Balance and Family

Life is full of balance, and my weekend family vacation was all about that lesson.  It was a trip that seemed simple and even exciting to start, and as the party in my room grew, so did the stress.  At first it was me and Kid3.  He's easy and enjoys the shenanigans with his cousins.  My mom convinced Kid2 to go and I began to worry about sensory integration and his needs coming first because it's not always easy when you go on vacation but autism doesn't.  Then my Dad wanted to come and I was going to drive him and I was worried about him and his health on such a long ride and in extreme temperatures. Earlier in the week, I suffered for my procrastination by having to order my bathing suit online.  I have been blessed by my late grandmother and my Mom and I had a hard time finding a swimsuit that could accomodate my top as well as comfortably fit my bottom in stores, so I opted for a bikini I found online because at least then I could choose by bra size.  I got the suit and while it was slightly tighter than I liked, it fit my new body shape.  The suit I had last year doesn't fit.  I wore it one Sunday and the band no longer fits, but the halter top knot left my neck in so much pain for a few days.  It's a lot of weight to wrap around a neck that is used to holding my head. A while back I had to get past the fear of wearing a bikini in public without the protective and admiring gaze of a husband that was mine.  It was probably a bigger deal than I explained here, but I was excited to wear my new bikini. It was even better to realize the sarong I have now fits in many other ways because my body is smaller than it was when I got it. 

As we started on our long road trip, there were good moments, but I was with my Dad and there were not amazing moments.  I went into them here.  At the end of the day, he's my Dad and no one else can make me feel like a teenager.  Well, almost no one else, but this post isn't about him. And we're talking different ends of the spectrum on the fun levels of re-living my youth.

The real fun was all about Saturday.  After getting into Laughlin and being greeted with late night lightning that was fierce enough to startle the locals, we got up and took a lot longer to get going than I was happy with.  It was an effort with kids and Dad taking their time because it was vacation and I needed the reminder to slow down.  I just didn't like it. We stay in Laughlin in Nevada and drive into Arizona during the day. We got to Katherine's Landing where the family enjoys calm waters.

As we were on the water, my sister told me about an unspoken rule for the moms and wives in the group, as the family vacation includes a lot of her friends and all of our children.  It's a family outing and the moms and wives cover up their bodies out of respect for the group.  I was shocked by this.  My nieces were quick to point out I'm not a wife anymore, but I get the culture they are trying to cultivate and out of respect, I covered up.  It reminded me of an amazing Muslim woman I knew.  She was smart and confident and as a medical professional and business woman, I was in awe of the power and authority she commanded and like all muslim women willing to cover up, I admired her faith.  We talked about the hijab and burqa.  She explained that it is a woman's job to not tempt a man into sinning by covering herself.  I could see her point of view, but I left feeling thankful that I'm not Muslim.  That is a huge responsibility to carry but I admire the honor in their faith that is so strong it's announced before you ever get a name.

A short while later my Dad wasn't feeling well in the heat and I got to take him back to the hotel room with Kid2 who was happy to go with us. While taking care of my Dad, I was able to get him to mellow out because the stress of not feeling well was making him feel worse.  I put on my playlist of classical piano instrumentals that I usually write to when I'm trying to be creative.  I encouraged him to practice breathing deeply, and I brought him cool drinks and propped him up with pillows.  There was something calming about knowing he was being taken care of and comfortable and I didn't have to worry about him.  His blood pressure stabilized. He calmed down and he looked like he was feeling better and I got to take Kid2 down to the hotel pool, where I kept my phone by my side in a waterproof case, while I stood in the shade and watched my son enjoy looking at the bottom of the pool with his goggles on.

I stood in the shallow  water under the sun and enjoyed the warmth on my skin and the laughter all around us.  I saw a woman in a white version of my bikini and had to ask if her boobs kept trying to pop out of her suit too.  We laughed and agreed that Victoria's Secret needs to learn that mature boobs flop and float and we're both at the age where we really don't care.  I stood next to a few other people and chatted as they kept offering to buy me drinks, but I was on Dad and kid watch and not into the idea.

After checking on my Dad and finding out that Kid3 was really happy with cousins and my sister was taking great care of him, I took Kid2 to an all you can eat buffet.  I have wheat sensitivities.  It's extreme.  I try my best to avoid wheat and anytime I think there might be wheat flour in a dish, I will ask to be sure and avoid it to be safe.  I ate something at the buffet that I reacted to.  I was planning on spending time poolside with the family but ended up in serious pain and vomiting. Being ill means I try my hardest to think about anything other than being ill, and I may be overthinking things, but I started replaying the bikini situation in my head.

This was a third trip for my family, but the rest of my family has been going for over a decade.  My ex never wanted to go, so we didn't go, but the first year I wore a one-piece and the second year I wore a bikini. Last year the trip was cancelled and this year I was called out on my bikini.  My first thought was no one complained the year I had a husband and over 30 extra pounds.  Then I really started to think of the implications of expecting the women in the group to cover up.  I know a few readers have already considered the internalized rape culture that runs through the group.  If you haven't, I'll unpack it for you.

I had my partying days in my youth where I was weather proof and wore tiny dresses, no matter how cold because I wanted to be cute.  Those days are long gone, but it was hot, and I was wearing a bikini, which covers just as much as the matching bra and panty sets I'm in love with lately. It was totally appropriate considering that was what everyone else was wearing, except the women in our group that wore a one-piece or swam with a cover up.

I actually had to dig for the courage to wear a bikini in public alone.  I was proud of that.  Then I was asked to cover up because I'm expected to help the men out by wearing more clothes.  The situation made me angry because the moment I tell my sons their gender excuses them from responsibility for their own actions, is the moment I've failed as a mother to my sons. Saying a woman should dress a certain way is assuming she's responsible for the actions of someone else.  It wasn't the men policing the issue, or even making me uncomfortable with their looks.  It was the women in the group, policing other adult women. This excuse is a slap in the face to the men that have self control and respect for women.  This rationalization opens the door to victim blaming and slut shaming.  I've already touched on those thoughts.

In my life, I have been honored with being secret keeper to more than one woman who has shared her experiences with rape and physical violence with me.  I've stood between a man with raised fists and his victim because I was willing to fight for a sister.  Once was right after high school.  Another time with different people was with a toddling Kid1 near my feet and after the ex realized what was happening, he chased the guy off for us. It would dishonor that trust to ever imagine anything they could have done or done differently would have affected the choice of one human being to violate trust and the personal rights of another person.

As I was feeling sharp pains in my upper back, and writhing in pain, from a bad food choice, I had both Kid2 and Kid3 surrounding me in bed.  They needed to be close to me.  I would toss and they would adjust and throw little legs and arms back over me, in a protective embrace of sleep.  At one point my Dad was on the bed across from us, and he saw this and laughed because it tickled him to see my boys treat me the way he and my uncle treated my grandmother. It reinforced how important it is that I import the value of respecting a woman in my sons, no matter how strong she is, or how much she needs their protection.  They trust me and it's my duty to offer my best. 

There were other great moments with my Dad.  There was singing and laughter.  My kids caught a glimpse of my Dad's discipline and the way I grew up.  It gave them appreciation for my parenting style and reminded me that I really did marry a man just like my Dad.  It was a bad visual, but it was necessary.  I needed to notice.  I need to do what's right, and I need to not do what hasn't worked out in the past. The ride home included laughter and singing and it wasn't just my perspective that was shifted.  The good came with bad, and that is where there is balance.

Transformational Training

The end of this week has been spent in a personal development course.  I had a friend really push me toward the course because it was amazing to her and she saw the potential for it to be amazing to me.  I didn't want to go, but more than that, I didn't want to disappoint this friend.  I started without real expectations and came in with a boatload of skepticism.  The course is called, "Basic" and it's held by Mastery in Transformational Training. An initial online search and sycophantic encouragement from a room full of people at this friend's birthday party had me convinced it was a cult.  I joked about heading off to be brain washed to friends because I was curious, but not convinced it was a wholesome experience.  There were too many red flags for me.  There were definite moments where this was reinforced.  Everything is done with the intention of taking all of your beliefs and restructuring them based on new perspectives.  It's not far from where I had gotten in writing by myself.  I am not the child I was when pain first left it's mark in disappointment.  As an adult, I can honor that pain, but I no longer reside in it.  It is not my reality.

The class has games and directed meditations that will deepen your perspective of the life you lead and your motivations.  There are moments when your classmates will work together to cull the person you want to be out of the heaviness of who you've become.

There was a moment of being called out and it hit me so profoundly.  Part of what I was told was that I am arrogant.  There are other words, but this was the most meaningful, because immediately I found this to be true.  It was a moment that brought shame, but as the thought settled into the fine lines of my identity, I considered where it came from.  I have spent so long feeling like nothing that the idea of being more than I was became a drug and a balm and a protection to me.  I couldn't decide if this arrogance was a bad aspect of my identity.  I still can't.  At the same time, one of the things I deeply want that I don't feel I have is confidence.  My arrogance is a mask and a protection.

The class also showed me that I don't take risks because of the control I need and the underlying fear that stops my development.  I want to take risks. I want to live in bravery despite my fear.  I want to do more and be better. I need to take the unknown road and commit to a bigger gamble.

There are other areas that have shifted and expanded for me . . . areas I didn't know existed.  Through writing, I was fairly certain I had worked through my Mommy and Daddy issues, but there was a deeper layer I had never explored because I didn't realize it existed.  It is a layer that at times makes me give space without realizing the pain it likely causes the people I love. How do we deny ourselves to others? How do we ignore them, and in so doing, what kind of example am I being to my sons? I learned from an Uncle that we are either the parent or the child in our relationships and we can choose what to be.  I've since learned that as an adult, I can be an adult with my parents and it may actually learn their respect. I realized that it breaks my heart that I don't often see my parents profoundly joyful, and it's hard to see them age into the natural order of life when they have always been so strong, secure and independent.

I have sibling issues.  Birth order issues.  I did not know this. I saw it in a game we played and it is an example for the life I lead.  I didn't want to learn the rules of the game.  I wanted to sit on the sidelines and pick a side that had more to do with the shade of lipstick I love.  I wanted to listen and laugh at the snarky opinions I held that labeled the others in my group.  I do this in life and with my family.  Being the baby for as long as I was, my opinions weren't valued.  To this day, I wear a skepticism that negates any possible praise.  My older siblings have moments where there is awe and acceptance for some of the major ideals that I share and this awe feels like condescension that I could come up with valid ideas that are too strong for a baby sister.  I see myself as the baby and have yet to see myself as an adult.  It was something that played out just on Father's Day.  I had an opinion that I negated without trying to be heard and at the end of the day, it was something we did and we all enjoyed.

Mostly the class so far has given me this perspective of authenticity in relationships that is in many ways still a haze of nebulous beauty.  I don't want to feel like my motives are ulterior and I want to give a fully disclosed transparency to others.  I want them to know why I feel they are amazing and why I want their time.  I want to understand what makes me see others as any less than beautiful and what could I do to make the interaction one where I don't feel victimized by a power struggle but empowered by mutual respect and love.

I'm not a crying type but I left last night's training after a day of tears that surprised me.  It wasn't all sorrow.  There was dancing and deep connection and hugs that brought so much joy and sorrow that there were tears and smiles and encouragement.  There was a shift and there was growth.

I headed to the beach because that is where I reboot and decided I would feed a hungry person.  I ran into Patrick with the blue eyes and he remembered me from the last meal I gave him.  We sat for a bit and I listened openly to him tell me about being younger in Arcadia and he now lives near my Mom.  I was in a state of giving because of all I had received.  Today is the last day and then we graduate.  They suggest we surround ourselves with family and friends but I'm choosing not too.  Everything is so fresh and raw and I'm hollowed out in places that I want to heal before I reach out with healing scabs.  I need to process it still.

It's not a cult, but they will scrub your brain.  In a good way.

Amusement Parks

Every summer when I was a kid was spent at amusement parks.  We went to Six Flags Magic Mountain the most and Knott's Berry Farm came in second.  There's sweet nostalgia in the biting smell of chlorinated water, the burn of heated oil frying funnel cakes, and the clank and roar of a roller coaster loaded with excitement. We would go in groups and make sure we were able to ride together, asking strangers to ride ahead of us. We were in large groups, playing hothands or slide in line as we would laugh and gossip and talk about cute boys.  Sometimes we would split off to ride different rides, and meet up for lunch at a designated spot and time.  It was an endless day of rides, plotting our day in a progression across the park, acre by acre, ride by ride, greasy treat followed by too much sugar.  And water rides.  The water rides were a morning, noon and night treat because in the morning and at night the lines were short, and at midday, we talked and got sunburns and didn't mind waiting two hours for a ride that lasted less than five minutes.

"The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed." - Carl Jung

I was given about $40 and I had to really consider if food was more important than an airbrushed shirt.  All day in line with a cute boy and hand holding was different from back in the real world where we had friends that watched closer and had opinions.  I still remember a ride on Free Fall at Magic Mountain with a cute boy holding my hand and giving it a squeeze right when we dropped and for the first time really yelling on a ride because I generally smile and enjoy the drops and turns. He was flipping his baseball cap on and off his head with the visor and his hair was slicked back like a helmet. His name was Manny.  He changed the experience that day. 

"She was becoming herself and daily casting aside that fictitious self which we assume like a garment with which to appear before the world."—Kate Chopin, "The Awakening"

Yesterday I took kid3 to Knott's Berry Farm.  His older brothers were at Anime Expo with their Dad so we had a mother and son date weekend. Age has done some wicked things to my body and things feel different.  They look different.  There was a determination to make the day one where my son could just be a kid.  It happened on our way into the park when I was telling him that my last trip was before I had kids when I went with my Dad.  Knott's honors our Veterans with free admission around Veteran's Day.  My son wanted to go then so it wouldn't cost me.  It was then that I realized he was so concerned about having enough that I wasn't allowing him to be a child.  He was worried about money. Before we set foot inside the park, I looked him in the eye and said the only thing he needed to worry about is how much fun he could have, and keeping me from puking.  He kept having moments of making a request, and then covering it up by saying he was just kidding.  I spent the day telling him that his thoughts, opinions and desires are important, and he doesn't have to be kidding, but any requests that had to be denied came with a reason that even he could validate.  If at anytime he had to go to the bathroom, was hungry or thirsty or wanted to see or do something, it was up to him.  There were limits, such as climbing on railings, but I wanted to stress how important his childlike innocence is to me.  Figuring out being a single mom is stressful and I didn't see until that moment how much it was weighing on him as well.

"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become." - Carl Jung

My stomach was different when I was younger.  It was stronger.  I was able to ride anything and shake it off to ride the next big coaster by the time we got through the long line. I loved the loops and riding backward. Now I don't.  Now the loops and spirals make me want to vomit.  Don't get me wrong, I've never been able to stomach a Merry-Go-Round.  I get dizzy.  But rides that twist and spin tend to make me want to vomit now so I avoid most rides that are not wooden coasters.

"Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darknesses of other people." -Carl  Jung

There were many rides where I stood in line with my son and waited with him, only to step through and wait for him to ride alone.  Or I asked if others would ride with him.  It wouldn't have been fun for either of us if I got sick and we had to sit the whole day.  I know my limits. Mind you, only a few weeks ago, I got car sick in someone else's car.  (It might have just been a bad date and a reaction to him.) Wooden roller coasters are made for steep climbs and tremendous drops.  I love the weave back and forth. While Ghostrider made me burp like it was a Beerfest, I didn't want to hurl.  I was smiling throughout the ride.

At one point there was a family behind us complaining about the long wait. My child started to grumble.  I pulled my son into a hug and told him the long wait wouldn't get any shorter if we started complaining and it just means more time to hang out and give him my full attention. Then we started tickling each other. 

"Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate." - Carl Jung

My son loves terrifying rides.  He feels fear and excitement and will talk about being afraid, but he's also very determined to ride in spite of his fear.  This is bravery and I am so proud of him.  At one point his determination made a grown woman suck it up and go on a ride she almost backed out of. 

Throughout the day, I was declining rides because of a fear of being sick.  It's a solid concern considering how consistently I get sick, but still, I kept chickening out.  The times I did get on rides, I laughed and screamed in joyful exhilaration while my son rode next to me with terror etched in his 9 year old features.  At the end of the ride, he was happy and excited and wanted to ride again while I was happy during the ride, and sick afterward.  I'm not sure what it means yet, but it means something, right?

"Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes." -Carl  Jung

Native Californian

I'm a native.  My Dad grew up in Houston, Texas and my Mom in Samut Songkhram, Thailand.  They met in Thailand when my Dad was on R and R from Vietnam.  When Dad finally got permission to bring Mom stateside, they landed in Houston, but set off for California to chase Dad's dreams of making it big in movies.  He acted.  He wrote screenplays.  He still writes.  I was born at Cedars shortly after they moved from the blue Scientology Building in Hollywood.

Last night was another beautiful beach sunset for me.  I spent the morning at the mercy of a headache and doing housework.  By the end of the day, my escape hatch became a craving.  I watched the sunset and smiled at text messages from a handsome skater boy.  I took the advice of another man with beautiful greenish hazel eyes and a gift for finding healthy and good food and walked to the Promenade to pick up dinner.  On my way back to the pier, I pointed at my ear buds and said, "I can't hear you," to the two men trying to talk to me.  I kept walking and a block later while waiting for a light to change, they caught up to to me to tell me how much they appreciated my walk.  It's more of a strut. One foot in front of the other. They walked another block with me, and we chatted a bit and once again I was struck by the awe of people who think being a native is a big deal.  I suppose we are.

Growing up we weren't well off, but we weren't poor either.  I had two parents that always made sure I had what I needed and often the frivolous things I wanted as well.  We lived in East Hollywood until we moved to Echo Park right next to Dodger's Stadium.  My next home was in North Hollywood and I'm now in Lincoln Heights.  I've never left my county. I don't want to.

We live in one place but visit every other area because we can.

Los Angeles spreads out pretty far.  From the time we were kids, it was normal to live in one area but get into shenanigans elsewhere.  When we were little we went into Hollywood a lot.  My sisters would take me to Westwood.  We would take the bus to Santa Monica.  When I was with the youth group in church, we were often in Glendale or Burbank.  I got older and Pasadena was where we would end up.  Being a native means we're less likely to want to stick to places that are walking distance.  We'll do it, but why?  We can go to the mountains to be knee deep in winter snow and be at the beach for a bonfire in the same day.

Hollywood is a right of passage.

We have decent weather most of the year, so filming a summer or fall scene in February isn't a big deal.  Set dressers make that magic happen.  We've grown up with film crews in our neighborhoods and on our streets.  My highschool is a fairly popular setting for television and film. Modeling or acting schools pitched our dreams to us in school and yes, my Mom shelled out tuition to John Robert Powers for me. (That's where I learned my strut.) I spent a few months being an extra or background artist. I was acting behind the actors in my favorite television shows and loving the free food and dating scene. Eventually you will know someone that is successful in their career behind the scenes and you went to school with at least one actor that has a regular gig that lands them on television. We have friends that get paid to work in local theaters. We know that going to movies means we will get approached by someone trying to get a screening filled for a free movie and unpaid focus group. People in the industry are idealists and a bit neurotic, but they feel like home.

We trust street vendors.

Most of us trust street food.  We had ice cream and produce trucks drive through our neighborhoods, playing a warbling tune on bad speakers or a fancy horn to let us know they were outside.  We walked through parks with men selling cotton candy on wood trees.  We wanted elotes, and tamales, and freshly cut fruit with pico de gallo, lime and salt. We know how good a bacon wrapped hot dog tastes with grilled onions and peppers.

Growing up with LA Nightlife  was a navigation.

We knew where to get the fake ID near MacArthur Park, but mainly we knew that getting into a club when underage was more about walking in with the attitude of someone that belonged there.  Our clubs were either empty warehouses painted black with a few go-go boxes, or plush couches, artwork to perch on and psychedelic paint jobs. I was also into flyer parties and raves with happy balloons, and dollar beers. We knew which homeless men were willing to buy our beer at the cost of a 40 ounce.  We knew which clubs would let ladies in free before 10.  At the end of the night, we always had Tommy's.  It tastes like nostalgia and makes a satisfying cold breakfast when you're fighting a hang over.

We know our weather.

We know our weather shifts but not by much.  There's rainy days where I wear flip flops.  Wet feet dry faster than wet socks, and it's warm enough that wet feet won't really suffer.  We know the warm caress of the Santa Anas and that she is dangerous during fire season and will make you suffer with allergies.  We know fire season scorches the hills before raining season and that's why there is flooding and landslides.  It's on the news but we're still shocked every year. Typically we won't need more than a sweater.  A hot day gives way to frigid temperatures when that day is spent at parks and beaches.  A hot day in Los Angeles means it will be comfortable in the local mountains but there's a good chance you'll end up in a summer mountain thunder storm in Big Bear, and if you head to the beach, expect it to be much cooler. We also know our water quality will make you sick, but we venture into the water anyway, knowing to dive beneath an approaching wave and to swim parallel to the shoreline when you notice a riptide is trying to take you away. You learn that jellyfish stings are quickly soothed by human pee and it's really not a fetish at that point.

Our freeways are not very free.

Growing up, we didn't have many toll roads.  There were carpool lanes and you just needed a travel buddy or two.  When travelling by freeway, expect certain times of day to be a parking lot and the 405 is good at making a short commute feel like 4 or 5 hours. This is when it comes in handy to know the many streets that will get you to your destination.  Sometimes there are feeder streets along freeways and other times there are long streets and side streets. I used to keep a Thomas Guide in my car and pull over for a quick alternate route, but Waze has replaced that in recent months.

Gangs were a reality.

Junior high was more than first periods and a new set of boobs.  Gangs were actively recruiting kids to join them because you were vulnerable during school and on the way to the house you had to let yourself into.  Kids were killed while we were supposed to be going to school dances and having first kisses.

Neighbors.

We had a few neighbors that we were able to call family because they came from other cities, but eventually having neighbors meant you didn't get to know them.  They wouldn't be neighbors for too long anyway.  People in Los Angeles often get sucked into the glitter and glam and spend through nest eggs to enjoy the sparkly bits until they have to go back home.

Earthquake Country

We have earthquakes.  The first one can be terrifying, but eventually you get used to the idea that the earth will shake and you just need to ride it out.  You will feel the ground rumble with trucks, but eventually you will look up to lights and anything hanging.  When chandeliers sway, you've just been through an earthquake.  Eventually you will try to guess the magnitude before the newscaster tells you.

Melting Pot or Bouillabaisse?  

When my parents arrived, interracial couples were still taboo. Even in church. They were asked to not return to a church once. Being mixed meant there really wasn't a cultural niche. We lived in an area with Hispanic people from all over Central and South America. We had black and white neighbors. There are areas that have now become Koreatown, Little Armenia and Thai Town, but when I was a kid there was just the old and new Chinatown. My hair and word choice made it hard to fit in with the black kids and my skin and lack of language made it hard to fit in with Thai kids.  I don't blame Mom for not teaching us Thai at birth.  She came here when it wasn't okay to be who she is, and her adaptability made our family the international bunch we are.  (One day I'll wow you with my family composition.) I have a hard time stomaching bigotry because it was never normalized for me. I've been to quinceaneras where I learned to salsa and punta.  I've been to bar mitzvahs and been lulled by the song of an ancient language.  I've tried to stomach chitterlings and menudo.

Love with a Native

I realize most of us are unique in our loving styles, but there is something about being from a big city full of people vying for that special snowflake attention.  We tend to see everyone as eye candy.  It's a geographical hazard.  Love becomes what we can feel from others, rather than what we can contribute to the lives of others.  Southern manners are desirable because we just don't function that way for the most part.  Relationships are fleeting.  Family and friends don't care unless it gets serious because we're used to it not getting serious.  Everyone will chime in because we can see the step down you just took and we know you deserve better because we are vapid and better is on the next corner. We can see what you are too busy feeling.  But when you find it and it's real, you hold on for dear life.  We all crave more but rarely look past what we would look like together.  A nephew from Alabama just introduced Facebook to his girlfriend, and all the southern family has greeted and introduced themselves to her in a comment.  In Los Angeles, we haven't met her and we're not holding our breath.  She'll come around eventually if it lasts.

We love our gays. 

I didn't grow up with friends getting beat up because of their skin, but because they were into people that shared their sex. When I was young, Sunset Junction was the only place to find an annual "Fag Fair."  That's what we called it and where we would enjoy carnival rides, eat great food off of trucks and watch men wearing chaps and a thong while holding hands. Some of my favorite men would talk about boys with me and we understood the fun and heartache of horny teenaged boys. My curious phase was met with acceptance and encouraged. Deciding that I was curious and then really don't like women was never about rebellion. It was something to try and no one cared either way so there was no pressure for me in letting go then letting it go.

The Day I Knew I Wasn't a Teacher.

After I finished my undergrad, I took the CBEST.  I passed all areas in one day without studying.  Not studying was because I don't know that I was taking it seriously, but I felt good in knowing I am smart enough to teach kids.  I majored in English because reading and writing are my passion.  Studying literature tried to kill that passion, but most English majors go into teaching or law. Teaching is a fast track career in comparison to law school, and my kids wouldn't have to become orphans to the stacks.  I wanted to see what teaching would be like before committing a year and a half of my life to a teaching credential. I was brought on as a substitute teacher at a local college prep school.  I had a long term teacher's aid position with kindergarten and a lot of hopping around through all of the other grades.  I also had a long term teaching assignment as a high school English teacher. I was covering a couple of classes at the end of the day, a few days a week for a teacher that found a better opportunity teaching a class in a local college. I won't go into the bad side of private schools for students or teachers, but I will say I will never again teach at one, nor have I ever wanted to put my children in one.

The kids were great.  They were bright and friendly and energetic.  There were a few girls that reminded me so much of myself as a teen.  I wanted to wrap a sweater around them and tell them they were so much more than what they looked like.  I wanted to prove to them they could get attention from their work, and they didn't need it from the football team or a Dad that was always travelling for work or at work so he could pay her tuition fees.   There were lots of bright exchange students and kids that were so hungry for the attention that comes with being smart as a birthright.

One afternoon, I had the high school English class break into groups of three.  Throughout class as is often the case, some lunch time drama was spilling into class and rather than break it up, I let things fall where they did.  Don't get me wrong, when the kids talked about a fight after school, I was the first person to bring it up to the Dean.  When bullying became teasing through text, I confiscated cell phones. This was different.  This was a boy acting like a jerk, and thinking he could get away with it.  I'd seen him do this throughout the semester and didn't intervene before.  This time, she said (loudly and with authority) that she had taken it long enough. She went into a fully expressed tirade and I stood silently and let it continue until she was done. She stood up for herself in the last few minutes of class, then stormed off.  I quietly had a friend of hers go get her and come back to me once the bell rang. After hiding in the bathroom, they both came back.

The rest of the class started to tease him, and I intervened enough to regain some decorum.  We spent the last two minutes going over the papers they were critiquing for each other.  I couldn't quite find my joy in making their papers bleed red with corrections.  I felt conflicted because I knew what I was expected to do and didn't do it. Once the bell rang, I assured this boy I would have a talk with this girl, and to try his best to get on with his day.

When she returned to class, I had her sit for a bit with her friend and promised I would be held accountable to their next teacher. I won't forget how her delicate shoulders were still trembling with what she had done. It was a free period, and I wasn't in a hurry.  She calmed down enough to start explaining why she was justified in telling him off. I stopped her.  I told her that she didn't need to make me feel better about her choices.  I told her that friendships are a two way street and if you find you are becoming the road instead of heading in the same direction together, it's okay to find a new direction and travel buddy (a lesson I've needed to remind myself about my marriage repeatedly).  I also told her that the changes that teenagers go through can mean an uncomfortable shift and we hurt the people we trust the most, but that didn't make it his right to make her a punching bag.  It also doesn't mean it's too late to heal their friendship but it would require her to decide it's what she wanted.  I asked that next time standing up for herself might happen out of my classroom so it's not a reflection on my ability to keep order in the classroom.

I went home that day and thought about the situation and how I handled it.  I saw what I should have done as a teacher, and couldn't see how I might have done it differently because I didn't want to.  That was the day I knew I wasn't cut out to be an educator.  I can't teach people how to do what is right in the classroom when the Mom in me was standing on the table and cheering her on for standing up for herself and kicking the patriarchy in her life.  That, and I couldn't find passion in the classroom.  I watched the clock right along with the students.

Have a Drink with me, part 2

My kids are home this weekend and the coming storm means we'll be home.  That makes them happy and it means I can lounge in pajamas and maybe bake some comfort. This coming kid free weekend I will be working up to the idea of relaxing inebriation, but I'm learning it's not just my comfort zone that needs stretching.  My family is used to seeing me as the designated driver because I put my ex's wants first.  They're used to seeing me sip a soda or water or anything non-alcoholic because I needed to be ready to Mom through a situation without worrying if I need a driver. I've written about my relationship with Drinking in the past, but I'm fleshing things out a bit today. Kid3 was with me last night and asked for soda.  We rarely have it in the house and I gave in to a 12 pack of Coca-Cola for my boys because a once in  awhile splurge should feel like a splurge. I picked up a purple bottle of Viniq.  I used to love Alize and Moscato d'Asti was my favorite wine until I had a reaction that required Benadryl.  I think it might be a good thing to try.  Over ice.  With a splash of club soda. I have a great drunken memory of drinking Alize on the floor of Pro's Billiards and telling my friends they were beautiful and asking if I could kiss them on the nose. I was loads of fun until I ended the night calling the boy I was nuts about and asking him why he was such an unfeeling asshole.  (I'm so not kidding about not being able to handle my liquor.)

Kid3 didn't like the idea of me drinking and didn't want me to buy the bottle of Viniq. A few months ago he said his Dad drinks a lot when they aren't around, but I never prodded.  We're grown ups.  We can pay taxes, vote and buy our own booze and cigarettes. I wasn't planning on drinking in front of my kids, but he was determined to let me know he doesn't want me drinking. I promised him I wouldn't drink it in front of him because I wasn't going to drink in front of my kids anyway, and I wanted it because of the pretty shimmery swirls. It was on clearance and cheaper than his lava lamp. We got home and kid1 had a problem with it too.  He pointed out that nothing good comes out of drinking.  My pretty bottle may remain a pretty bottle for a while.  I have other bottles that have gotten far less attention and no one will notice a dip in their levels. This morning I told my sister about the bottle of Viniq and she said, "wow, you're going all balls out." That made me giggle, and yes, we talk like that.  I very rarely write like that but spend enough time with me that I feel comfortable telling you the many things that I don't write about and I will talk like the teenage mom that doesn't want to grow up.  My walls come down and my censor is silenced. When I'm comfortable enough, I talk with my inner child more than I talk to my inner porn star and my inner porn star has made a few appearances on this blog. I'm very in touch with who I am and what makes me special.

Right out of high school the start of my week was about pizza, beer, cigars and Monday night football.  Sometimes alone, but often with friends.  A normal gathering included one to three 18 packs of beer for a group of 4 or 5 .  Back then it was MGD or Corona and sometimes Heineken and Mickey's. It took a while to decide I wasn't nuts about beer, and when alone, I would experiment with a bartender's bible in one hand and a jigger in the other.  I loved peach schnapps and would often drink Sex on the Beach when home alone. At bars, I ordered a Cape Cod because back then I was often in dive bars where the drink was different depending on who made it and people rarely got cranberry juice and vodka wrong. I liked apple martinis that tasted like blow pops, and not at all sour.  I don't remember how to make these anymore and I misplaced that bible many years ago.

With family, we used to drink Hennessy and it was my late grandmother's favorite. The one from Thailand would drink it straight up with a can of Pepsi next to her.  I have no idea if my grandmother in Houston drank. The family shifted the shared bottle of Hennessy to Courvoisier. Drinking with my family is fun and funny and not every time I've had a few drinks was scary, even if my last drinking post gave you that impression.  I had plenty of scary moments that I could never reconcile with being who I want to be as a person and as a mom but they were nights when I wanted to drink alone in public. It's not the drinks I had, but the choices surrounding those drinks that aligned with the path to self-destruction I was determined to walk on. I'm not afraid to drink or drink alone.

Alcohol never left my home.  I make coq au vin with red wine and cognac.  I add too many capers and a little white wine to my chicken picatta. My beef stew starts with beer and the darker the better, but I'm not picky.  I deglaze pans with dry red wine when I make pot roast.  Pork chops glazed in peach schnapps with shallots will always be a favorite.  I make hot buttered rum batter every Christmas and use spiced rum and whipped cream if a can survives the day with kids around after they've gone to sleep.  My kids still freak out a bit when they see me cook with alcohol, but then they taste what is familiar and see it's okay.

Every holiday we gather at my mom's house and there's drinking. The holidays are a time for love and silliness and just enjoying each other. I rarely join in on the drinks but I plan on changing that when I am kid free and don't have to worry about rushing out in the face of a sudden meltdown or ER visit.  I know I can hang around, grazing on too much food until I'm sober and not going to endanger the general public. I know I'm safe with family and that no one will judge me for not being able to talk without giggling or being overly affectionate. I'm not a binge drinker.  Not anymore.  Once I feel warm, I stop sipping and just enjoy the relaxed haze of intoxication. When it comes to drinking, I'm past testing my limits because we're well acquainted and I have nothing to prove.

A Date Myself Night

Last night took a detour.  I was excited and filled with Anticipation. It started when the kids were picked up by the ex.  He kicked me to the curb, down the gutter, and for months I couldn't even get out of the manhole.  He seemed shocked in saying I looked good.  I wasn't expecting the shock or the rage that seemed to fuel it.  He wanted to talk child care and I told him to go ahead and use his girlfriend.  The agreement we drafted was made pointless by the loophole he immediately saw, and I decided to stop fighting it when I decided I wanted a divorce.  I've told him to divorce me several times, but I decided to do it myself mid-February.  I let him know in February.  Last night he asked why we have to go back to court and I reminded him about the divorce that is coming.  He asked if I was divorcing him because of my new man.  I told him it was none of his business.

I went to visit my childhood friend that we named our firstborn after at his job and he showed me the rooftop.  The sun was starting to set, and it fell between two buildings. It's right in front of the Deloitte building which has always been my favorite because of the football shape on top of the building.  When I find hilltops in my neighborhood to look at the Downtown Los Angeles skyline, I always look for that building. The sky slide on the US Bank building was on the side we couldn't see, and I could see the Library but know it's much more beautiful inside, and I'm due to visit the fountains in the courtyard because it's been too long. I can't remember the names of all the other buildings he pointed out. He took pictures of me because I looked like I cared and that is a good look on me.

As I headed out, my date night became a date myself night.  I started heading home, but ended up taking the streets to Santa Monica.  I had a pair of jeans and my Uggs in the car, so I threw them on under my dress in the parking lot as teenaged girls were flirting with the Bubba Gump staff enjoying their breaks.  Walking up the stairs on the north entrance to the pier, I got a face full of strawberry e-smoke and an apology.  I told him I was fine.  When I smoked it smelled like tobacco, and not like fruit.  He told me the e-cigarettes helped him quit smoking and I told him I quit cold turkey but it didn't make me a nice person.  He told me that took a lot of mental strength and his observation made me smile as I hit the pier.

I thought I'd dine at Maria Sol and rewrite an old memory with someone else.  They were closing and I ended up wandering around the pier. As I was walking, a vendor stopped me to ask where I'm from.  I'm a native Californian, but he couldn't imagine me being from Santa Monica, because he would have remembered me. He takes pictures of people in front of the lit up Ferris Wheel and sets them one of top of the other for a holographic dual picture effect.  He offered to take a gratis picture of me to make me smile.  It did make me smile and I thanked him and admitted I was having a rough night at that point.  Years of being gaslighted made me start to believe I was divorcing my husband so I could date and that it had nothing to do with the times he told me he was done, or the many times he cursed me out at the top of his lungs or by text, or the time his girlfriend texted me from his phone to tell me I was a horrible mother, and physically unattractive. He was negating his responsibility for the other times my arguments with him became her fight to battle. I think the photographer's name was Martin, but he offered me coffee or tea, and told me I was beautiful. He asked me about my day and gave me words of encouragement. He handed me a free picture without a hologram and asked me to visit again sometime.

I walked away feeling better because it had been a few months since a stranger handed me something free just for the opportunity to see me smile.  Then it occurred to me that most people never have that happen to them and for me it has happened a few times a year for much of my adult life.  I truly live a charmed life when I remember to look past the drama. I walked the shoreline and passed couples in the icy water, or huddled on the sand.  There was a beachcomber with a metal detector and sand trap, sifting for the day's lost treasures.  The sound of the crashing waves is energizing and it just makes me happy.

Walking the pier, there were several men that looked at me and smiled once I acknowledged their looks.  I was being friendly but I wasn't feeling like a shameless cougar. There were two men old enough to be my grandfather.  Some were young and in groups.  One was female. Two were chasing kids or holding hands with someone else.  Then there were the handful that were purposely avoiding any glance in my direction.  They made me laugh.  Earlier in the evening I had joked with my friend about finding a self car wash near a high school in my dress to boost my mood, but that is really disgusting and something I totally would have done in my early 20's.

I left and took the streets home again.  Driving past Hollywood High School I remembered the junior high graduation I was late to. Our auditorium was too small so we borrowed theirs.  I barely made it in time step into the moving procession and make it to my seat on stage with the rest of the graduating Leadership class.  Years later I was sitting on those steps as an ex boarded all over them, grinding the rails.  I don't know if he wanted me to watch him, or if he didn't care that I was bored. He skated and I lit up one cigarette off of the butt of the last one. It might have been both. I realized I shouldn't skip dinner even if I wasn't hungry, so I stopped at the Denny's near Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles were I had my very first set up date.  It was my 10th birthday and my sisters took me out with one of their friends and his kid brother.  I sat and tried to rewire the thoughts running through my mind.

I can't be the whore I felt like for divorcing the ex.  You can't blame a divorce on a person that doesn't exist.  I reminded myself that I waited.  I waited over 10 months after he threw his wedding band in a parking lot to take mine off.  It's been over a year and it's okay to decide I am done.  As I was leaving the restaurant, the security guard asked where I am from.  That's a common question because I look uncommon. I'm mixed.  I don't fit the standard categories.  He called me beautiful too.  I thanked him and told him I was having a rough night and it definitely made a difference.  I believe taking a chance that a compliment wouldn't bring out my crazy should be rewarded with gratitude. He said I had a glow about me and he couldn't see how I could be having a rough day.  I get that a lot.  I had just eaten a Denny's pot roast, with tepid and not hot tea because I forgot I prefer IHOP's pot roast and I had a waitress doubling as the hostess. I didn't send it back because I was trying to focus on not feeling like a whore for reclaiming my future from a dead past. I smiled on my way home and this morning emailed a friend about my cover up tattoo.  I'm ready to look at designs and ideas.

First Date Anticipation

It's happening and the clock teases me by going too slowly, then speeding up too much. My 5 day kid free stretch starts in about an hour and a half and I decided I would accept not staying home or enjoying my own company.  Tonight I will share my company and consider it a public service.  I also think it's time to bite the bullet and stop being afraid of people. It shouldn't be this exciting, but it is. The caveat is the excitement is heavy handed with fear.  Right now I don't at all feel like a shameless cougar. I hold up hangers as options and then I wait and see what they have to say.  Will this one call me easy?  Does this one say I'm a prude? If I wear this dress will you see my personality, and will the sweater on top if it make it all that can be seen? My insecurities creep in and I choose the dress that feels so sexy, no one needs to care what I think.

The shoes are next, and it's an elimination process that starts with color.  The shoes should match.  Then I try them on, one at a time and walk in my underwear.  Which ones feel stable? How do my legs look? Do they pinch my toes? I go with the pair that make me feel tall and are hard not to notice.

I put on the ensemble and decide it's too much for something so little and I go with the dress that says I'm pretty and I'm really not as desperate as the last one made me feel.  It requires a little less commitment to being weatherproof as the temperatures dip into evening and I don't want to rely on a stiff drink to keep me warm.  Stiff drinks present their own shenanigans and debauchery and I'm just dabbling in my own mischief tonight. I choose the heels that are easier to walk in.

On most days I start with a clean and moisturized face.  I add blush on my cheeks, eye shadows, and eyeliner, and as an afterthought, a bit of lipstick.  I like it when I can give a hug and my makeup won't stay on someone's shoulder.  Tonight I started with a clean face but then layers of makeup piled on in layers with time to set, then in shades that compliment my dress.  My mascara smells like it's time for a replacement and I plan to grab a tube on my way out.

I change my jewelry and look for something flashy to wear, because I want soft lighting to hit shiny bits . . . if there is soft lighting.  Then I take it off because I want to wear something that is tied to my every day. Part of going out is the mystery of what someone else thinks will be my idea of fun.  My nerves are messing with my stomach and I'm considering if it would be better to puke or to cancel.  I decide deep breathing will work too. I spritz a little Versace Red Jeans on my pulse points and decide my next splurge will be on a bottle of Ysatis by Givenchy because I've always loved that scent even though I rarely wear perfume.  Then I giggle when I remember the time a friend tried to coach me into the correct pronunciation of Givenchy.  I'm officially out of control and all over the place.

The ex calls because he's running late, and that buys me another half hour to debate a cancellation.  It's a last minute night of shenanigans with someone I hadn't daydreamed about spending time with.  It's a chance at spontaneity and I didn't allow myself to think this one through and I have more time to think of the many reasons why I should take myself out alone instead.  It was so much safer to imagine a silly crush because that was safe.  I get a second chance at being single and it's a bit terrifying right this second.

I might tell you how it goes, but it won't be part of this post on anticipation because it'll be about my Date Night. One day anticipation will smell like excitement and not taste like heart burn.

Angry Diatribes and Self Inflicted Injuries

The husband is on his way to pick the kids up for Easter.  We haven't really talked since my birthday and that was before I started blogging.  I can't stop the million and four mean things I should have said that run through my mind.  I start an internal chant of, "I forgive him," but the rage pushes through because I can't forget how he burned that bridge with me still on it.

I love my boys.  I love their hugs.  I love their silliness.  I see their fear and the uncertainty they live in.  My son spilled his drink while pouring it.  Sugar free fruit punch splattered, then pooled on the countertop and he began to attack himself over the accident.  He vocalized his frustration with himself.  He started to hit his head.  I stopped him.  I hugged him.  I told him it was a little spill and when was the last time I freaked out on a little spill?  On the other hand, actively making messes while I am actively cleaning up will piss me off.  He smiled at that and hugged me back, then I cleaned up the mess because it took two seconds and a flowing motion from what I was already in the middle of. It's the next morning and I feel I need to be gentle with myself for nurturing the responsibility of the mess away from him.

There was a chance I wanted to take that I didn't, and those thoughts still haunt me.  I know the timing is wrong because I am still angry with my husband that I am still legally married to.  I believe there are chapters in my life on hold, waiting to be woven into the narrative. I know that in time everything falls into place in the best possible way.

Today I will be gentle with myself.  I will love my quirky ideals and accept my anger as a valid feeling before I release it.  I will play with my hair and spackle on makeup because I owe myself the focus and I may meet my next adventure later tonight. Then I'm putting on jeans because that adventure usually lies along Pacific Coast Highway. I hear good things about Zuma Beach and I haven't been there yet.

Being Drained by Emotional Vampires

Lately when my phone rings I'm pretty sure it's going to be someone that needs a zap of my sunshine because staying positive is a thing I do.  Most interviews and follow ups come in as emails. I answer all calls and return the calls I miss because I believe a call (or text) means someone has something important to say to me.  Even pocket dials are taken as an opportunity for serendipity. Most of the time, these calls from a small handful of people leave me exhausted.  Opening with a hello often opens the door to the many ways their frustrations and stresses and depressions weigh on their souls.  They unload, and I don't avoid it because there is a trust in being the keeper of secrets.  There is an undeniable honesty in the heaviness unburdened on me.  The phrase "emotional vampire" comes to mind, but I dismiss it because it seems harsh. Every call ends with their heaviness weighing on me.  It usually takes a moment to shake it off.  Sometimes it takes effort.  Sometimes it takes a minute in the sun.  Sometimes it just requires clothing optional lounging.  The best escape and recharge is when I get lost in nostalgia and remember the times and the men that made me smile.  It's playing with my dogs or my cat taking hostage of my arm (when she's kind enough to retract those claws). Those calls end and I'm putting on music to sing and dance to.  I'm shaking off the lingering energy that is heavy and sticky.  Sometimes those calls force me outdoors.  Today  I was content in the powerlessness of being stuck in traffic.  Wow.  Does that mean I prefer traffic to the voice I heard right before it?  I'm not sure.

Stress Induced Hospital Visits and a Hot Doctor as Treatment

My kids came home from their Dad's house on Monday.  Early Tuesday I started feeling mild chest pain, with leg cramps.  I had a feeling it was just stress. It seemed to get worse with every tantrum and meltdown I was forced to moderate.  At one point I almost called my husband to come get the kids so I could go to the hospital, but I decided against it because I didn't really want to give him anything to hold against me. He's already threatened me about the last two hours of respite I asked for.  And again, I wasn't sure it wasn't all just in my head.

He had kid1 text me they were on their way, and I started packing for a possible hospital stay.  I grabbed devices and chargers.  I threw in clean underwear, a hairbrush, toothbrush and toothpaste.  These are things I used to have him run and grab for me, but I wasn't even telling him.  And I haven't replaced him as my go to person yet, so I plan more closely than I used to.

He picked up kid3 and I got in my car.  I returned my niece's call that I missed while kid3 was on my phone.  He ignores people, and I could really learn from him, or start using him as an excuse.  I let her know what I was up to because it seemed responsible to let someone know where I was headed.  Then I spent almost 6 hours in the ER.

Having a history of pulmonary embolisms and current chest pain makes things move quickly, but you still have to wait for results to be read.  I had an EKG and bloodwork done.  Then there was a CT scan.  Then I waited. There was a lot of waiting as other patients were starting to wait on gurneys and wheelchairs in the halls, waiting for a room.  I'm not the only one willing to wait for the right time to make sure I'm not dancing with death.

My potassium was very low, but that happens when you forget to eat. I don't eat when I'm stressed, but I prefer that to eating everything I can see.  That happens when I'm depressed.  That's what caused the cramping that made me wonder if I had blood clots forming.  The rest was stress, so it really is all in my head. The chest pain felt just like it did when I had pulmonary embolisms.

The stress I'm feeling is so great that my body is trying to make me think I'm sick, or in mortal danger so that I'm forced to take care of myself.  I need to start imagining a baby duck again.  That visual was my focus when I was hospitalized for a month during my last surrogate pregnancy.  They are so adorable when they're learning to swim and so focused on swimming that the water slides off their backs, and they're persistent with the joys of learning.  I don't think about adult ducks.  They can be insanely aggressive and much more fearful.

I'm on Facebook more than I'd like to admit, but I don't ignore people when I get a ping.  I might wait a bit on responding to emails because most of it is junk mail or spammy forwards.  Last night a friend was asking about a sales pitch she wants me to attend.  I get the health benefits of what she's pushing.  I'm just having a hard time eating regular meals right now.  I'm not in a place to buy it, and I'm not interested in selling it either. I answered her questions because they weren't really about me.  I also got a message from a high school friend.  He's one of those football players I used to hang out with.  Always just a friend.  He knows how to make me smile, and in chatting with him, my chest pain went away.  I'm only sharing a small part of the conversation that happened after we were joking about running and how I want to do it, but he knows me well enough to know I really don't.

Him: Yeah i know...ur a princess.

Me:  Well, thank you.

Him:  I haven't forgotten! Lmao

Me:  I did. I forgot how to be royalty.

Him:  Well...time for u to get it back...

And this is one of the main reasons why I'll answer his pings in a heartbeat.  Great friends are great to keep around.  He's one of the few that checks on me without needing anything in return.  I appreciate that.

The doctor was beautiful.  He had yellowish brown hair that was probably a dark gold in the sun, he kept it fairly long and as I saw him throughout the night, it was in various stages of being combed neatly, and falling wildly over his ears, like running his hands through it was soothing a stressful day.  His hair looked soft, and I wanted to sample a feel.  He was tall and clearly took his workouts seriously.  He had soft brown eyes and a slight Italian accent to match his name.  And yes, I did repeat his name a few times. There's something so sensual about Italian names. I didn't even look to see if there was a wedding band.  I don't plan to go back or ever see his smile again.  At the end of the night, this handsome man that crafts miracles for a living looked me in the eyes and told me to take better care of myself and stay away from caffeine.  That was the best medicine.

I stopped at the grocery store for bananas, avocados, coconut water and dinner.  Potassium is happening because leg cramps suck. I walked around a bit before deciding that yes, hard salami and havarti are acceptable for dinner.  Salami for dinner is a perk for being a grown up without kids for the night or a husband to cook for.

 

Setting Goals and Conquering Mountains

When I was in my late teens I didn't have major goals.  I think my only goal was to have enough disposable income to have someone come to my house and clean up after me. We married and had two kids and I said if he wanted another child I wanted another bedroom in our home and a dishwasher. All three of our kids were surprises, or we were being really irresponsible. I got the bedroom.  Not the dishwasher.  I would love a dishwasher, they look like saved time and fewer broken nails.

My goals are shifting.

I still want to hire a housekeeper and get a dishwasher.  Some dreams will never die.

I also want to travel.  I had imagined it, but never thought of it as practical or worth it for my kids. My boys don't like long trips and usually prefer to stay in a hotel room. We used to spend long summers in a tent along the river.  We loved Camp James in Kernville because they offered electricity. My husband has all of our camping things, and as long as it took me to pick out all of the things I wanted, I don't see myself wanting to start over any time soon.  At the end of the day, vacationing as a travelling mom required a vacation from my vacation.  Now I have days long stretches of being alone and I would love to travel.  I'm even applying for jobs and saying I'd be willing to travel because travelling alone sounds amazing.

I have more practical goals as well.  I want to buy pre-need memorial policies for my children.  My Mom did it for all of us.  When my husband's uncle passed away 2 years ago, I was looking into making arrangements for him.  He didn't have anyone else willing to make the calls and finalize his existence.  There were plenty of friends to go through his things. Once I had brought his things out of his home, there were family members that were indifferent yet curious. His remains were left to his family, and he ended up in the care of his nephew's wife who had interacted with him a handful of times in the first few months of our marriage around the year 2000.

In going over my Mom's pre-need policies, I could see that she originally covered every single possibility when she bought it all through Rose Hills.  She had four plots for her four daughters. She transferred everything except the plots to Forest Lawn as our family grew.  She is from Thailand and through legal channels, brought most of my relatives here, starting in 1984 with my grandmother.  She took years to petition and prove that she could financially support new immigrants.  Then she adopted six of my siblings. I get it from my Momma and she is one woman to be proud of. When I was going over her contracts, I could see that a lot of goods and services didn't transfer.  It was over a year of visits, letters, and calls, but in the end I was able to get her policies transferred back to Rose Hills without penalties from Forest Lawn and they're willing to honor the original contracts.  Forest Lawn didn't penalize her because I pointed out the areas their insurance agent willfully ignored his fiduciary duties to his client. This was after meeting with a couple of insurance agents, their records clerk, and even the President at Forest Lawn.  I admired her.  With the amount of policies my Mom had and the services she would have had to purchase again, I saved her over $10,000.  The insane part is how much you save when you purchase your policies early.  The longer you wait, the more funeral costs climb. I believe they share the same trajectory as college tuition. Doing this for my children is important to me.

Once I build my savings into a comfortable place where I have a 6 month emergency fund, I want to invest.  I hear good things about stock mutual funds.  I want to focus on index funds, but experiment in international funds.  It's all still terrifying, but I like the idea of a challenge and doing something new.

Then there's the house.  I love my little house, which is really my Mom's house, but I want to move one day.  I love the little winding roads and city views, but I don't love living on a tiny one way street with only street parking.  I want a place to grow things because I love to grow things.  I want space for a pond, because the little koi that could is coming with me, and I want space for my kids to slam a door that is just their door.  And a dishwasher, which means I will also have a garbage disposal.  I miss that.

Once I buy my house, I want to set up a power of attorney and living trust.  Without major assets, it doesn't seem important, but I'll also have to set up a will for my smaller trinkets and emotional belongings.  Then there's figuring out what happens with the kids should something also happen to the husband.  It seems far less likely we'll die together if we consistently choose to not be around each other.

My last goal is more about me.  I want to be okay. I can recognize that a divorce that hasn't started and unstable employment are a lot to handle.  I understand that sometimes a surprise can shift my day because I had spent it on a tightrope anyway.  I want to not be thrown by it.  I can see that light at the end of the tunnel. I'm getting better. Last night my son called me to ask a question, and my response to hearing my husband's girlfriend playing house with my kids and hers was to answer his question and excuse myself from the call.  I didn't lose it.  I'm not bashing her.  I didn't stay up all night, but for about an hour, I let that situation bother me.

The day I had wasn't an excuse for that lost hour.  Every day presents challenges.  Every moment is a chosen reaction. I was blessed with a late birthday breakfast, pedicure, and shopping date with a woman who has always had my back, even when I stabbed hers.  We talked about life and she helped point out some of the ways my husband was controlling me.  She saw more than I could, but she's right. He manipulated me into avoiding her friendship because he didn't like her.  He wanted me to go to bed at the same time as him, even if I couldn't sleep.  That was about control and even if he wasn't violent, walking on eggshells because I was afraid of my actions affecting his mood wasn't okay. We joked about how blessed we were to live as we did in our 20's without a pregnancy scare or STI.  We're also grateful we grew out of that.  She helped me see that I got bored of dating when I felt men were easy because of the men I was making myself available to.  She also pointed out that I could raise my standards and it would change things.  Then she told me that online dating was a waste for her as well.  She married a man with patience, fire, and a large brain.  He is everything perfect for her as she gives what she gets and they respond in love. We talked pre-nuptials.  I've never been asked to sign one.  I think it puts doubt into a relationship, but at the end of the day, I'm not necessarily against shacking up either. I'm not against it, but I'm also not thinking that far ahead. I'm trying to take care of my heart and healing, and I haven't considered finding someone to take care of me. My values as a wife are so solid in my mind. What I did as a single person was so different and I'm not sure how I want to address that now that I have a second chance to be single, and not a trollop.  That may change. I'm still figuring it all out. I did a lot I never dreamed I would as a wife. I accepted more than I thought I could in the name of being a good wife.  Who knows what will happen next time, or when next time will happen.  I still haven't started looking for my next husband or even a first date. I love visiting with her, because her perspective leaves me joyful and optimistic.  The past with her is lighter than it is in my memories.

I returned my Dad's call and had family emergencies that required about an hour of my time and frustration enough that my silence was to try to remember the happy place I had just been in.  I got home feeling chills and was hit with a fever.  I was thankful that I could be sick without being Mom too. This morning I told him I'm staying in bed and being sick, so he invited himself over.  I told him I wasn't up to it, and now I think I have to put clothes on just in case he pops over anyway. Boundaries!

I slept for a few hours before hearing from the husband then kid3.  He's contacted me twice in three days, and I preferred the radio silence. I miss my kids but for now I'm okay not hearing their voices if I have to hear their pseudo mom too.  I'm not calling her a stepmom yet. She still has her husband and she gets what she needs from hers and mine. One day my husband will be my ex.  I'm not sure if that'll happen once I file, or once it's final.  A couple of loved ones want me to let him file, and remain single for the rest of my life.  That doesn't appeal to me. I want to hire an attorney and it's not to get all he's worth, but I want someone else to do the heavy lifting so I can do the emotional healing. When he becomes my ex husband, I'll have his name covered on my arm, and I already have a best friend planning to be with me when I do.

Beach Days and Bombed Job Interviews

It's a bad sign when you go to a job interview with more excitement about the beach day you plan afterward. I knew it was too far.  I knew it wouldn't allow the home/work balance that is so important to me.  I didn't know that parking would come at the student rate, without a discount.  I didn't know the main part of the job is to be a gatekeeper for the more antisocial folks.  That was probably the worst part. I have antisocial moments sometimes.  Sometimes I can be snarky and a little mean.  But to make it clear that it was an office that doesn't like people . . . I couldn't see it as a good fit.  I interviewed badly.  I don't think it was on purpose.  I think I was being myself, and for some people that's the last thing they want to be around. So I drove to Manhattan Beach.  It wasn't a mental breakdown moment.  It was a mental health day. It was a moment of being in the moment and spontaneous. If I had prepared, I would have brought warm clothes and stayed much longer. I think the idea of walking along the shops was my original plan.  I checked the weather. I wasn't planning on walking in the sand or touching icy water. I wanted to check out the cute shops and restaurants I used to love.

The clouds kept filtering above.  I felt warmth and freezing cold, with the constant coastal breeze.  I keep a waterproof blanket in the car, but I didn't really plan anything, so my beach trip was in my suit jacket and skirt.  I didn't mind.  I did notice an esoteric coincidence.

The left one was at Manhattan Beach.  The one on the right was at Will Rogers state beach.  I noticed in both shots I was leading with my left.  It wasn't on purpose, but again, I tend to look for meanings where there might not be any.  I came across something I had read before saying that Egyptians and Greeks often created art with a leading left foot because it is believed the left side is the side ruled by the heart. It's about leading with the heart and emotions.  It's about life and new beginnings.  Whether or not it's an unrealistic stretch, it seemed significant, and relevant.

I took the streets north, and drove along Dockweiler State Beach.  I continued as the road I was on headed inland through Marina Del Rey.  I remembered a date taking me to the jetty where he held my hand as we walked on jagged rocks, and he laughed when I flinched at the scurrying rodents.  I remember wanting him to kiss me so badly and I remembered that he never did. I wasn't following a map.  I was just driving, so I saw Venice and turned left.  A few blocks from the ocean I decided I wasn't in the mood for crazy.  I ended up in traffic on Pacific Coast Highway and turned left on Temescal Canyon Road.  It's the first time I've ever been to the beach during daylight hours.  I loved the many rocks I was able to pick through.  Every time I go to a body of water, I look for rocks.  I love igneous rocks, and will pick through interesting colors and shapes.  One day my youngest niece handed me a rock.  I was so deeply moved.  I don't think she understood how much her rock meant to me.  But it was huge.

I walked along the shoreline, stepping through waves and picking up rocks.  I sat on boulders and felt the sun warm my skin where the breeze chilled it.  It was so clear at Will Rogers with the sun warming my skin and not even a little cloud cover. Manhattan Beach was freezing in comparison. I watched the sunset and with the descending sun the chilled ocean air blew right through my jacket. With frozen hands and feet that were pretty numb, I walked to my car and drove home.

I took the streets home.  I drove up Temescal Canyon Road to Sunset. I love the curves on the winding roads of Sunset Blvd. near UCLA. I took Sunset until it changed to Cesar Chavez and turned left on Broadway.  I drove through Chinatown and then home to Lincoln Heights. I love that it's literally 3 street names to my favorite beach.  The name change doesn't count.  Not really.

All job hunting misadventures should end up like today.

Job Hunting and Optimism

 

I'm job hunting and some days are more stressful than others.  I'm not worried about finding a job.  That will happen.  I'm constantly reaching out to three recruiters from different agencies. This morning I called, then emailed a fourth. When I say I'm reaching out, you can read that I'm harassing.  I am harassing them with ritualistic consistency every few days.  I'm also trolling craigslist, Monster and LinkedIn, applying to at least 10 positions a day, but usually more.  It's what I was doing before, and falling back into it is fairly easy.  I'm even sharing and liking things on LinkedIn.  This is a new step. I'm still a little iffy about it.  It's still a lot of unreliable fluff, and irrelevant puffery.  But it'll happen.

My main goal is to look for the right position.  I spent my entire career (when I wasn't birthing, butt wiping, or going to school) taking whatever job I could get, and selling myself at a discount for way too long.  I'm capable of teaching.  I was often requested as a substitute.  It's not what I was passionate about.  I don't want another job where I'm watching the clock so I can make an exit.  There was a day in January when I was lying in bed with my son.  I woke up and I didn't know if I was more excited to go to work, or be in bed with my child.  This was before I even laid eyes on my crush. I loved that feeling.  I had days where the work I was doing was interesting enough that I forgot to feed myself. One day my hangry moment was handled with pho, and someone walked in on me saying, "pho fo life," because my food joy was being gangster.  I love that feeling.  That is what I'm searching for.  That is why I'm passing up driving, and call centers, and sales.  I can handle front desk responsibilities but I'm happier when I'm not being paid to wait to fix customer problems and people drama.  I've done collection calls, but I didn't love it.  I've advocated for my kids.  I can do it for others.  But I don't love it. It's like doing laundry.  We don't love it, but it has to get done. I received many scholarships as a student, but I don't see myself being in a development office.  There is too much bowing and scraping involved for me to be passionate.  I can close a sale, but only if I really believe in what I'm selling, and lately I'm over the commodification of human existence.

The stresses come from well meaning loved ones that ask if I'm doing enough.  They tell me what I could do, what I should do.  I'd be a great teacher.  I should do sales or marketing.  I should . . . I could . . . "insert company here" is a great company and you could grow.  They mean well, but the weight of their anxiety makes it hard to breathe. I find myself really debating answering certain calls, but I haven't started avoiding people yet.  I don't want to be that person.  I'd rather be brave and fearless.  One day my voice will be louder out of my mouth than the sound of thoughts hitting stony walls inside my head.

I'm looking for growth, but more than that I'm looking for a company I want to grow with.  I want culture and values that I can believe in. I want to work for people that make the right choice, even if it's not the easiest choice.  The well meaning people in my life don't seem to understand that you tend to get hired to do what you've already been hired to do, and I didn't like what I've done enough to want to go back to it.  As much as I like writing, I don't think I want to get paid to listen to Alanis Morrisette and just write all day.  I need diversity. I need quantifiable results.  Writing for my college newspaper and being an English major taught me the quickest way to diminish your word joy is to add an editor without your passion or vision and make their word the final say in your final product. Reading and writing what you don't care for is equally destructive. I don't really want to give someone that authority over my craft. Not now, and maybe never.  I don't mind deadlines. They keep me focused. As far as work/family balance, I want to be able to get my kids off to school in the morning and have dinner with them.  When they're with their Dad, I'm okay with long hours.

Once this is posted, I'll be back to job hunting with coffee in hand, on my sunny front porch with pond sounds trickling to my left and two dogs on my right. My cat sits in a cardboard box right next to me, batting at my elbow for attention. Clawzilla loves my reactions. Her name is actually Socks, and it was cute when she would do that with socks while I folded laundry.  She's not cute right now.  I'm letting go of the weight on my shoulders that doesn't belong to me. All of my music is cycling on shuffle, so there's Depeche Mode and Morrissey followed by TLC and Fiona Apple.  Sip with me a while.  Feel the sun and soak in the vitamin D.  It does good things for us.  Watch the bees enjoy little yellow flowers and listen to birdsong from flat recesses and hidden behind points of the yucca trees, while squirrels play tag in the canary palm.  It'll be okay. I promise.

How My Support System Holds Me Up

I live in Lincoln Heights.  The hills dip and climb with views of downtown L.A. and the hills above Hollywood.  After getting kids off to school I drove around streets on hills with crumbling asphalt.  There's a hefty dose of fear that the incline is so steep my car will flip backward if I'm not careful.  At one point, I couldn't see beyond the hood of my car because of how sharply the road turned up the hill. The neighborhood is all narrow streets with room for one car at a time, and never in both directions. Street names include Tourmaline St., Turquoise St., Amethyst St., Mercury Ave., Beryl St., Pyrites St., Onyx Dr., Moonstone Dr., Radium Dr., Topaz St., Galena St. and Amber Pl., and in those names, I know there was a rock doctor that found home in those hills and pleasure in the views from them. This is my home.

Throughout my neighborhood there are a few modern homes that appear out of nowhere and clearly don't belong here.  My home is a 1920's bungalow. The old bones were made to be where they have stood for nearly a century. Scattered throughout the neighborhood are lots filled with tall grass in untamed flurries and platforms of crumbling concrete.  I have only one neighbor with a perfectly manicured lawn.  She understands there is no controlling your children but you can control what your yard does. You can see the rise and run of stone or worn wood that once led somewhere.  Steps are missing, and handrails are less than memory . . .  just gone.  The supports are still there because they were so much stronger than the broken home they established.  Ivy and weeds meander and overtake lifted areas in a bid for the love of the sun and wildflowers attract bees that lazily dance through their work day.  I headed home with a clear head and plans to play in the dirt because there is something so rewarding about dirt under my nails and making things grow.

My neighbors are good people.  I never interacted with them much when my husband lived here. One summer day in the first few years we lived here, we were all outside and my husband hosed me down from head to toe.  I was soaking wet and sliding through caked on mud. He was the only one laughing.  My neighbor across the street would hear him yell from her house and always assumed there was violence in our home.  There was emotional abuse.  There was financial abuse.  There still is financial abuse. He took his aggression out on cupboard doors and bedroom doors.  He never hit me, and I only feared he would once.  That fear was enough to get a restraining order that I later had lifted.  A judge was worried about my safety to the point that he was willing to take away my husband's rights to me and our children. In all the ways my Dad stresses me out, I love him enough to never want to sever that bond between my kids and their Dad.  I would protect them from him, but I don't feel they need it. He's become the Dad I hoped he would be, without me around because he's probably a much better person without me. I wonder if I was too much of everything in the way that he was content in doing nothing once he got home. The day he moved out, my neighbors came over to see how I was doing.  They didn't know I was home and fighting to pull out the bathroom sink and vanity as he was taking out bunkbeds and the barbecue grill.  My next door neighbor told me how petty he looked in taking a grill he never used. I was usually the grill master unless I asked for his help and did all the prep for him. My neighbor offered to help with anything around the house if  I needed it. I'm a big girl.  I can vote and buy my own booze.  I keep my distance and try to be a good neighbor to him and his wife. The neighbor across the street shot me a text to make sure I was home and tell me she was taking pictures if I needed to file a police report. She opened up about her concerns of abuse and then told me of all the ways her husband hurt her.  In all of the distance I kept, they still gathered around me in support.  When we had a custody hearing, both of them offered to write character reference letters on my behalf. They did.  (The judge only looks at notarized affidavits.  Lesson learned. I wasn't trying for sole custody.  Not really.  I just know a good bargaining chip when he had no idea what I wanted. He told me what he wanted and wasn't concerned with what I cared about.)

My neighbor could see something in me that she saw in herself and when she explained it, so much clicked for me. I won't disclose how many, but I've had several people tell me about their rapist or the abuse they suffered at the hands of a loved one.  I encouraged one woman to press charges against her abuser after her experience with date rape.  In helping her, I was able to work through my own experience without ever telling her about what I felt. I printed and saved the newspaper clipping about his arrest for a long time. There's a resilience in us.  It's a light that attracts abusers, but a glow that encourages other survivors.  I get it now.  It's not always a fear of violence, but an inability to step out in confidence.  It's a part of us that I'm working on rewiring in me. It's the part of me that feels respecting others comes before my needs. It's the part of me that is comfortable living on eggshells because it's been so long since I didn't have to. It's a part of me that is only confident in the ways that mean the least to me. I used to tell my husband that I have amazing legs and a decent rack, but I couldn't show him what I wrote to the point that I stopped writing.

As I was turning off the garden hose this morning, my phone rang switching off the 311 song I was in the middle of singing.  The peace and joy I felt was in my voice as I answered my phone.  My Dad has a gift for asking what I'm doing before telling me what he needs.  One day I will call him on this manipulation.  He put me in a place where my gut twisted in stress and for a few minutes I craved the taste of courvoisier and cigarettes and the escape that was once my favorite preparation ritual before family gatherings. I'm not that person anymore.  I don't remember how she woke up without a hangover and I can't handle cold Tommy's burgers for breakfast anymore so I called my sister instead.  She gets it.  She reminded me of how amazing caller ID is.  I hung up with a plan to write and do what I was planning to do, and decide if I will be the daughter I want to be, or the person who needs to be taken care of first. I ended up choosing me with plans to fall in line as a daughter tomorrow when I can at least prepare for it.

I have a huge family that supports me in any way they can and in ways I've never even anticipated.  They are so team me that sometimes I need space to breathe in air not tinted by the anger they express in my protection.  Their love in that way can turn toxic. They also see me as resilient and can't always tell that the space I sometimes need is from them and their needs.  Their needs aren't huge, but my plate is pretty solidly full.

When I was in high school I made a boyfriend my world.  He had brown hair that flopped in a mushroom cut and loved basketball, but the game didn't love him. I used to pack his lunch and mine because giving is part of who I am. In hindsight it wasn't one of my more brilliant moves. I tend to give more than I should. He had a hard time punching a straw through a Capri Sun pouch, and I felt obligated to take care of him. I felt needed and like he wanted my brand of love.  I even skipped drill team tryouts the next year to spend more time with him. He took a cowardly exit in telling me he had to let go of me because his parents found out we were still dating long after they told us to break up. Later random girls with larger curves than mine and lipstick bolder than mine would tell me he hooked up with them when we were together.  We spent ditch days exploring the swings at Griffith Park or touring Olvera Street, but he wanted something else.   It took a while for his pregnancy scare that broke us up to get around to me.

I realized confession isn't for the person you unload on.  It's a way to unburden your own guilt without regard for the destruction you unleash on another person. Confession is selfish. I think that's why I tend to wait until confronted, or until I can see the repercussions of my actions. When I'm undeniably wrong I apologize.  My kids know I will own up to being wrong and inconsiderate.  There's no such thing as "because I said so."  They know to call me on it when I'm screwing up.  As their mom I get one shot at being what they deserve.  When I screw up, I own up to it as genuinely as I can.

It was my first time ever being dumped and I returned to the group of friends I had before him.  They were older than me, and at that time mainly on the football team.  I remember standing behind them as he would walk by with new girls on his arm, and I felt protected. I had these amazing guy friends who only saw me as a younger sister, and they were standing around me and it was a ring of protection.  He would walk by but he wouldn't look at me.  Even if he did, his look was met by the guys that at least gave the impression they would hurt him for me if I wanted them to. They were part of a hill top kick back I was never invited to.  I can appreciate that they never saw me as one of those girls. They probably have no idea how much support they were giving me. I remember being told by a few boyfriends that I was too nice and innocent and those weren't bad qualities, but that was part of my rebellion after being dumped by my New Yorker.

I have a lot of male friends that have stood by me in protective friendship throughout my life.  I was once having a party when I was in the garage at my mom's house.  At one point, I was being pulled toward my bed by a group of guys I didn't know. I had hands all over my body, grabbing and pinching me. I tried reaching out to the one guy that I was actually seeing and he left me to grab another friend of ours.  (Seeing him as a bit of a coward didn't make me want him less.) The friend he grabbed then pulled me out of my room, making that group of guys back down.  He was short and stocky, but not many people would pick a fight with him. Years later my friend's girlfriend would tell me about the many times he beat and raped her.  I left that friendship because my heart couldn't condone who he became, but the irony of being saved by a rapist from a gang rape has never settled into insignificance.

Last night there were Facebook Messenger pings back and forth between me and one of those football player friends from high school.  I told him how I finally cursed out my husband. Again, not to his face - to another friend of mine.  But I did it.  He told me I should curse out my husband to his face, and called him names for me and again, I felt supported and cared about. I told him about some of the stunts pulled this year, and he called him a coward.  I noticed a theme. Again, I'm into all the wrong people.  I then told him how much his support meant in high school too, and I'd have to go back and read our emails again to see if I ever thanked him for that.  I've been so selfish lately, I may have missed that kindness. He also told me he was in a similar situation where he needed to choose to love himself. I could hear what my friend said and see past me into having compassion for my husband.  It was another one of those moments when the path we are on has trail markers and mile marks and there is peace in that.

I'm in a strange place.  There are times when I am angry and I want to call out all of the vulgarities that cross my mind, but the part of me that wants to be a wife in obedience to my vows has me biting my tongue in aggravated silence.  It's not about my husband but about the wife I want to be. I expect to see him in the years ahead because we have children together and I can expect that we'll both try to put them first. There are times when I am at peace because there is joy when I look at the freedom I feel away from him.  I have gratitude for my release.  Life is full of ups and downs, but I'm habitually optimistic so I look for joy and find it and that's usually when something unexpected knocks the wind out of me.

I have friends who like to tell me how amazing I am.  Faithful readers will see that there's a lot my life has seen.  I'm a remarkable survivor of the craziness I've chosen.  I'm resilient in all that falls into my life. There's a lot of emotional resilience I can stand on because as complicated as life likes to be, I'm still here and I'm not quitting.  I have too many that rely on me to let a setback set me back.

A friend of mine is a praying person.  She's prayed for my marriage in times when I couldn't.  She prays for us now, as I'm just praying that forgiveness be placed in my heart so there's no room for bitterness.  She tells me I'm not playing the game right.  I'm supposed to be sad in my corner and falling apart and my husband doesn't know how to work with that.  This might be some of the reasons why he's become especially vindictive, but it doesn't matter anymore. It doesn't hurt as much when you stop wondering how you can get past it and decide you don't have to. Honestly, I think he's always had a hard time understanding me, and I tried to become more of what he wanted to make it easier on him, not seeing how much this cage has been hurting me. I was pretty broken at first.  We were at different places when he told me our marriage was over.  He was miserable, and I thought we were happy.  I saw my Dad's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder my entire life, and somehow it looks like Posttraumatic Resilience in me.  I can celebrate my milestones and know that it only gets better from here.

I love my church Pastors.  They're husband and wife and could be my very attractive teenaged parents.  There's always wisdom and encouragement in their conversations and they help me see the divine when I'm too self focused to see outside of my thoughts. She encourages me in showing me that I'm not created to be below anyone.  He has a soft caring side, but will put on that police officer's hat when necessary and give fatherly  advice when appropriate. In my life, I've seen three therapists.  They are great for getting past the major hurdles that keep you from moving forward, but the best gift they offer are tools to help you see yourself out of your valleys. I know when to ask for help and I've proven it to myself when I've sought a therapist.

I'm supported and knowing that keeps me encouraged.

Advocating through IEP's

I believe everything happens for a reason.  I'm one of those people.  The optimism in me is tempered with a strong leaning toward disbelief, but I push past that and see the glass not half of anything because I took a sip and it's refillable.  I think the trick is in finding what that reason is that forced something to happen, and acknowledging the season you are in has a purpose.  Not having anything to rush to after my son's triennial IEP meant I spent time reading the reports. Reading the reports showed me something was done to get done and not to make sure my kid would be taken care of. I should explain a few things for those that have never had an IEP.  An "Individualized Educational Plan" is the phrase used to describe the legal document created between the school and parents to first determine educational needs for a student, then to set goals, placing supports where needed to attain these goals.  I can take an IEP to any school and the school would have to do what it says, although they have the right to hold a new IEP within 30 days to see if they can make changes.  Since my sons are at a nonpublic school, the team is usually the parents, kids are invited if they're over 14, a special ed. teacher, a general ed. teacher, a psychologist, the district representative, the school representative, and any support people that would have to present the findings of their report.  It can include an occupational therapist, speech therapist, an adaptive P.E. teacher, or any other support person that would have to give their opinion about what services and therapies would help your child function in class.  Let the diction sink in.  If your child's behaviors are a problem at home, but not at school, it isn't something they are concerned with and the job of an advocating parent is to track down therapies on our own.  If your child is a client of Regional Center, they will often but not always cover what the district doesn't, assuming you remember to bring it up in your annual IPP.  (I'll save that for another post).

Since the first IEP in 2004, we've had them scheduled regularly, without having to do much of anything, but there are times when you have to write a letter to make a request. Anytime your child doesn't seem to be thriving is a good time to ask for an assessment.  Public schools will do this at no cost because that is the point of a public education.  There are lots of assessments to request.  There are plenty of ways to see if your child is performing at their best.  There are also plenty of ways to test them emotionally, psychologically, physically with gross and fine motor skills, cognitive ability to process information, hearing, vision . . . the list goes on and they have handbooks for that sort of thing.

Once you've asked for the assessment in writing, you sign a form saying you give permission to test your child.  The school will send you a notification for an IEP date (they have a certain amount of days from the time you make the request to the IEP and I believe it's 60 days). You sign, giving instructions on how to proceed if you can't make it to the IEP and then you go to the IEP.

During most of their elementary school years, their Assistant Principal would bake cookies from scratch.  He was great with the kids, being a Dad himself, and had a white soul patch and an old soul.  I could picture him as a beatnik, in as far as my understanding was from the first Hairspray movie. I'm really not that old, but my knees try to convince me otherwise.

Depending on the team you work with, sometimes they'll want to contact you to go over things ahead of time.  I love these situations because it's easier to follow along.  In LAUSD, there is the Welligent program for the meetings, and more often than not, it will freeze, or not save or not print.  It is a finicky software program/website and a pain for most people that access it, but it's what they use. It's problems can be a little distracting.  Reading reports quickly to get through them and getting to the point means if you aren't as prepared as they are, you can find yourself a little lost.  At the end of the day, the parent needs to sign, but signing comes with a choice. Do you agree or don't you? If you don't agree, you still sign, but make it known that you are not going along with what they say.

Most IEP meetings will start with an introduction, and the same sentences are read and re-read each time.  By the 5th grade, you can probably wallpaper a room in parent handbooks, and you leave with a survey that I've never filled out or mailed in.  During the meeting, one at a time, a person who did an assessment will read through it, or skim through it, handing parents a copy to read along.  After that, we go over goals and figure out what they decide is best.  For the most part, I can agree with what they come to. I can see the logic in their reasoning.

There are some situations where you have to be aware of what is being said and decided and think ahead to the possibility of change.  Reducing Occupational Therapy hours to nothing isn't a big deal when OT is incorporated in the classroom because it's a special needs classroom.  This needs to be spelled out incase they ever decide to stick him in a general ed. classroom. Transitioning out of special ed will always be their goal even if it isn't yours. In that case, the natural support of a special needs classroom would set him up for failure in general ed.

The triennial is a larger IEP meeting held once every 3 years. This is the time for new assessments to be done and to look at all aspects of the needs as they may have changed. More often than not, the district will try to go off of the last assessment, even if it's 3 years old. It is my job to say I don't agree to their shortcut.  I read the report that was clearly copied and pasted from another child, with copied and pasted sections from old reports.  What she tried to present couldn't possibly represent my child.

In the days following the suspended IEP meeting, I was called by the psychologist with profuse apologies that I wasn't interested in hearing. I had a stress headache like a ball of pressure above my left eye in the shape of the finances I was just going over.  She wanted to go over what she had written down, and that part of me that was in pain had to remember being a student with dinner started in a crockpot, a term paper before me and a child on my back who wanted to brush my hair while I hammered out nuance in Diderot's prose. I went through her assessment, word for word, even pointing out misspelled words and filling out information that should have been in her files. She thanked me profusely and asked if I could meet her on campus later.  It's another one of those things a job would have prevented me from hopping over to do.  Of course I could meet her. So much of her job relies on not what is written or said over the phone, but a careful examination of body language, facial expressions and micro expressions, affect, and many other things I didn't bother to study because I couldn't get into philosophers.  It took a while to realize philosophers would make an appearance in all of the liberal arts classes I loved and the ones I hated too.

I met her and she talked about how glad she was to be able to meet with my son because he exceeded all of her expectations.  Of course he did.  My kids are amazing.  Also, she was going off of a report completed when he was suicidal and he wasn't that kid anymore.  He's in a more emotionally stable place and his autism has become a part of him that he understands.  He still has to make an effort to navigate life in ways I could never imagine, and at times that stress becomes clear in a melt down or assault on his brothers, but he's exceptional.

I realized that as an overworked school psychologist, going off of old reports is standard practice, and as a parent, when I insist a new assessment be completed, it gives her time to do what she wanted when she felt her calling was to study the mind and behavior.  She was forced to do what she loves.  We talked about her kids and her husband's GI bill.  I encouraged her to look into Chapter 35 benefits for her kids and the California Department of Veteran's Affairs fee waiver because they are independent of each other but go off of the same DD-214.  An advocate never stops seeing where they can lend a hand and how they can help a situation.

She should have finished her report by now but we'll reconvene that IEP after spring break.  In the meantime, I submit resumes, make phone calls, research various programs that would benefit my family and stay connected to groups on Facebook that are on the same journey because we all help each other out.  It's what we do.

My Transparency, part 1

This blog was meant to be anonymous.  I was sharing more with this audience than I do with people I actually know.  I had another blog that had a link on my Facebook and Instagram.  It was even linked to my Google+.  I have a Google+ account, I just don't get it.  I didn't expect this blog to become so easily found and letting go of the other one was about privacy.  Those that know who is writing this blog were meant to know and I will accept that things happen as they're supposed to. This blog is not linked to me, and I write it as Jane Doe.  It's not that I have a thing for unidentified bodies.  My very first crush-turned-obsession used to write me letters and sign them as John Doe.  I was Jane Doe in my letters to him and I was paying homage to him and hiding at the same time.  The blog names are similar.  I didn't expect anyone to be so sleuthy, but I also didn't intend to send a bad link to my other blog to people I really wanted to share my redacted self with.  Actually, I'm thankful for all of the shares.  Last night I headed to the job I just left to join a few people for after work shenanigans, with a dash of debauchery.  But the good kind. There's always a good version and a clean version but the clean and good version are rarely the same.  There are many names for the shades of gray.  This was a night of drinks, laughter and enough self deprecation to make us all human.

I was early because being late gives me anxiety, and I was excited to get out.  I stopped at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf first to sip a Mexican Hot Chocolate and enjoy the brisk night air. I was people watching.  I was wearing jeans, a zip up hoodie and a pair of Uggs, so I was comfortable.  There were a couple of girls that walked into the coffee shop wearing what I might have worn a couple of decades ago when I tried my best to be weather-proof and needed to be seen in the flesh by anyone willing to look.  I waited there, and strolling out of the front lobby is a leggy blonde with a heart of gold.

This super sweet friend sat with me a moment when I greeted her, and she let me know she shared my blog.  This blog.  The blog that details my pulse racing crush with her Facebook friends which includes a few people we worked with together who really didn't need detective skills to see me through my words or my obsessive object.  First, I'm not angry.  Just really embarrassed, but I can own that. I put it out there.  It's my truth and I won't run from it.  It's part of this post on transparency.

As the night wore on and more familiar faces joined me at the Well, I was complimented about my writing and as great as that felt, I was still in shock that my world would collide so majestically in the coming days or weeks.  It's not entirely the crush.  It's more than that.  This situation has pushed me past my comfort zone and I've since shared this blog with my Facebook friends. I've exposed parts of my life once kept hidden when there are pieces I've withheld from people I know because I don't always have the energy to make others feel better about what my life goes through or how I feel about it.

In my embarrassment and shock, I was continually trying to reaffirm a determination to enjoy myself and I had a shot of Patron. There was something so familiar about it.  Four of us did a shot together and it was like old times, except I didn't have this feeling like I was being watched and people were waiting for my crazy to escape.  I didn't feel it right away, but I eventually got too loud and not one person pointed that out to me.  It was a night full of awesome sauce.

When we left I felt sober.  I had a few random burps that reminded me of what I had just put inside of me, but I was fine to drive. I drove down Sunset to Temescal Canyon Road.  My mood demanded a playlist of Everclear and Third Eye Blind. I drove through the Sunset strip and lost in my own thoughts, I didn't see much more than bright lights and traffic. In my late teens and early 20's, there weren't street signs restricting parking after 10 on Temescal and the last couple of times I went to my life guard tower, I forgot this detail. I keep forgetting this detail. I drove north a bit, then turned around.  I stood atop a granite boulder and watched the waves crash. I tasted the salt air and felt the damp cold numbing my hands and stinging my cheeks. I decided to start heading home, but I realized my head wasn't clear enough to process the night. I pulled into the parking lot at Santa Monica Beach.  I walked up to the ocean with one of the waterproof blankets I keep in the car.  I laughed because I'm single but I don't keep spare clothes in there and that is different.  Couples dotted the sand, and there were people in the water.  Young families were still playing in the surf at 10. The smells in the air told me there was at least one 4:20 club member lighting up along the beach somewhere. Small birds raced along the water, digging for nibbles in the sand as soon as the waves raced back to the ocean.  And I sat alone.  The low lying clouds blotted out the stars, but the light pollution from the pier did as well.  The last time I sat there was in June after my husband and I met with our pastors and it was clear there was nothing he wanted to save in our marriage. There were a million stars that night. The sound of the crashing waves was insistent and calming.  In that moment, I was reminded of how small I am.  In all of the drama of life and the things I can't predict or control, I'm small and much of this doesn't matter.  Rain began to fall around 11 and I was grateful that I only slapped conditioner in my hair and didn't actually style it, and I headed home  while Katy Perry, Meghan Trainor and Taylor Swift sang to me.  If I had known that the rain would've dissipated further inland, I might have just grabbed my umbrella out of the car, or even sat in the car for a while in my cocoon of contemplation.

I'm breaking out of who I was. I've exchanged numbers with people I worked with and invited them to read my words.  That's not really my thing. I'm accepting that they're getting a stronger visual than I planned.  I usually don't disclose all of my issues to everyone so vividly, but I did and it was accepted.  Part of my freak out was about Mr. Hot (and out of reach) and the fact that they know who he is.  It's the idea that he may one day be given a link and his curiosity would slap reality on this little fantasy world I've enjoyed.  Right now I hope that if anything, I've given him an ego boost and everyone can use one of those. I'm okay with that, but it would suck if I embarrass him as much as I've embarrassed myself.

I reconnected with a prom date not too long ago.  I told him that sometimes people can't handle not being part of, or the reason for the success we reach in spite of them. He told me that there's a cost to the life we get to live.  (And that is one of the many ways Facebook has once again delivered.) I get to be who I am with the highs and lows that are uniquely mine.  My joys are exponential and I'm blessed in positivity.  I won't edit out what I value.  That would go back to being ashamed of who I am and I'm not that person anymore.  I take ownership for what I think and how I feel.  I get angry at times.  I'm not proud of that, but it's the cost to the passion in me. I will adopt full disclosure or silence depending on what I'm ready to share because I refuse to lie anymore to hide who I am.  And the really special parts are held and play back in my mind and are only released as carefully cloistered rays of hope, brightening my darker days until I can feel the warmth of the horizon. It's an island, but there's always room on my hammock. Bring your sunglasses.  You're going to need them if you keep a steady watch with me.

Old Poetry To Remind Me I Was Unhappy Too

I don't do pictures that would put a face to my words, but I thought I'd share old poetry.  Two old poems.  The more recent one is at least four years old because I'm 38 now.  The older one was while I was still breastfeeding, so at least 8 years ago. My Release

Stress came in waves Like sheets of plastic suffocating Like flames of sickness licking my flesh from the insides Like sex without love messy fluids and sweat and no real pleasure or release pain in waves, waiting for joy which never comes Like reek of sweat sickly musk masked by refuse of small comforts Comfort sought after in foods chocolate and icecream, rice pudding and doughnuts chips and dip or salsa iced tea and soda and sugar and waste Eating beyond sustenance, and into blankets of numbness Comfort in the nothing the nothing of sleep the nothing of television Hiding from the bright spring air and in the dark dampness of the hollow of my blankets windows shut and unforgiving musky in my stench of unbathed loathing damp in the overflow of morning feedings Awake and wired late at night while twitching in unforgiving darkness, while the angels of my flesh and desire slumber next to me snoring in sweet nothingness while early morning taunts me And in the dire bleakness of my power outtage, wishing for momentary release in window surfing or a mind to reach out to A moment of vulnerability and my stress is relieved.

And again, I want to go outside. Again, there is a garden to sow Again, there is much to be done, and at last, I'm ready to do it.

Poem for my 34^th Birthday

Can I still remember my last name?

The girl that I once was

I know her now

Though she barely knew herself

I think of her and wonder

How did she survive the life

She forced us to live

Then I remember she didn’t

I’m here and she’s a memory

A fond one that has evolved from

Faded recollections

The woman in her wake loves attention as much as she did

But will live without it.

She craves solitude and hardly gets it

But complaining is for the girl that died away