Men, Men, Menly Men

I make poor choices in men.

From my 8th grade boyfriend Billy (who was older and already in high school and who wanted way more than a 13 yr old was ready to give) to the man I met when I was 38, newly divorced and as raw as a 13 yr old... I make poor choices.

A stalked me and my girlfriends one christmas vacation when we went caroling, sneaking around behind us and noting details to share with me afterward to prove he'd done it.  Ahhhh, Jr. High.

B had a juvenile criminal record,  Oh, High School.

C had a girlfriend back home.  Hello College.

D hid debt and despair under credit cards and fast cars.  Welcome to adulthood.

E forgot to mention that he wasn't actually divorced... or that he had a son.  And here we go, grownup style!

F couldn't separate love from control; power and shame from attraction and commitment...but he hid it well for 14 years of marriage.  Oh, wait, THIS is "grown up style"... ok... gotcha.

G made believe that a pierced penis and a job as a correctional officer was the same thing as "strong" and "safe" and "brave" and "authentic".  Steve was wrong.

and H? H convinced himself that love and control were the same... that attraction and attachment were equal to love and commitment: and he nearly convinced a 38 year old divorcee that it was so. Ahhh, this is life!  The learning of your own infallibility and how you play out your own mistakes time and time again until you LEARN something.

ouch.

I will rewrite my own story though, and I will write about my discernment, my patience, my authenticity and transparency.  I will write of my open and welcoming spirit that does not long for whats missing but that waits for something more to add to an already peaceful perfect life.  I will write of confidence, of humor, of acceptance and joy.  And I will write of men.  Of Menly Men.  Of MY men...and of my good choices.

Another piece of my heart...

Its graduation time.  Caps and gown and speeches and parties time.  Pride and relief and anxiety and confidence time.  Deep thoughts time.

I watched my third child walked across the same stage that her siblings had done in past years; and applauded as she accepted her diploma from the same high school that her siblings had; and I cried, just like I did for her siblings. Mom of 3 graduates, and another 14 years before my fourth and final child makes that same walk.

But someone else special to me graduated too, from a different school on a different night.  And although I didn't watch it happening, I've seen the photos and video clips and cried the same happy momma tears for her.  She is my... well, step-daughter I guess - for lack of a better word.

I'm not married (nor ever was) to her father.  I've never lived in the same house with her, never spent more than 2 or 3 nights in a row with her under my roof.  I've never fought with her over homework or chores, curfew, language... I've never taken her to or from school or camp or lessons, I've never taken her to a doctor or picked up a prescription from a pharmacy for her.  Never taken care of her when she's sick.  But I have prayed for this child, cried over her and for her, had long dramatic conversations in the car with her, seen her build relationships with my children, and call them her siblings, and seen her fall in love with the new baby brother her father and I brought into this family.

When I first met her, she was 11.  Long skinny arms and legs, wearing a knit winter cap over her blondish hair and sitting on her daddy's lap.  She was tiny, this girl - and now at 18 she barely hits 5' even and has to have any formal wear tailored down to fit her extremely petite self - because she rocks the curves of a taller woman in spite of her lack of height.  I'm so proud of her, but feel like I need to stay backstage, in the wings, offering only a hug and a smile when she comes to me.  She is so fortunate to have a tight relationship with her mom and her step dad - she is well loved and cared for and has had all the support and encouragement and opportunities you could imagine.  There is very little room for me as a parent, as the mom of her brother, as the partner (former) of her father.  He isn't as involved in her life as I think he should be anyway, so my presence is even of less value due to that.  But none of that lessens my actual love for her.  My love for her is so big...

I love her drama, her crazy talent, her wild emotions, her hour long showers that turn into 2 hour long bathroom sessions, her perpetually messy life, I love it all.  I worry about her - about the hospital stays and the therapy and the medications and the always real concern for her well being.  She is not my daughter, and nothing like the daughters that grew in my womb, she is loud and theatrical and her emotions fling like rainbows from her soul...and I SEE her - and I love her, and I'm so happy for her...and I'm sorry to be part of something that hurts her, confuses her, pulls her in different directions.  But none of it diminishes my love for her.

Happy Graduation, daughter of my heart, and may only good things come to you to balance out the "not good" that you've had more than enough of.

I love you!

D

The Napping House

The boy fell asleep halfway thru singing about his lost blue lazer-light.  I don't know how that is possible, but it is, and he did.  I suppose if I can fall asleep halfway thru praying, then he can fall asleep halfway thru singing.  Besides, he's only three so he can kind of do whatever he wants and it's still within the norm.

The dog is asleep too.  He is pressed against my right thigh, all warm and heavy and doggy-ish.  He occasionally twitches or sighs and I am feeling envious of the napping that is going on around me.

I tried to nap 3 times already.  The first time was after our 4:18 am fiasco with the leaking pull-up.  But the boy was awake enough, after the rudeness of my cold hands on his bare body as I wrestled him into dry clothes, that he couldn't fall back asleep.  His constant thrashing and twisting, combined with the irresistible nature of his tender little kisses and pleas for hugs made "napping" impossible for me as well.  Later around 10, when I realized we weren't going to make it to church in spite of being fully dressed, made up, and with keys in hand; I tried to lay down with him.  Cue the giggling and the kissing.  Man does that boy love to kiss his momma.  Add in the dog barking because 10 am is actually a busy time outside and there were any number of things that needed to be barked at.  Finally I bribed the boy with a movie and a snuggle on the couch at about 1 pm.  Cozy blankets, a few pillows, a dvd on very low volume...and I did doze off; however it was with the unfortunate rasp of Cruella DeVille snaking its way into my semi-sleep and so when the boy slithered off the couch and promptly stepped on a lego (and cried) I was brought harshly to consciousness.  I might possibly had developed a wee bit of a cranky nature by then.

Now it is after 3 and when I put him up in his own bed and told him I was setting a timer for 10 minutes so I could "wash dishes" before we went to the store, I did not expect myself to catch a second wind.  But I did.

So I sit; in this quiet, dark, napping house. I try to not think about the long evening hours ahead, but instead about the hours I spent with my little guy today;  how he showed me his "yoga" and how he made me do push-ups, and how we played legos and how I gave him fruit snacks for no reason at all, and how much I love this little boy...and the dog...and our little safe space in this life, even when everyone else gets a nap except me.

What else can I do?

Some time ago I told you, "something happened and I have to tell you some important thing!" and then life happened and I never got around to telling you...  but now, too late on a work night, after one glass of wine too many, I have to tell someone, anyone, because I can't stop thinking about it and so this is what happened.

First of all, I did something illegal.  So... Yeah.   Ok.  Remember when I stored some boxes at C's house? And then I moved and I thought I got all of them but last summer she called to tell me her daughter found a couple more.  So I went and got them and brought them home and opened them to see what it was that I hadn't even thought about enough to notice I was missing...and they were *M's boxes.  Boxes full of her clothes, shoes, pictures, art work, some toys, all the DCF paperwork, the contracts, my initial notes from her placement, a record of doctor visits...her state ID cards, her medical record number...

I cried.

A lot.

For a week.

Because what else could I do?

And then I saw the light.  I saw her medical record number.  And... I did that illegal thing.  I went to work where I had promised to never do the very thing I was doing... and I looked her up.  Because what else could I do?

She was 10 months old when she was placed with me, she was just 2 years and 3 weeks old when they took her back.  I loved her for just over a year...  Now? She will be 9 in just a couple of weeks.  

The last note in her record was from a couple years ago.  She was maybe 7...she was presenting to the ER because a teacher reported possible sexual abuse.  The notation states she is learning disabled, slow...like her mom.  She lives with her father though.  The report cleared her father...and recommended further DCF follow up.  I read it all at work, silently and stoically, and secretively, and then I went to the employee bathroom and threw up.  Twice.  Because what else could I do?

Once upon a time I had a little brown girl in my arms and in my heart, and now I am broken...and so is she... 

So I pray... Please, pray with me, for her.  Because what else can I do?

Freedom

Freedom tastes like sourdough bread from the farmers market, still warm; an ice cold glass of moscato; feta cheese, grape tomatoes, and basil that was grown from your own garden...

Freedom smells like a cranberry chutney candle; freshly mown grass in the warm spring air, your own warm skin in the middle of the night...

Freedom feels like waking up slowly before the alarm; the first hot shower after a camping trip; crisp clean sheets after a long day...

Freedom sounds like a million peepers on a summer night; an amateur street guitarist; the cadence of saying "yes" whenever you want to; the air on your skin...

Tell Me Who I Am

Two years ago - floating, flailing, failing... Who am I? Where do I belong? Alone, orphan, single, abandoned, struggling...

One year ago - in the middle of cousins and aunties and uncles, surrounded, enveloped, drowned in love, people with the same eyes, same nose, same tilted mouth, the lilt of accent that sounded like home to my ears...

Today - lonely, longing, afraid, insecure, settled in mind yet unsettled in soul, searching and aching, reaching out and pulling back and tethered to the shore of conformity...

And what to do? Stay and be in the safety of misery? Run to the unknown yet familial comfort? 

Can you ever really go home again?

I think not...but I wonder, what else is there to do? 

A Soft Place To Rest

I called her in absolute desperation.

I try to consider calling on God, but in the moment, when the pain is so cellular, I call her.

I am laying prone on the floor, cell phone pressed painfully tight and surprisingly hot to my ear, alternating sobbing huge hiccupy gasping sobs with monosyllabic grunty acknowledgements of her words so she knows I am listening, knows I am breathing, knows I am "here".

These are things she says to me, words that illuminate my dark bitter dumping ground of emotional agony:

~ your kids? They are good people!

~ you don't have money for that tuition for him? But you give So. Much. More. than any amount of money...

~ you have ethic and morals, you give 110%!

~ I know who you ARE. I was there! I saw you...

~ you are understanding, compassionate, you have so much self-worth!

~ I will always remind you, of what a good person you are, what a good mom you are, I KNOW you, you listen to ME!

A friend like her? A friend for close to 15 years? She is worth, as a famous 'book' is known for saying, far more than rubies or Gold... This friend has sat with me in sorrow and grief, held me like a child in her arms and let me scream out my unfathomable pain.  She has seen me broken and destroyed, and seen me rising from the ashes, and seen me somewhat nearly whole, complete, crossed to the other side.  So when she tells me that I am good, that I am strong, right, validated, believed, accepted, NORMAL,  I have to believe her.  

I slide into sleep this night with acid tears sliding from my eyes, trailing the contours of my face from my eye to my temples and leaving silvered trails of anguish reaching into my hairline.

As I weep, I hear her voice: I will remind you...  And I want to say this: oh Holy Spirit thank you for this friend of mine, thank you for your very presence in her voice tonight.  I am saved because of her.