I get it. So I don’t fight it. Those nights she needs to feel close, so she can.

I am totally new at this, so test it yourself, but it sure seems if you open yourself up you can get exactly what you need. Whether it be a person, information, or understanding. If we’re lucky, all three.

-Lulu