One of the girls at work is going though a divorce. Not particularity messy, but unexpected. For her of course, the rest of us saw the big, giant, neon glow of reg flags from here to Pluto, but everyone's relationship is different, and while they may have been the kiss of doom for most, it was normal for her. Regardless, after 30 years, she's struggling. She worries about things she can not control, being financially stable, and keeping it together.
Divorce is hard. It's similar to the grieving process that someone would go through during death, except the ghost of that person wanders the Earth, randomly stopping by to haunt you forever. It's not until you are through the process that you can really move forward, and you don't get to decide how fast or slow the other person goes through their stages of grief. Add kids, financial dependency, or any other wild card, and it can feel like you are forever tied to the other person, being pulled in every direction like a marionette on strings.
I remember the feeling well. Our stories are so very different, and yet, are exactly the same. Her story has just started and mine somehow, just all worked out. I didn't need a safety net, a plan, or a knight in shining armor. I just needed to focus on getting through that moment, that week, that night. And while I had a lot of support, there was no free ride. There is nothing special about me or what I've accomplished, I just kept going down the path no matter how many times I was dragged off it.
Still, the entire conversation was draining. It brought back so many thoughts of how easy it is to have it all fall apart. Life gets busy, it's easy to forget to be present in your marriage. It's hard to find to find the balance between marriage and just being friends. It's hard to not grow apart alongside thoughts of what's for dinner? and is it trash day?
Which of course, is my biggest fear. I think the downside to having traveled this road is that I know how easy it is to fall off the path. I look in the mirror and see the age lines. I know I've let myself slide a bit. My gray hair has taken over in a less than subtle way, wiry and crinkled, always sprouting in the opposite direction of where it should. My girlish figure no longer carelessly bounces, but now sends shock waves undulating though the universe. My patience is thinner than the worn out T-shirt I prefer to wear to bed. And there's nothing sexy about my blue fuzzy bathrobe and bacon and egg motif slippers, but they are so, so comfortable.
Yet still, he loves me.
For some un-Godly reason, he still does. I know he sees the same woman I do in the mirror, and yet he still kisses my neck while I'm elbow deep in Dawn dish soap and last night's dinner. He'll tell me to leave it all and head to bed when my nagging borderlines on psychopathic babbling. He understands when I wake him up in the middle of the night to ask him what time it is, because the frustration of finding my glasses without my glasses is just too much at 2 am. He plucks my ever elusive blonde chin whiskers, and could care less if I've shaved my legs when he sneaks a peak of what I'm wearing under that blue bathrobe. And still, every day he blindly tells me there's no other woman he want to be with.
Part of me wonders what red flags others would see if they looked in at the intricacies of my marriage. What part of my relationship is only normal for me? I have wondered if someday he will finally be done with my irrational need to clear clutter off the kitchen counter and my sporting of pea green facials. But like everyone in a marriage, I hope that he won't. I cling to the faith that he'll find my laugh lines as endearing now as the days we shared that formed them. That my worry lines will remind him of the strength we have pulled from each other, and my extra squish around the middle will make for better, more satisfying snuggling and the feeling that we will always be safe in each other's arms.
Or, that his eyesight will fail and he'll only remember the optimistic, bouncy, smooth skinned, 20-something woman from the mirror that he fell in love with all those years ago.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Thursday, March 19, 2015
The Voice In My Head...
If it's one thing I have learned completely the hard way, it's that most often, had I listened to that teeny tiny voice inside my head, I would have been so much better off. Like right now, I'm clearly involving myself in the task of writing this post, but that little voice is telling me to go check the mushroom risotto because I will be pissed if it gets ruined.
For 10 years I had wanted to go on a cruise in the Mediterranean. But as the date approached, I thought it might not be so safe to float around in the middle of the Sea. (Enter ISIS, the wars with the Middle East, and the whole unrest thing.) Instead I decided to take a quick trip to Bermuda for my birthday weekend, but the voice said "Don't book just yet." (Enter MASSIVE hurricane), the plan then turned to a pumpkin festival that I've always wanted to go to and again, the voice said waiiiitttt.... (Enter college riots and flaming cars.) And we all know how that weekend ended, with a week long hospital stay and the voice in my head saying "Told ya so."
The battles with Youngest seems to have settled a bit. Maybe it's the sunshine and lack of three day snow cycle. Maybe it's the change in curriculum that has peaked his interest once again in his school day. Maybe he's just setting me up for something bigger later on. Or, maybe it's that I finally listened to the voice that said "pick your battles" and "he'll eat when he's hungry." Maybe it's that approach that's taken all the fun out of making me crazy. Either way, he's managed to turn his Science F into a B+ and his Math 39 into a 68. There's no giant battle to get him to bed when I let him stay up just a half hour more. He still thinks I'm an annoying dork, but I'm taking what I can get.
My voice said to stick my ground when he wanted a knife necklace for his birthday. And when he complained that it was the only thing he wanted in front of all his friends and "what kind of mother won't buy her son a knife that they could wear as a necklace?", the little voice inside me gave props and mental high fives to all the other moms when every kid in the car replied, "Mine."
My mouth said "Yes", when asked to look into filing grievances for the office. The voice in my head says "Don't do it all for them, find out what you need to know, and then walk away." The upfront me will coordinate epic Scout camp outs that are different and crazy fun. The voice in my head says "If you ever plan anything that involves the town hall, permitting, and site maps again, I will kill you." The good parent in me wants to do a fundraiser for the PTA that will be easy, fun, and highly successful. The voice inside me says "Throw out an idea, see if it sticks, and be happy if it makes $100."
My wallet and common sense says that I should be feeling better. The doctors have said that diverticulitis is manageable, and in some cases, doesn't ever reoccur. The doctors have said that that is likely to be all that it is, but they will run extra tests and biopsies, just to be sure. The doctors just diagnosed Tony's second (estranged) family member with Stage 4 cancer. The voice in my head says to remind Tony that he now has a very real, very dangerous, family history of cancer and heart issues, and that I should get him to set up some much needed appointments. The voice in my head says he will listen to me just about as much as Youngest does.
The voice in my head says that I should reschedule my appointments for an earlier date.... so I did.
The voice says "It will all work out fine,
let the pieces fall where they want, then rearrange them as needed,
it's not your job to do it all, or to hold it all together,
you are not alone.
Now, get yourself another bowl of that risotto."
For 10 years I had wanted to go on a cruise in the Mediterranean. But as the date approached, I thought it might not be so safe to float around in the middle of the Sea. (Enter ISIS, the wars with the Middle East, and the whole unrest thing.) Instead I decided to take a quick trip to Bermuda for my birthday weekend, but the voice said "Don't book just yet." (Enter MASSIVE hurricane), the plan then turned to a pumpkin festival that I've always wanted to go to and again, the voice said waiiiitttt.... (Enter college riots and flaming cars.) And we all know how that weekend ended, with a week long hospital stay and the voice in my head saying "Told ya so."
The battles with Youngest seems to have settled a bit. Maybe it's the sunshine and lack of three day snow cycle. Maybe it's the change in curriculum that has peaked his interest once again in his school day. Maybe he's just setting me up for something bigger later on. Or, maybe it's that I finally listened to the voice that said "pick your battles" and "he'll eat when he's hungry." Maybe it's that approach that's taken all the fun out of making me crazy. Either way, he's managed to turn his Science F into a B+ and his Math 39 into a 68. There's no giant battle to get him to bed when I let him stay up just a half hour more. He still thinks I'm an annoying dork, but I'm taking what I can get.
My voice said to stick my ground when he wanted a knife necklace for his birthday. And when he complained that it was the only thing he wanted in front of all his friends and "what kind of mother won't buy her son a knife that they could wear as a necklace?", the little voice inside me gave props and mental high fives to all the other moms when every kid in the car replied, "Mine."
My mouth said "Yes", when asked to look into filing grievances for the office. The voice in my head says "Don't do it all for them, find out what you need to know, and then walk away." The upfront me will coordinate epic Scout camp outs that are different and crazy fun. The voice in my head says "If you ever plan anything that involves the town hall, permitting, and site maps again, I will kill you." The good parent in me wants to do a fundraiser for the PTA that will be easy, fun, and highly successful. The voice inside me says "Throw out an idea, see if it sticks, and be happy if it makes $100."
My wallet and common sense says that I should be feeling better. The doctors have said that diverticulitis is manageable, and in some cases, doesn't ever reoccur. The doctors have said that that is likely to be all that it is, but they will run extra tests and biopsies, just to be sure. The doctors just diagnosed Tony's second (estranged) family member with Stage 4 cancer. The voice in my head says to remind Tony that he now has a very real, very dangerous, family history of cancer and heart issues, and that I should get him to set up some much needed appointments. The voice in my head says he will listen to me just about as much as Youngest does.
The voice in my head says that I should reschedule my appointments for an earlier date.... so I did.
The voice says "It will all work out fine,
let the pieces fall where they want, then rearrange them as needed,
it's not your job to do it all, or to hold it all together,
you are not alone.
Now, get yourself another bowl of that risotto."
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Thirteen...
In a few short days this house will officially be full of teenagers. Your brother, already fourteen, your stepfather acting sixteen, and you, finally, thirteen.
We have come a long way, you and I. Every day a new stage, a new challenge. From your sensitivity to light and sounds, textures and tastes, to wearing rain boots everywhere, in every season, we have figured it out, slowly... painfully... and made our way to here. Truth be told I didn't think you'd make it to the teen years, I thought one of us would break at some point along the way and throw in the towel. But what neither of us could ever know is that the emotions that fuel us both exponentially magnified our ability to deal with whatever came our way, and left us stronger and more able to fight, after of course, two Advil and a good solid nap.
I see that face of yours. Round and slightly freckled, your deep brown eyes, giant smile, and I'd be amiss to not say that you look a lot like your father. Your quick wit, sarcasm, and charming your way out of anything, reminds me of why I married him and stayed for far too long. It would be easy to say that the frustration I feel is magnified by your physical similarities, but it is not. Because while his genetics are there, I have raised you, and all the qualities I adore and loathe about you, are the ones I have struggled with myself, my whole life.
Our compassion, creative thinking, and inventiveness could change the world, if it was not held back by our temper, moodiness, stubbornness, and futile defiance. Focused and untamed, you can move mountains, or dig in your heels and create a trench it could swallow a small village. Your passion and creativity is like lightning in a bottle. Opened carefully your light will be blinding but beautiful, but left capped will become volatile, leaving shards of glass in it's wake. If you spend a quarter of the energy doing instead of resisting, you'd defy logic in what you could accomplish, and I'd be far less exhausted.
I suppose that's quintessential essence of the teen years though, the testing, the moodiness, the defiance. I get it. I'm annoying. I am always bugging you, constantly on your case, and forever just... there. In. Your. Face. Just like Grammie was in mine. Believing I want you to be perfect, you dig in to become everything imperfect, making everything an argument, as that day's chosen ultimate act of defiance. But you are smarter than I was, as I rebelled in the typical teenage ways. Your rebellion is staying up late reading books, refusing to cut your hair, and failing out of Math class for by refusing to do your homework. Homework, which takes you all of 10 minutes to complete, because the class is far below your ability. Your rebellion is calculated, each step like a well thought out chess match, waiting out the next move but ultimately setting your self up for the win, not the win you're capable of, but a win none the less.
There is a fine line between teenage angst and needing medication. We often straddle that line, and I struggle with it everyday. Had your father gotten help, had his mother been present in his younger years, maybe he would not have become the man that he was. I am present whether you want me to be or not. I will make you eat, you will grow, and you will be strong. I will let you fail, but I will not fail you. You are capable of great things, Youngest. Fueled by lighting and lava there is nothing you can not overtake and conquer. Your perfect imperfection will someday change the world, but ultimately it will be up to you if it is as a natural disaster, or a natural wonder.
We have come a long way, you and I. Every day a new stage, a new challenge. From your sensitivity to light and sounds, textures and tastes, to wearing rain boots everywhere, in every season, we have figured it out, slowly... painfully... and made our way to here. Truth be told I didn't think you'd make it to the teen years, I thought one of us would break at some point along the way and throw in the towel. But what neither of us could ever know is that the emotions that fuel us both exponentially magnified our ability to deal with whatever came our way, and left us stronger and more able to fight, after of course, two Advil and a good solid nap.
I see that face of yours. Round and slightly freckled, your deep brown eyes, giant smile, and I'd be amiss to not say that you look a lot like your father. Your quick wit, sarcasm, and charming your way out of anything, reminds me of why I married him and stayed for far too long. It would be easy to say that the frustration I feel is magnified by your physical similarities, but it is not. Because while his genetics are there, I have raised you, and all the qualities I adore and loathe about you, are the ones I have struggled with myself, my whole life.
Our compassion, creative thinking, and inventiveness could change the world, if it was not held back by our temper, moodiness, stubbornness, and futile defiance. Focused and untamed, you can move mountains, or dig in your heels and create a trench it could swallow a small village. Your passion and creativity is like lightning in a bottle. Opened carefully your light will be blinding but beautiful, but left capped will become volatile, leaving shards of glass in it's wake. If you spend a quarter of the energy doing instead of resisting, you'd defy logic in what you could accomplish, and I'd be far less exhausted.
I suppose that's quintessential essence of the teen years though, the testing, the moodiness, the defiance. I get it. I'm annoying. I am always bugging you, constantly on your case, and forever just... there. In. Your. Face. Just like Grammie was in mine. Believing I want you to be perfect, you dig in to become everything imperfect, making everything an argument, as that day's chosen ultimate act of defiance. But you are smarter than I was, as I rebelled in the typical teenage ways. Your rebellion is staying up late reading books, refusing to cut your hair, and failing out of Math class for by refusing to do your homework. Homework, which takes you all of 10 minutes to complete, because the class is far below your ability. Your rebellion is calculated, each step like a well thought out chess match, waiting out the next move but ultimately setting your self up for the win, not the win you're capable of, but a win none the less.
There is a fine line between teenage angst and needing medication. We often straddle that line, and I struggle with it everyday. Had your father gotten help, had his mother been present in his younger years, maybe he would not have become the man that he was. I am present whether you want me to be or not. I will make you eat, you will grow, and you will be strong. I will let you fail, but I will not fail you. You are capable of great things, Youngest. Fueled by lighting and lava there is nothing you can not overtake and conquer. Your perfect imperfection will someday change the world, but ultimately it will be up to you if it is as a natural disaster, or a natural wonder.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
An Entire Page About Basically Nothing...
Me: "Weather.com says it's going to be 50 degrees on Wednesday."
Tony: "Wanna go to the beach?"
The melt down has semi-officially begun Pen Pals. Last week I was so excited to see some warmer days only to have them buried under another 9-12 inches of wet snow on Thursday. The storm, with it's expected 3-5 inches total accumulation, caught most of us off guard and not giving a crap. No one grabbed a shovel, or busted out the snow blowers. They didn't even delay school. But Saturday seems to have started a warming trend once again, with pavement and walkways coming into sight. Now starts the fun game of "what the hell is that buried in the snow bank?" So far we have seen large pieces of foam structures where they shouldn't be, buckets and warning cones from various road hazards, (which defeats the purpose really) and a multitude of Dunkin' Donuts coffee cups and beer cans, which is a vast improvement over last year's finding of several "lost" pets. We saw our first half starved, scraggy coyote, who has apparently marked our driveway as his territory, and while I haven't seen our resident deer yet, small signs of wildlife have started to surface, thankfully not in our garage rafters. So yeah, things are looking good, despite the ice dam water damage in the front window.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tony and I ventured out for a casino night last night. While it was fun, I must admit I wish I was faster with my math. I find while black jack is enjoyable, not being able to quickly add 3 cards in my head is embarrassing. And while the thought of winning a brand new Chevy Silverado is appealing, my actual odds of winning were one in 7,776. Clearly I would have been smarter keeping Tony's twenty bucks in my pocket instead of throwing on a roll of the dice. Course, I lost the rest of the money betting on horse races from 1973, in which the horses are most likely now dead along with their jockeys. Money spent on a good cause, we still spent less than if we had taken the kids to dinner. I'd do it again tomorrow if not just for the opportunity to have somewhere to go that required heels, makeup and nice earrings.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Th Ides Of March are fast approaching, and while they may have been unlucky for Caesar, they typically cost us a fortune, as it is also Youngest's birthday. With daylight savings now in full swing, and most of today gone, I now have 6 days to plan a party for him and figure out what he wants for a gift. My affordable ideas have been ruined as Tony already bought him the new season of Atlantis on DVD and the books that he wants are currently on delayed release. So for now we are concentrating on the party aspect, who to invite, and where to have it, because this house is far too small (And my patience way too thin) to have 7 teenage boys in it longer than 30 minutes. I find he is moving past some of his friends which makes me a bit sad, and is inviting a girl which makes Tony weirdly obnoxious. While I know she's been his friend for 2 years or so now, Tony's suspicious that she's a "girlfriend" and wants to tease him incessantly about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
That about sums up our week. Fill in the blanks with a few new found recipes for mushroom risotto, two rec league basketball games, and Tony getting cleared to go back to work by the neurosurgeon, and you'll have the bulk of excitement around here.
The snow blower has been dropped off for service and will hopefully be back before next winter.
The new protein skimmer has been ordered for the fish tank and FedEx might be able to get down our road provided the melt down continues. Fingers crossed it fixes the nitrate problems, although the fish look happy as ever to be swimming in toxic levels of their own filth.
The new washing machine is fantastic, but sadly shows the true age of the dryer which just can't keep up. My painting still hangs above it.
I have several post it notes strategically placed around the house to ensure I call for propane tomorrow, as we will surely need the heat for another month or so. The upside is that this fill should last up until sometime in July, which about the same time the snow banks surrounding the tank will be gone.
And that's it.
Pretty boring actually.
Honestly, I'm surprised you're still reading.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Picasso I Am Not...
We're expecting another 3-5 inches of snow tonight, so, um yeah, I've closed all the window blinds in denial. It is rather funny though, now that a partial melt down has occurred, how well you can actually see the layers of storms as you drive down the street. It looks like an archaeological dig site.
Needless to say we all need a distraction so my sister, one of the girls from work, and I went to the hotel by my house that was hosting a paint night. If you are unfamiliar with the concept, basically there's hors d'oeuvres and an open bar for the first hour, and then for the next hour and a half you paint your very own masterpiece.
Please note that I use the word masterpiece loosely, very loosely. I loved my art classes in college. Truthfully I excelled in pencil and charcoal drawings, but in painting, not so much. So when they handed us a pallet of acrylic paints and no water to clean or mix, I was apprehensive.
Then I saw the painting.
*sigh*
Craaaaapppp....
The whole reason we chose this class was that it was a Monet inspired piece. And while I knew we wouldn't be painting an actual Monet, I do know that Monet tends to look a little blurry, so the more wine I drank the better it might turn out. Right? Tell me I'm right? So I drank, and had some grapes, then some cheese, and drank a little more. My face went warm, my ear lobes felt fuzzy, my co-worker called me a light weight, my sister laughed at me, and we hadn't even picked up the paintbrushes yet.
As the night wore on we experimented with the paints, the brushes, and markers. We walked around and looked at the other 30 or so masterpieces being created. Some had watercolor influences. Others had splashes of color that seemed to dance across the canvas. Each one was unique and somehow brought out the personality of the painter. When we were done, my sister headed home and my co-worker and I went to a local restaurant for dinner. Aside from the freezing cold night (7 degrees), it was a fantastic time.
The next morning Tony found my canvas in the kitchen.
Me: "Don't laugh. It's been 22 years since I painted anything besides the house. I don't totally hate it."
Tony: "It's not bad." (long pause) "It's England, right?" *snickers*
Me: "Shut up." (eye roll)
Tony: "Hey Youngest, look at this painting."
Youngest: "I've seen that painting somewhere before."
Tony: "Mom painted it last night. It's London, right?"
(Youngest just rolls his eyes and walks away)
Here it is, in all it's glory.
I assure you it looks much better after two glasses of wine. Tony insists on hanging it in the house. He took down a picture in the sun room and hung it up before I left for work on Saturday morning. I took it down and replaced it with the original picture. When I returned home it was back up on the wall. It's like a bad Elf on the shelf prank, but with a painting. Trying to stay one step ahead of him, I hung it over the new washing machine in the basement.
It makes me smile when I see it there, because I know it will be months before he finds it.
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