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.
Sunday, July 3
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
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
Monday, March 28
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.
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