Dating Apps or Why I Would Rather Meet You In Person than Online

 

Dating apps have been suggested.  I finally downloaded one and I even set up a profile which is a new thing for me.  I've never gone that far. I linked it to my Facebook, but I'm not committed to the idea of meeting someone online or through an app.  I still have ideas of going to a bar and having someone brave enough to introduce himself do so. I may need to go to more bars since I've gone to two this year and both times were with co-workers.  And I don't drink often, so maybe another venue . . . Either way, the apps with horrible pictures and occupations don't tell me anything I need to know.  I don't know how expressive they are when a thought is fighting to get past teeth and tongue.  I don't know if my pulse would race.  All the app tells me are the two very last things I would ever base a relationship on:  looks and occupation. My dress, wedding, honeymoon and rings were all under $500, combined. I'm that hopeless romantic that finds my home is wherever I've placed my heart and the practical aspects of survival can always be worked out.

I'm likely to fall in love with a body after I've spent at least a conversation with the person it belongs to.  I need my mind stroked with what makes him who he is.  I like to people watch and so much is found in body language and the sensory aspects of human interactions. I love to watch a man with kids.  You can see his patience, and how engaged he is.  If he doesn't have time for the leadership kids require, I'm not likely to want to follow him.  I love watching babies learn new things.  You can see the wonder light up their whole face.  That same open expression is what makes me love watching a man, deep in thought or debating the next phrase out of his mouth.  I love wondering what was on his mind and what he really needed to stop himself from saying.  It can keep me up at night, without complaint. I'm not a fan of a good poker face.  I love to watch a man interact with other people.  How does he treat the server filling his cup? How does he treat the people that can't offer him anything other than a smile?  That matters and can look a lot like sexy feels.  One of my favorites on Instagram is HOTDUDESREADING.  I love a good book and to see a guy reading is such a thrill.  Especially if he looks like they do on that Instagram account. These are the things that give me that lovely spark that starts in my lower belly and consumes every possible thought thereafter.  I love the reactions on a guy that I'm flirting with.  I like it when he's a little shy and doesn't know how to react when I've just given him a mental undressing. I prefer that to the guys that do it right back with aggression.  (I can't justify my double standards, so don't bother asking.)  You don't feel all of that in browsing through an app.

My taste in looks varies.  Most of the time it doesn't matter.  It's always a bonus to have a firm hip girdle or defined abs.  I like a man who can pick me up and make me feel weightless, but I can find a feature or two I adore, and love goggles blind me to the rest. (I know some of you have seen the men I've dated.  It's okay to laugh right now.) I have overlooked personal hygiene, but again, I can see a bonus and add apple points accordingly.  If my mind is on fire then the rest falls into place.  I've loved men with salt and pepper hair and striking blue eyes (during my teens when I had a thing for older men, but it's still hotness).  I've dated heavy men, and men so skinny I wanted to feed them, and felt I could tackle them in a gridiron scrimmage. We won't detail my adventures in sacking that quarterback. I've dated boys whose parents were Mexican, Armenian,  Guatemalan, Bolivian, Filipino, German, El Salvadorean, and then there were the ones I never even bothered to ask.  I won't say I'm equal opportunity, but I don't discriminate either. Michael Jackson said it best when he sang, "it don't matter if you're Black or White." Been there too.

You can't find what I like to look for in an app, and I'm not feeling so lonely that I need to find something immediately.  I think sexual attraction can be decided in the first two minutes of seeing a person, but where I'm at emotionally means I expect more. I'm a patient person and I'm an optimistic person.  I can wait until it's right and browsing through an app in bed doesn't feel right.  I think my old might be showing, but I'm not about to tuck it back in.

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

My Death Day Planning and Why It's Really Not Morbid

When my Grandmother had a massive stroke we drove to Houston to say our goodbyes.  In the days we were there, my Dad asked me to look through the house for a will or any important documents.  It was so difficult for me.  This was the grandmother that baked challah and chocolate cake from scratch with me. I still bake when I miss her and want to feel close to her.  I remember the many times I wanted to sleep in and Dad would wake us and she would remind him it was her house and her rules.  She had a piano that I never heard.  She didn't play and we weren't allowed to play on it. Going through my Grandmother's home uncovered a person I never knew.  I saw the awards she got for her yard and understood the love put into her garden.  Later I found out it was the flower bed near her bedside window she had my younger cousin cultivate with roses and flowers.  I was home in Los Angeles, pulling weeds and getting dirt under my nails as I planted herbs and vegetables, and that was a passion close to her heart as well.  I didn't know that my love of all things growing came from her.  I love books and I was shocked that there was only one book in her home that wasn't a bible and it was The Young Housekeeper's Friend by Mrs. Cornelius dated in 1859.  She didn't have much jewelry or bottles of perfume.  I finally got to check out the piano, and in the bench were songs written by her. A lot of them were worship songs and I wish I could've heard her.  I love to sing, but I can't remember ever hearing her sing.  She had a certificate from a bible college but I'm not certain if she finished high school.  I saw a work ID from a utility company and my Dad had no idea she did anything other than clean houses.  She was surrounded by pictures of me and all of her children and grandchildren.  She had kept every single card and envelope I had sent to her throughout my life.  She kept everything all of us sent to her.  Her bed was in front of the television and I could tell she spent a lot of time on the shopping network by all of the cooking gadgets throughout the kitchen that overflowed to her den.  She would watch an infomercial and look for easy ways to make healthy meals as she was bedridden toward the end and in her helplessness, she was still able to shop.

When my husband's uncle passed, my father in law asked me to help his brother's friends clean out his home.  My husband and his sister weren't interested.  Even in death, some wounds continue to fester. He was a collector of all things Hollywood and television memorabilia.  He was also a hoarder.  Getting through his home meant meandering through a maze of the many things he bartered, found on the street or bought.  There was a stack of picture frames from Ikea that stacked flat and touched the ceiling.  He had several toys still in original packaging.  There were toy cars, movie stills, and puppets. Most of what he had  was donated, and there's an online archive somewhere that his friends painstakingly put together with small children and full time jobs.  My specific task was to go through and find any family heirlooms.  It was so hard to figure that out, not ever seeing any of the stuff before hand or ever meeting my husband's grandmother that it came from.  What was touching was after her death, he had his mother's thesis and all of her work documents. He had her letter of appreciation signed by the late Mayor Bradley. The toys they played with as children were in a display case and the last thing he saw before falling asleep.

I have a file folder on my desktop titled, "If I Die." It seems morbid but it was my gift.  More than once I had the honor of going through the belongings of a family member after they had passed.  I call it an honor, because it is.  It's also painful and humbling and impossible to not hurt other people.  The hardest thing was digging through things to find an identity. It's a file where I've compiled my bio and accomplishments. It's a place where you can see my favorite flowers are California Poppies, but anything in shades of green would be appropriate.  I have my favorite songs listed with specific instructions for jewelry.  I also made it clear that my funeral is not to be an altar call.  If I didn't sway you to my faith in life, I won't do it with guilt in death. There are letters I've written to loved ones as well. I used to update this file each Christmas, but I didn't this year, and it's time I did. The first year I started the folder was hard.  Not too hard.  I was emo before the word was a trend, but it was difficult to get through all I wanted to say.  I ended up making a few calls to say what was in my letters and had to start over. Why wait to tell someone how important they are to you?

Today I talked to both my Dad and my husband's Dad.  I told both of them that I am filing for divorce as soon as I get a hold of my attorney and get her fee sorted out.  I told my Dad I got married on my own, it makes sense I'd divorce on my own and do the big girl thing.  My Dad is my Dad and he said all of the things my Dad is supposed to.  My father in law proved to me that he is also my Dad and he gave me love and support and I will be visiting with him tomorrow.  He called the new girlfriend a "troll" and that really made the blow of him meeting her that much easier.  Tomorrow will be a year since my husband told me our marriage is over, and I thought about a long and extensive post to go over what this year has been, but he's not worth the carpal tunnel.

This Water Baby Is Raising Her Standards

I've always been drawn to water.  I spent one summer going to Manhattan Beach every single day.  The water was so clear, I was able to stand and see a piece of chert that was practically glowing at my feet.  I still have it.  I loved Bolsa Chica for the fire-pits, but it can only be fun if you bring really good water shoes. Those seashells and pebbles have carved into my tender feet for years.  Huntington Beach has fire pits and you can avoid the rocks and watch the surfers. I loved to watch the surfers. There should be surfer watching soon. There's a dog beach between the two where frolicking dogs will chase balls in the water and you can almost taste the love between them and their humans. It's like cherry pie before I had to cut wheat from my diet and I took flaky pie crust for granted. There are beautiful cliffs in Malibu and huge pockets that haven't had sand added to them, making the shoreline natural and beautiful. Dockweiler Beach has fire-pits and you can watch the airplanes fly overhead as they launch then bank over the ocean later at night. I love the ocean for how small it makes me feel.  I love being pushed and pulled by the waves, only to escape by diving into them and becoming part of the churning that would force its will otherwise. I love beaches with tide pools.  There's one in San Pedro but I don't think I can go there without remembering the boy that helped me pick out sea urchins and starfish with lots of laughter and splashing. He was so tender with my scraped hands and knees. We held hands and he walked with me around the Friendship Bell and packed a lunch so we could picnic on the grass. We hugged and laughed as we looked at the ocean.  I want to leave that memory untarnished. It was a good one. I've been meaning to check out Crystal Cove instead.  For years I said I wanted to go to Black's Beach just because it is a nude beach.  I haven't made it and I haven't made plans either. In the last 16 years, I've spent less time at the beach and more time in rivers, pools, Jacuzzi tubs and lakes.  Part of that was my husband likes rivers and lakes.  We spent so much time fishing in them.  I'm not a fan of the gear and I don't like much outside of reeling in a fish, so I don't see myself going fishing anytime soon.  A lot of the rocks around my pond were from trips to Upper Big Tujunga where he and the boys fished, and I carried bags of rocks back to the car. Pier fishing is what I did with my Dad and the few times I tried to go deep sea fishing, I got sick as soon as the boat stopped going forward.  I like boats, but staying still and rocking on the waves instead of being part of the waves always made me sick.  It took a summer to get used to the smaller waves on Big Bear Lake. My other reason for not liking big scary bodies of water is my kids.  My now 9 year old who was 8 months at the time suffered a near drowning.  Pulling him out of the tub when he was blue was traumatic for me.  I had nightmares for a while. To this day, I still panic whenever they want to go into water and I feel like I can't keep a hand on all three at the same time. I prefer to not go and let my Mom take them because she loves water as much as I do.

There's a pond in my front yard that I enjoy from my front porch. I dug into hard ground with the help of my father in law.  It has a waterfall and it's all pre-formed pond liners, but I love the sound, if not the look. I love the reflected light dancing on walls and ceilings from the moving water outside my window. There's a koi fish in it.  This koi has survived for years with rain water and water hose refills when the water gets low and not a drop of treatment to balance the pH or de-chlorinate, and a pump that goes out from time to time and not a drop of food in years.  He's outlived the tadpoles that spent about a year becoming bullfrogs and then disappeared over a winter to emerge and disappear again. My cat is a murderer and she's granted him clemency. She prefers lizards, birds, and rodents. He's as stubborn about giving up as I am.

Last night I was home around 7:00.  I had an interview with a temp agency and puttered around Hollywood long enough to be happy to head home. I had taken off my slacks, and blouse and I was already in bed calling it a night with Hulu and Facebook.  I finally listened to the lyrics to kid3's favorite song.  There was a petite brunette singing a cover rendition and I thought I'd finally hear the whole thing.  I don't listen to much radio and I saw that the original is his Dad's favorite artist.  He's a Belieber. It occurred to me that my little one has been singing the song in his Daddy's heart and it made me angry. For the record, I had many moments of choosing to like his Momma too, and it wasn't easy. I knew she didn't like me no matter how many times they tried to say otherwise.  I chose to accept her as part of him. To know me is to know I give people more chances than they deserve.  Something about that song got under my skin like an itch and I got dressed and went for a drive.  I took Broadway through Chinatown and onto Sunset to Pacific Coast Highway and turned left. I called a really great friend on the way.

I've known this friend since we were in diapers and my firstborn's middle name was chosen based on the name I called on for much of my life.  When we were young, he was called Peanut Butter and I was Jelly according to the older neighborhood kids and our siblings.  It was as much about our complexions as it was about our conjoined hips. We were always hanging out around the neighborhood in East Hollywood where I broke my leg and a week later he broke his arm.  He ended up in a hospital bed at Kaiser on Sunset and a while later I ended up in the same bed in pediatrics.  He was there through every single romance I've had, and the distance only came with my husband.  I was starting life with a husband and kids.  He still goes to bars and clubs and lives the life I used to live. He's one of those friends that I can pick up with at any time and it's like there was no time or distance between us.  In our friendship there is freedom and I was able to rage and curse out a man I had been trying to be respectful toward. I discuss my anger at times.  I'm still protecting him in not disclosing some of his actions to most people. My anger is part of me and I'm not afraid of it. You just won't usually hear me emasculating him.  It's a choice, and I try to choose it more often than not.  That doesn't mean I'm incapable. That means my impulse control is strong on most days.  Not last night.  It was the first time I've ever cursed him out (even if not to his face),  the entire time I've known him.

It was early enough that when I made a left on Temescal Canyon Road, I could still legally park there, but it was dark, so you won't get pictures.  There are street lights but the beach itself is cloaked in darkness. In the distance, the Ferris wheel that spins above the waters off Santa Monica Beach is visible and tells me where the freeway is. The light of the moon and the many stars I could see were enough to see and step confidently.  I felt comforted in the blanketed darkness clothing the sand and sea. It colored the horizon in shades of indigo night. The gate leading to the parking lot at Will Rogers State Beach had already been closed with yellow metal that clearly denies access and the parking lot only held one car, as it's companion left when I was stepping onto the sand. Lifeguard tower 8 was where I spent many nights through high school and until I met my husband.  I've sat there with guys that played guitar, and with a strong drink to fight the biting air and sea mist. I've been there in groups and alone.  I've raged at the heartbreaks that were raging through me because the ocean could absorb the sounds of my anguish. I celebrated moments of solitude where my introverted side could recharge.  I shared my spot with the boys that were like my brothers. I was still on the phone with the Peanut Butter to my Jelly while he was at work but otherwise, I was completely alone. He told me about the many girls he had taken there, and I was shocked that I never thought to do the things he did because my comfort was more important.  There's only one way up or down on that ramp and it's pretty exposed.  This was probably the first time I was there without a pocket knife or a stun gun, not that I ever needed to confront anyone. Besides, beach sex is overrated and it's always cold at night.

This was a frequent filming location for Bay Watch.  When I arrived, I could see signs for a crew that will be there or already was there. Location scouts love this place. On the left are volleyball courts with nets swaying in the wind.  To the right there's a jetty that marks the sand, stepping into the ocean and breaking the harshest waves with immovable fortitude. This tower is unique in that it's built on a concrete platform that holds a large drainpipe and carries you over the water.  I've only ever been there at night and farther from low-tide, but recognized my favorite place on an episode once. The waves break against the platform and flow all around the tower.  There's a fence around it, but only to keep people from jumping off of the platform because people aren't always smarter than they look.  The tower isn't restricted except the closed windows padlocked to keep people outside.

We talked as the crashing waves calmed me.  We talked as they energized me.  By the time I was driving home, my mood had significantly picked up and my anger was gone.  As we talked, we discussed each man child I claimed in my heart.  He pointed out what he saw and through that I could see my perspective shifting and sharpening.  He felt I could have done better than every single one of them.  In looks, in intelligence, in personality, in self esteem, I was the dominant one.  He said every relationship has an imbalance, and I was always on the upper hand but never saw or acknowledged it.  I fixated on their one good quality.  For one boy it was his hair.  For another it was his voice.  For another it was his face.  For another it was how much he wanted me. I could go on but the point was he could see I had a type.  I always thought it was fair skin and great hair, but not all of them fit that bill.  Most of them didn't. He said I like the ones that are a little geeky and not too smart.  He could see something about each one of them that was lacking in some way. I told him about my crush and he pointed out that I was sabotaging myself even though I claim to want to date smarter people. I could see myself having a conversation with him without having to explain what I've said.  He reminded me that they all kind of grew on me because they weren't immediate total packages.  I walked past the obvious winners and plucked my way through the second string, subconsciously identifying their insecurities and then letting them  shape their fears into who I was, effectively shifting the power dynamic.  The exception was the guy I was with through the end of high school.  He was an ex-gang member, but I pursued him with his New York accent, and six pack abs, and his hooked nose.  He wasn't eye candy, but he was sweet and generous. He was always bringing me flowers. He wasn't the total package and I have no interest in looking him up, but I do like who I was when I was with him for the most part.  He didn't have that innate ability to lead though.  I value that now when I couldn't understand it then.

With each breakup, I became more of the person my great friend grew up with. He sees me as someone that tells it like it is.  I see it as jaded cynicism. I'm someone that is positive and optimistic for the most part.  I believe in faking it until I feel it.  My perseverance and tenacity are hot in others and an asset to myself. He likes this person as she is. I like this person as I am.  I like the boys that are shy and a little insecure.  I like the ones that need my attention that are willing to make it a point to make the first move. I find it sweet and he pointed out that it's the mother in me that needs to bring that shyness out. It always backfires and  I build them up into pricks. Or I'll date someone with such strong attachment issues that they need to prove they can make a conquest of anyone without being able to move into a relationship because they lack emotional maturity. We talked about the fact that I haven't kissed anyone besides my husband since April of 2000.  He tells me it will be epic when I do.

I started thinking about some of the things my husband has said the past year and the song that our little one was singing made more sense.  I realized he had been speaking to me the lyrics of this song, and it made me think of the many conversations we had when I was teased about my vocabulary.  To this day, I will find myself changing the vernacular in my writing so it is easily digested, but I shouldn't have to do that when I talk.  And this song that made me want to emasculate and infantilize him also made me feel pity because I could hear his insecurities in the song. I could sing the same song to him, but I have a better grasp of my feelings than that and would rather focus on what will lift me up.

I went to bed and the rage in me had died and it was replaced with hope.  There was hope that I would find enough value in myself to intentionally try to approach that man that could be out of my league.  There's hope that I could find someone to have meaningful conversations with. I want a salt of the earth, man's man. I kissed a couple of girls in my youth and it did nothing for me but make me miss the bite of stubble. I love a clean shaved face and solid jaw line. I like to be the soft one next to lean muscle. I want someone with the self esteem and drive that pushed him away from drugs or gang life, and made him try harder so his success was in his accomplishments. I've only ever had two ex lovers that weren't into drugs or gang life. They were always looking for attention and couldn't understand the value of silent companionship. They couldn't commit to one person, even if it wasn't me. It's not about money or looks.  It never was.  I remember being in my twenties and flirting with the guy in the car next to me. It was a red convertible. We exchanged numbers and when he called I told him I couldn't date him because all I remembered was his car and I couldn't be that person.  He respected my honesty, and the part of me that couldn't do that is still alive and kicking. She calls me a whore when I can't see past the frosting on the cake and that makes me keep walking. My husband thought I only wanted him for his money, but I wanted him for the way he saw me. I just didn't notice when he stopped looking at me that way.   The one amazing thing my really great friend pointed out was that I gave my husband 16 years of faithfulness and he messed up by leaving a good wife. He left me and I waited beyond what was reasonable and I have done enough.  Telling a wife and mother she's done enough is one thing, but getting her to finally believe it is another.  We talked about an hour and a half and at the end of that time, I believed it.

We also talked about the times we were young and being silly.  We laughed about the many times I said I'd be an old lady with a cane, and chasing boys. We talked about walking into the Palace in Hollywood at the end of the night.  We were pretty drunk and one of the guys we were with walked right into the glass doors, opened them and went right in as if he didn't just greet the door with his nose.  The security guards didn't bother to stop us. It also closed within the 15 minutes we were there.  There was another night we had gone to a hotel in the valley to go dancing with my Dad.  They played Israeli music and songs in Arabic. Some of the older women taught me to move like a belly dancer.  It's where I heard my first Alabina song and this was before Shakira in the late 1990's. I used to go dancing with Dad on Saturday nights and this was the one time I brought friends.  We got a bit sauced and when my Dad went home, we decided to go to Rosarito because we had never been to Papas and Beer.  I took the backseat of my car and he drove us into Tijuana and further south into Rosarito.  We pointed at each "alto" sign and laughed because they looked a lot like stop signs.  It's never taken much to make me laugh. We got there at 4 in the morning and it was closed. Everything was closed at 4 in the morning.  We drove around a bit and watched the sunrise.  Instead of hanging out all day, we headed home and had a tire blow out on the freeway (my  first of more than I can remember). It was an epic adventure. I've still never been inside of Papas and Beer. We talked about the time we went hiking to the waterfall from Chantry Flats in the mountains above the Santa Anita racetrack with a bottle of Tequila Rose and the guys going for a swim in the freezing water.  There's something funny that happens when cold water gets past boxers and I can still hear the squeals in that memory. He reminded me of the fun I had as an adolescent when I wasn't handing my heart off. I needed that.

How I Spread Autism and Cancer Awareness

 

The sun is barely peeking over the hilltop before me and my inbox ping tells me someone was thinking of me - loves me - thinks of me when they rise.  In my excitement for words and encouragement, I see it's a meme.  It's a meme for cancer awareness.  It's a cute meme for cancer awareness that looks nothing like the cancers I've seen.

The awareness is what gets to me.  I have an autism awareness magnet on my car.  It was important to my kids, but it wasn't my thing.  Yes, I have kids with autism, and it's important for others to learn about, but I've been spending years making people autism aware at restaurants with tantrums and meltdowns over textures and sitting in boredom.

We've had grocery trips where the casual shopper suggests a spanking might help, and I informed her you can't spank away a disability and frankly I was bothered by her violent streak. Her compassionate suggestion to help get my kids in line turned into blatant curiosity which turned into verbal diarrhea because people rarely know where their thoughts become weapons, and the science she saw on television just insulted the gene pools of two families without the excuse of a nameless face because she was looking at mine. I remembered a good friend telling me, "we can't be angry at someone's ignorance.  We have to give them our pity." I was so enraged I wanted to deliver that pity with a right hook. Instead I plastered on what I hoped was a smile and tried my best to inform her that it doesn't matter how autism ended up in my home, it's my job to see my kids through life in a way that will release whole adults, unbroken by the world.  I've made family aware of autism when the meltdowns and self inflicted head punching meant we had to leave early for holidays to find respite at home where the holidays are in submission to first Thomas the Tank Engine and now Minecraft.  I loved watching traffic from my last job because the little cars reminded me of Hot Wheels lined up but not played with.

I'm still becoming autism aware when in my hope to be "the world's best mom" as proclaimed by a stranger in Target, I walked in with a Playstation 4 and was greeted with a meltdown instead.  I should have known that Playstation 4 doesn't support Mario and Dad has a Wii U, why can't we?  Dad promised him two houses mean two of everything and my literal kid took that literally.  Kid1 and Kid3 love it as it collects dust because they don't actually want to play it or sell it, and being job free means telling kid2 the new 3DS he wants will have to wait even longer.

Cancer ripped through my grandfather and he didn't win.  His pride and protection would belie the pain in his body when I would call and he'd in turn call out for his Mrs. to talk to me.  Later I would lose my husband's grandfather.  There was a powerful moment where we sat side by side toward the end of his life.  He was on oxygen and struggled to speak.  He told me how amazed he was that his generation would do what they did, and his granddaughter with dark skin would sit next to his fair skin and blue eyes and we'd openly share love and respect.  This granddaughter healed a life born to regulated bigotry and gave him great grandsons whose bloodlines held his Heinz 57 and my blood line that is both Thai and Black and if you ask my dad, Choctaw, Sephardic, French, and Mexican too. I have a heritage which includes the many slave owners and illicit affairs that would mix my features until I look Samoan or Indian. I type this and still mourn the loss of the only grandfather I was able to visit when I wanted because we weren't separated by states and his love for me resonates like his loss was just last week.

The face of cancer has also been worn by my sister and grandmother, but they fought and won.  I've had friends lose hair and fight sickness and they not only survived, but they are thriving.  They are healthy now, but they've faced death and emerged with an appreciation for life that is a wonder to witness.  My oldest has a friend with a Dad who is sick right now. When he asked about cancer, these are the faces I tell him about.  This is the awareness I share.

We live out awareness in the ways we share who we are and in the reflections of our lives and how we let our struggles color our smiles. We face each day in bravery and see grace where we look for it and the peace that we allow in our hearts gives us patience.

Marital Separation through File Deletion

He moved out months ago and I've finally decided to accept his decision for our lives. I'm starting to see it as my deliverance. I'm letting go.  It's easy to say it's over in anger, but it's moments of peace and reflection that I listen to. I sent an email to my attorney tonight asking about the next steps that I would like her to walk me through. There were no tears but I felt peace and an acceptance that is new.

A friend emailed me and we had a back and forth, picking up like we were just getting drunk together last week. He told me that I seem happier now.  He's right.  I'm doing better than I was before I found out we were over. He offered his support and love in the way good friends with lasting memories do. He was there when we first started dating.  With gentleness that could only come from a friendship built on love and mutual respect, he told me I was so much better than who I was settling for, without making me feel bad about it. In the years I put between us for the sake of my husband, he never held a minute against me. He couldn't imagine what I'm going through, nor would I want him to.  He's a newlywed and I adore his bride.

I started clicking through Facebook albums to delete him, but decided some albums can just be hidden  until I'm ready to erase those images that are etched in my mind. I want to ensure a decent history is catalogued for our kids because we are who they came from, and I can't erase who they are and hope that will make it better. They come before I do, and family pictures still sit on walls.

I haven't spied on his page for a while and I haven't checked to see if I'm still blocked, because it no longer matters what he does. I thought giving up Facebook for Lent would be too hard, and so I gave up Lent, but find I've also given up Facebook because so much of "us" belonged to those walls. I'm going through emails and wiping away what is no longer relevant to me and some of it was relevant to us.  I do it as a farewell and there are no tears or anguish.  There's no sorrow or anxiety.  I've heard "it is what it is," and the phrase feels like giving up in failure.  Instead I feel it is what we've made it and I accept the choice to not change it.

This momentary pause is my moment before I clear out music files.  It's music that he liked.  It's his music.  I don't want to shuffle my songs to hear his voice tell me he's winning in the wife department.  It doesn't make me cry. It doesn't hurt or make me angry.  It's just no longer what I want to hear and I can control that.

A Day in the Life: Single Mom Duties

I rushed to my son's school to pick him up on a shortened day. His parent conference was an arbitrary day where his teacher could fit me in.  I asked if she had an earlier appointment and she fit me in immediately.  She tries so hard for order, but teachers rarely get parents that show up on time, or show up at all when work and other kids come before a report we see on a card.  But I wanted to meet with her so she could tell me he's missed too much school and been tardy far too often because the numbers in black and white with a legend in the corner couldn't be clear enough.  I remind her of the day in dress and heels I carried him over my shoulder from the car onto campus and left him with the principal, later calling in tears on my way to work to see how much he hated me. My knees hated me for days after that. He's doing well in spite of his absences and still has time to improve.  We're starting separate homework packets because separate homes weren't enough.  The line between responsibility tears him in two, but he accepts it with a smile because this insanity is his insanity and it's somehow acceptable. We head home and the fight for his homework begins.  He wants my phone. "Can't find a pencil." Now in need of a sharpener.  "This is too hard.  We haven't done the work that she told you we did." But it says review and I know he's capable when I tell him I'm struggling and I need him to show me. "What are you doing?" As I'm writing thank you's to lovers in my past. "I'm writing a zombie story," because he knows it's entirely a possibility and more exciting than therapy writing. He needs my full focus to get me to give him answers he works really hard to not figure out. I continue writing and he slowly figures it out.

But his brothers will be home in 10 minutes and the three of them will start fighting over the two computers. Miraculously, he gets it done and has minutes to spare before the brothers get home.  Once home, they fight, as predicted because they each want time on the computer immediately.  It's the preferred routine and there's a system to their chaos when they can predict what will happen. Kid1 tries to pry kid2 from the chair, then sees the food and starts with bribery.  The computer battle is won and their after school hungers are sated.  Mom's cherry macarons decided the battle. Kid2 takes his clothes off because there are tags that scratch, and really, he's had clothes on all day and it should be enough.  He sits and strokes his boy parts through his clothes and I remind him we can see him and his restless hands stop but he takes the tablet into the bedroom where I won't hear his videos as easily.

"Hey kids, it's a soup day.  Chicken vegetable okay?" Yeses and sures and "I would like that, Mom." I start boiling a chicken with loose skin and too much blood. My stomach is roiling from the stresses I ignore.  I run a bath and heat eases pain in my old lady knees.  I yell to kid3, "want a bath tonight? Now's the time if you do."  Followed by, "no mom, I'm busy mom .  . . I'll shower later."

Chicken is cooked and cooled and I'm burning fingertips, tearing the bird apart.  "Are you sure you want soup? I still have time to make something different." Kid1 wants soup.  Kid2 thinks he can get past celery and cooked carrots. He'll eat it raw, but cooked carrots and celery have a texture my sensory sensitive autistic children can't always handle.  Kid3 loves mommy's soup. He can't wait for mommy's soup.

Soup is served and only Mom and Kid1 will eat it.  Kid2 wants bread and only bread.  Kid3 isn't hungry.

It's time for showers and bed, and I start with kid2 who wants to avoid his shower just a little longer because he's watching a video.  I check the video and it's on pornhub and I have to explain that it's inappropriate and gives a wrong idea of real sex. Good sex.  Sex that isn't violence based and I have to pry my eyes away from the sex scenes that held my sex starved mind because it's a video where it looks like orgasms are being given which is different entirely from solo play. I'm so tired of solo play.

Kid2 in the shower, then kid3.  He wants that bath - once offered and rejected and he will cry until I give in but I don't give in to his bath. Instead I soap him up in the shower.  And it's a battle I've lost that his Dad always wins.  I tell myself he just needed the cry that he cries every time he comes home. He doesn't need to control me too, that's just a side effect - a latent benefit and then I can't see the manifest benefit.  I can't see the antecedent to the behavior that I just rewarded and I'm the one with the consequence.  He's out of the shower and dripping wet and insists on climbing into bed, dripping wet because that's what Dad does. It's okay with Dad.  He's okay with Dad. And he's hungry now and refuses the soup that burned my fingers and I'm headed out to the deep freezer in the laundry room to get him a Hot Pocket that he eats halfway through before falling asleep.

Kid1 in the shower with a smirk and a grunt.  I ask too much of him but I ask and he does what I want, if slower than I want and the night has wound down and we're done.  The pressure builds in my head and I go over it again because I can't see where we went from smiles and hugs and mutual claims to have missed each other to the mess this night dissolved into.  I can't see where it shifted and my mind races through it again and again.

I don't drink.  I won't cry.  I will see the crap for what it was and hug them in their sleep because they are so well behaved then.  I will say prayers for their peace and obedience as I tuck them in. And I will have Butter Pecan gelato because I don't drink even if I really want to right now.

A Profusion of Gratitude to the Men in My Life

When you face a maelstrom in life, it’s easy to look for signs of safety and reach out in an attempt to find an anchor.  The winds die down.  The torrential rains are reduced to water dripping from branches and leaves. Trees have gathered what they could, and what remains will trickle down to enrich the soil at thirsty roots. Plants are so self serving. Birds chirp in triumph over the nests that weathered the storm and pigeons coo over their eggs that survived the onslaught in motherese sounds of comfort. The clouds lose their gray anger and lift into fluffier whites that couldn't possibly release another onslaught.  At least until they lower and darken, covering the land in shadow once more.  So begins a new flood on dry land not ready to take what the heavens choose to give. But in the eye of the storm it is calm enough to see the other side coming, and calm enough to brace for what you know you can still make it through because you've been there and will find yourself there again.

If I look hard enough, I can see the same in my emotional life.  I'm looking for an anchor and it's wrapped in the covering of a heartbroken past that keeps throwing old flames at me.  I understand it.  The pain of a broken heart is the same, no matter who does the breaking, it's my heart and I have to do the mending.  This would be the main reason I'm not yet dating.  I'm not a problem to fix and I'm not ready to publish another issue when this one has yet to be edited.  And yes, at times I say it just to convince myself.

It's funny how the universe decides to contribute.  My youngest has a sweatshirt with diamonds that reminds me of one special guy.  The very next week he tells me the he has a new after school teacher with the same first name as another man I loved.  I'll see the name of a studio that reminds me of a name I've been trying to forget or in the course of my last job, I'd see lots of names that reminded me of this feeling that I've been walking through.  I'd be in full focus of my task at hand, and suddenly get sucker punched by a name with significance and pain. Or worse, it'll remind me of a secret rendezvous that was so sweet the longing is worse. I love the random bumper stickers from home towns not my own that put me in the place I was driving to escape from. I hear so much about the benefits of gratitude, I thought it might be worth a few words in redirecting my thought patterns.

Thank you for opening doors for me.  Clearly I'm capable, but it was still nice and appreciated.

Thank you for noticing my hair cut.  It's not a huge deal that I cut it, but it's huge that you would notice.

Thank you for noticing that I like my coffee creamy and sweet and that my tea depends on my mood entirely.

Thank you for listening to my drama and not trying to fix it, nudging me and guiding me until my lightbulb flashes in understanding and not taking the credit we both know you deserved.

Thank you for dropping your defenses long enough to let me see how badly you wanted more and then putting them back up so it wasn't uncomfortable.

Thank you for picking up after a party and taking the trash out for me. Hosting in my youth makes me hate doing it now, so thanks for being okay with me coming to you instead and letting me help where I can.

Thank you for surprising me with a dress that was a little too tight. It told me you thought of me as smaller than I am, and I loved your sense of style.

Thank you for surprising me with jewelry.  I didn't always wear it, but I always loved it.

Thank you for offering to whisk me away to a place I've never been to make new memories to crowd out the old ones.

Thank you for listening to me sing without making it a performance, and joining in because you saw how happy I was and you wanted to be part of that.

Thank you for not being threatened by the thoughts I needed to bounce off of you.

Thank you for letting me run my fingers through your hair even if it looked messy afterward.  I have a thing for really large brains with lots of wrinkles of knowledge.  I'm only part zombie after a long night and it soothes me.  (I needed the laugh and something I could read aloud to the kid next to me doing homework.) Honestly, there's something soothing about soft hair and the trust given when touching it.

Thank you for wanting constant contact, whether holding hands or an open palm on my lower back or holding onto my hip so I'm that much closer to you.  It might make walking awkward, but I loved it.

Thank you for insisting I lay with my head on your lap while you watched t.v. and I dozed off with you stroking my hair.

Thank you for not laughing when I eat Cheetos with chopsticks so I can avoid cheesy fingers.

Thank you for respecting my answer when I say I'm not ready to date.  I appreciate that you understand I might change my mind and are willing to wait for what you want to hear.  When that hunger is awakened, I assure you, my impulse control will go for a walk, and you will know in the looks I steal because your body will understand the hunger in my gaze. And I'm sure you can understand that you may never be the one.

Thank you for buying gifts even when I say it's not necessary, and even if it's a chocolate bar because you understand that eating chocolate gives me food joy, and you want to see my joy and hear the silly and sometimes sexual sounds that come with it.

Thank you for understanding that my "no" means I'm withholding from myself too and not giving me a hard time about rubbing one out on your own.  I appreciate that one more than I can explain.

Thank you for the calf rub that didn't come with a price or expectation.

Thank you for running a bath, then insisting I step into it.

Thank you for the moments we had, and not making promises you never intended to keep.

Thank you for that random post it note in my textbook.  I saw it right when my high started falling and I wondered if the night before was real.  It was real and it is still an awesome memory.

Thank you for cooking for me and inviting me to give you a hand.  I loved bumping into you and our messy hands and washing them together.  To this day, I find something so luxurious about washing hands in warm water. Thank you for that.

Thank you for seeing me as I am, and not as you thought I should be.

Thank you for letting me be in the moment where everything so beautiful around me put a pause in your day long enough for me to get a fix that would last as long as I can remember it.

Thank you for sharing my first with me. What ever firsts they were and as slowly as they needed to happen.

Thank you for letting me trust you with the restaurant and letting me be picky about what was on my plate.

Thank you for making things a game, and rewarding me in your silly laughter.

Thank you for driving so I could watch you in my creeptackular way, leaving indelible memories long after our goodbyes. I'll never forget the sun hitting your hair and filtering the brown into spun gold.  I was so excited that my first gray hair looked like yours did that day.

Thank you for believing in me when I couldn't see past my immediate failures.

Thank you for taking care of me when I was drunk and giving me your self control when I couldn't find mine.

Thank you for the flowers and that each arrangement was unique and worth drying. Thank you for remembering I don't like baby's breath and that they were for monthly anniversaries, holidays, and just because and never as an apology.

Thank you for never buying forgiveness from me.

Thank you for your gentle leadership and being amazing to children.

Thank you for your protective nature, even if I don't need it.  I like it.

Thank you for being the man I needed you to be.

Homecoming, a Custody Exchange Day Poem

I woke up to raindrops and my kids come home today. The rushing winds and falling sky replenish the life the sun has stolen,

but the sounds of life on earth will be drowned out

by the sounds of life that tore through me.

They were each mine for a time then they were ours and now I have to share them

I have to trust they won't be destroyed with the love that nearly destroyed me

The path of healing is steep and full of thorns that catch you when you aren't ready

The first days of loss weren't just my battle to rage.

The heavy bag swung and rattled with fury spent,

post rage teens were sobbing in my arms

Hands that reached for us and held us in love were forging pain with what they were given

There were no words to unleash the pain that was in hearts, under skin,

and we made raw knuckles and tender wrists excuses to cry

Thunder shakes the sky and ground in a mirror of the anger that I pray away late at night

when the only sounds loud enough to hear are the shifting landscape of a life we planned

and the growing pains from a life I can't control right now

My kids come home today so I can be Mom and being a sister and daughter can wait

I will see faces I've missed and kiss cheeks and I will hold my babies.

I will inhale their scent and engrave the moment in my memory when they are with me

because those moments sustain me when my babies are away.

I used to fret over a night at Grandma's, and now I endure 5 days at a time

I fill my bed with stuff as a placeholder, that was once a spouse and is now a child

sometimes he's content with space

other times he lays on top of me, trapped in the comfort required in infancy at 9 years old

The thunderstorm rages its fury outside and for a few days

I won't have to wonder if they'll answer my call.

Respecting the boundaries they set, I tell them my calls are just to tell them I love them

because I know I'm loved I think I'm loved I may not be needed

I feel excitement and joy and worry and fear in the moments where the sun is hiding

the clouds pour out their burdens and the thunder announces its rage

at some point the clouds will disperse enough to let me know the sun was always there

a rainbow will cut the sky in hope and beauty

and my life will imitate the art of nature

A Case Study of My Daddy Issues

I'm in church most Sunday mornings.  Letting go of old patterns and trying really hard to not actually pick them back up, I get a recharge and I'm held accountable.  Today was no exception.  Dad wanted to go, so I picked him up.  He's getting older and right now he's in need of more help than he's willing to admit.  He loves my new Camry.  He feels like there's plenty of legroom and in that way it beats out my sister's BMW.  He tells me each time he gets in the car, like I was supposed to be competing with her.  What he doesn't understand is how easy it is for me to celebrate with her success and just be happy that she's successful in what she does. I feel that love means doing what you know is best for the person you love, even if it's not what's best for you and not looking at it as a sacrifice, but as a gift because in the end, their wellbeing is what's best for you.  She doesn't ask for anything so I can give her all of the praise she deserves. He walks from his apartment to my car on his own, but needs help getting his seatbelt on because my car will beep at you if you don't buckle up.  We take the 5 south and he always freaks out a little when we transition to the 110 north because I love that curve a little more than I should.  There's a huge difference in driving when you trust your tires and brakes. We arrived at the church and I walked in and picked a seat where he'd be comfortable. He tends to like to sit along the sides in the back and not right next to people.  In restaurants he'll want to be able to watch the exits and windows.  His PTSD tells him there's going to be an ambush at any moment and it's his need to be vigilant and in control. I usually prefer front and center.  Even in school, you were likely to find me in the first or second row, to the right side of the class unless there's a sunny window.  In that case I shift accordingly.   He took his time with coffee and donuts, and joined me once he'd had his fill.  He sat beside me and dozed off and on throughout the service.  Right after worship, there's a meet and greet time where we mingle with fellow church members and he reaches for me, and wants to start a conversation with me to keep me planted by his side, and that's when I see it.  That's when it becomes undeniable that I married a man who was just like my father. They both loved that I was outgoing, but used me as a shield against the outside in a way that made them appear to have my confidence.  For Dad it was the ghosts of war. For my husband, I may never know. People started coming toward us for hugs and handshakes. I'm a hugger, so it makes me happy.  I used one of the hugs for my escape to see everyone I look forward to seeing each week.

After the service he wanted to sit and talk which means he talks and I listen.  He asked if I noticed how respected I was in my church.  I told him that respect is freely given when it's been freely received.  Then I had to tune out.  I never understood his need to push and place agendas in relationships.  I didn't have to work to be friendly and I will take that for granted as long as I can. I remembered when I had a similar communication dynamic with my husband and instead I focused on watching the pastor's son.  He's a handful of years younger than me and he was tossing a toddler in the air. He's great with kids and my youngest adores him.  He was guiding those baby hands on the drums and chasing him up and down the aisles.  There was so much joy in that and I loved watching.  A man who is great with kids is so attractive and it doesn't hurt that he's in the Air Force,  but I had only had a few errant thoughts about this particular man, and never a conversation worth remembering.  I really just enjoyed watching the baby joy.

There is so much good in comfortable silences. I was comfortable being silent. Dad was comfortable telling me what the meaning of life was and in my few non committal responses, he would pause and tell me I should ask God, letting me know he doesn't approve of my thoughts.  I'm in a new place and I will not be guilted into changing my mind.  The first voter ballot that came in the mail with my name on it was filled out for me by him.  I threw it out and went with my gut.  I decided to have a moment of enjoying what I saw.  It was such a rare moment.  Most waking moments I have a million thoughts going in all directions at once.  There are to do lists, and shopping lists, chores, phone calls and letters to start and emails I need to follow up on.  And this is me when I'm job free.  I spent about 5 minutes and just watched a giggling boy exploring his limits. The men in my life rarely have moments like those and I just loved watching it.

He asked what I wanted to eat and vetoed my pho request.  We went to Lucky Boy's in Pasadena instead.  I remembered the times I stopped saying what I wanted because it stopped mattering in my marriage, and all I could do was try not to laugh out loud. They didn't ever see eye to eye but they were so alike.

I once reacted so badly to seeing something similar in a Rite Aid.  There was a little girl being choosy about her ice cream flavors and her Dad was getting impatient. He tried to tell her what she wanted.  I should have kept my mouth shut but I didn't. I pointed out that he wanted to raise a picky daughter.  He wanted her to be able to make up her mind on her own, and know that there's value in her decision.  If she doesn't get it from her Daddy, he has no right to complain when the boys she dates start to make her feel like there is no value in her thoughts and opinions.  Build your kids up at home, and they won't believe the boys that try to make them feel that they're the only ones that can see how amazing she is and they control her value.  It's the same reason I don't force my kids to hug grown ups.  They're in control of their bodies and personal space.

I dropped Dad off and started driving up to the Observatory.  When traffic told me I wasn't the only one that saw the clouds clearing, I turned around and took the streets home.  The full weight of my Daddy issues started bouncing around in my mind. My Dad was always there.  He was never abusive.  He just didn't know how to be the Dad I wanted him to be.  In reality, my Daddy issues are my boundary issues and  I give him too much authority over me when I don't try to establish healthy boundaries.

My Youth as an Exhibitionist with a Thing For Druggies and Gang Bangers

I was listening to Lady Gaga go on about paper gangsters while I was making cherry macarons.  I've piped them and they're resting right now so they will hopefully have lovely feet and not crack as they bake.  That's when I realized I that I may have hinted at my boundary pushing and horrible adolescent choices, but I never detailed much.  There is a lot I could go into but I'll try to limit it to the days when I was hanging out with the neighborhood boys. We moved to the Echo Park/Elysian Park area right next to Dodger Stadium when I was a freshman.  It was still Junior High then.  I was in Drill Team and Leadership.  I was done with swimming, gymnastics and ballet by then.  Mom believes busy kids stay out of trouble. At this point I still didn't get boys.  I had a few crushes and a few silly letter exchanges but getting it together enough to become a couple was beyond me.  My first boyfriend wanted to be my boyfriend but to him that meant kissing and I wasn't interested.  He was cute and tall but I was good with friendship.He had a Kid haircut as in Kid n Play because life imitated art in movies and it was a thing in the early 90's.  My second boyfriend kept saying hello and asking me about my interests and I had no idea why he wanted to talk to me. I finally got it one day after school when he introduced himself to my Dad and my Dad suddenly didn't like him.  It clicked and I wanted what he was offering. He was a big boy with silky hair in a mushroom cut that I loved to run my fingers through. He played basketball while I was in drill team.  He wanted me to watch his practice, so his friends could see me watching him practice, but I didn't care that he couldn't make the layup.  I just didn't care.  But he liked me, and it was important to him. We talked marriage and kids but this was before my parents started fostering.  After about a year, my parents thought our relationship was too serious, so they thought they'd put a stop to it.  For them, it meant they couldn't tell what we did in school, and at home my Dad encouraged me to hang out with the neighbors, under his supervision. We were together through most of Freshman year, into the middle of junior year.

The neighbors were all about the same age as I was. Dad saw them hanging out and getting into trouble and his time as a probation officer made him feel like he needed to run an intervention. He taught us to play chess.  We'd sit on the front porch and play for hours.  There were 5 boys that came over every day.  Sometimes they'd come over and I could see the paint on their lips from the tagging they'd just done which was usually followed by huffing paint. (A tagger's spray can tips are more important than the paint being used.  They remove tips from cans and will blow the paint out so they can be used with other cans.)  To huff paint, they'd spray paint into a plastic grocery store bag and hold it over their nose and mouth and breathe deeply.  The lack of oxygen and near death must've felt better than whatever they did when they weren't playing chess with me in the early hours of sunset after Drill Team practice. I wasn't a morning person then, so I'd have to get ready for the next day and they'd leave.  My routine was to take a shower, walk to my bedroom in a towel, and change there.  It took a while to realize they'd leave and climb on the roof next door to watch me change after my shower in my bedroom.  One night I got applause.  I didn't start closing my curtains right away either, but eventually I did. It took a few days.  Eventually I transferred to high school and our puppy love died in a pregnancy scare he had with someone else.

I threw myself into play production and theater arts. We once danced on the steps of City Hall.  It was the day of my senior prom and one of my favorite memories.  I sang "I dreamed a dream" from Les Miserable and I was so confident.  I was also in karate and super busy.  I had the boyfriend I eventually took to New York. He was older by a couple of years. I could see a very long future with him and every once in awhile we talked marriage.  You do that after the first year and a half sometimes.  My parents became foster parents at this time, and I saw but ignored the mean streak in him.  He was a bit of a bully.  Never to me, but at the end of the day, a bully is still a bully. I didn't want kids then and we were having fun.  Sex with him wasn't a destination, but a fun ride.  Don't get me wrong, he was never able to make me do more than fake it, but he had me laughing and it was playful. This was the time my parents were divorcing and mom was remarrying and I came home late one night. My step Dad came out to investigate the noises and wandered out in his underwear in front of the boyfriend I was sneaking into my room.  I had a tantrum large enough that I moved into the garage the next day. When that relationship ended I had already started college and that was when I started rebelling in a huge way.  Someone really should have warned me that getting my kicks as a minor was probably a safer choice.  But I did it as an adult because I had no idea how to deal with my broken heart. Of the group of us that played chess together, I was the only one that didn't drop out of high school and I didn't do drugs. I was the only one in college.

The boy next door was a skater and a tagger and a walking pharmaceutical.  Naturally I would love him hardest.  Love poems.  Endless love poems were written for this boy.  Seriously.  I had it bad. It is so hard to love someone with a drug addiction. I saw he was amazing, and I watched him try to destroy that in his weakness and inability to cope with life and the sins of a selfish mother.  He was athletic and an artist.  He was black and German but didn't know his dad as more than a name. He lived next door with his grandmother and his mom would visit some weekends to praise me, and demean him.  She had no idea that I was beginning to spiral and her son was holding my hand and leading the way.  He had so much darkness and invariably scribbled it out in red ink.  I loved his sinewy body and the long lean lines that would wrap around me so tightly.  I loved his six pack and happy trail, but mainly I liked how he could lift me up and put me where he wanted to. Upper body strength was hot.  He had light skin and freckles that dotted his cheeks. His last name was tattooed on his chest and I would trace it for hours with my fingertips and he never lost patience with that.  I remember the first time he came over and he was high.  He was on mushrooms.  He was always on something.  He smoked cigarettes and beer was breakfast, but he was often on speed or smoking primos.  Mushrooms and acid tabs were a treat of rarity. He was a drug addict but in my brokenness  I couldn't see past the fact that he used to steal for his ex girlfriend, but he wouldn't steal for me.  He manipulated a couple of girls he was stringing along to be able to take me out and I somehow saw that as a compliment. I saw it as all he was capable of and somehow that was enough. He showed me that you can't cut crack on a coffee table because it'll shoot off and fly off the table.  He used a mirrored tray I used for perfume bottles and a razor blade. He taught me how to roll the zigzag paper with pot and crack.  I tried rolling it once, then left it to him because I couldn't make it pretty and I didn't want to lick it to seal it. I didn't even want it around me but I wanted them around me.  Crack changes the smell from dry and musty to slightly sweet, but the high was more of a depression.  I'll never forget that smell.  It's acrid memory still burns regret through me. All three would smoke them and I'd sip on a beer and watch them with a cigarette in hand. The drugs made them paranoid and depressed and I'll never understand that.   I was never into smoking more than cigarettes myself.  I'm a bit of a control freak and don't like being high, so even when it was all around me, I never got more than a contact high. They liked to hot box the garage bathroom. I stayed out of their way in the other room, and even farther away when they smoked primos.

The two brothers next door got high with him.   Their mother was so sweet to me. I think she thought I was a good influence on her boys because I was still leaving for school every day.  She would cook posole or caldo de pollo or tamales and she'd stand on her back steps and offer me "un ratito" because she never felt like I ate enough.  Cigarettes and beer and cold Tommy's for breakfast were normal.  Most weekends were spent clubbing and Tommy's was always where I ended my night. The 38 year old me would've offered that 20 year old me a burger or two also. We all hung out in my skater boyfriend's car when we weren't in my garage. I remember bumping the older brother's thigh with mine in the back seat and I'd swear there was an electric charge that warmed my whole body.  I sat on my hands so I wouldn't start reaching.  My boyfriend was sitting right in front of me, but I was hyper aware of the heat threatening to burn me sitting right next to me. He used to invite me to his baseball games and I remember the first time he kissed me.  He made me feel like his lack of restraint was my fault and he did it in a way that felt good. I wanted to kiss him. Both of us felt bad because of my ex, and the fact that my best friend had just dumped him but in the end, I was selfish and still refusing to deal with the boy that saw me through my high school graduation. My fling with him cost me a friendship that took years to rekindle with diminished flames.

The two brothers were in a neighborhood gang. I was never interested in joining their gang, and I wouldn't get a tattoo or sleep with everyone in the gang or get jumped in, so I couldn't really hang out with them, but the younger brother was always willing to have me walk with him to the neighborhood on Bixel Street where he would sell crack, storing it in his mouth along his gums and his bottom lip.  It took a while to realize I made him look less suspicious.  He's now a manager at a restaurant. For a few weeks I let them store an AK-47 under my bed.  A little while after I gave it back and they sold it, swat teams raided their house based on a tip from the boy next door.  This was after we had broken up and I was messing around with the older brother so I will always wonder if I may have been responsible.

It was a crazy time for me.  I liked that they were so crazy I didn't have to be and it never occurred to me how crazy stupid I was being. There is a very specific reason why healing from my marriage is so important to me, and you've just read it.

Obsessive Observations of My Latest Crush Because He Was Hot (and so fun to watch)

February 24, 2016 I have a secret crush with too much impossibility to do more than look, knowing nothing will ever come of it.  It's enough to look and daydream without the pain of jealousy or putting myself out there.  Just a "hello" keeps me going.  Every once in awhile he gives me a look like I'm a bowl of ice cream and it's his cheat day and those looks might be in my head, but I love them.  When I met him he told me I looked like I'm in my mid twenties.  That compliment keeps me going. I spent the night trying to convince myself that you don't date people when you  are married and I did so out loud.  He separated the same month I did.  The way he said he was dating, with his petulant slouch and that look of not being broken . . . It has made the prospect so much more appealing than it was.  The daydreams in my head, and looking around for him at the office keep me going.  I like the little drops of attention because as much as I love myself, I can also admit I'm starved and in a desert of longing and lust.

February 25, 2016

Mr. Hot (and fun to look at) hasn't been looking at me.  Somehow I am not crushed and I know there will be a moment alone in the hallway or elevator lobby or even the kitchen where my gaze won't be averted and his voice will lower and he'll greet me and of course I will again obsess like I'm twelve. The 12 year old me has been a theme for this day.  Maybe 14.  She actually understood what was hot about a butt.

February 26, 2016

I saw Mr. Hot (and busy and please toss me a bone) a few times today.  A couple of times he very specifically averted his gaze from me.  He regularly walks past my desk with his face focused only on his phone and the path he walks is so beaten he doesn't need to look up as the rest of the office parts around him and flows back in his wake.  He walked within inches of me and I could have been a ghost as he was on his way to greet one of our Regional Managers for her birthday.  I would have joined in but wheat in my belly feels like food poisoning and there was fried chicken, dredged then fried potato wedges, and red velvet cake.  At one point as he strolled back to his corner office there was a direct look at my face and a friendly hello as he strolled past my desk.  Someone ask for hot melted butter? That was me today.

As I watched him not watch me, I wondered if his ignoring me is intentional.  I wondered if he knows how he strokes my puppy belly that craves his attention and he knows playing hard to get makes me obsess that much more. Or maybe he carefully metes out the attention he gives to everyone because I can honestly say he really is a nice person to everyone that works with him.  I wondered if maybe he's not as confident as he looks.  Maybe it takes real effort to focus on what he's going to say and do as he heads to the group he's about to join.  I thought about his subdued laugh, and tried to imagine him in high school.  I imagine he wasn't one of the popular jocks.  There's a slight self consciousness in his laugh and he has a focus that wouldn't exactly get him invited to parties.  It's a different game in college, naturally, but I think part of him includes the kid that learned to navigate where he didn't just fit in.  And he's really smart.  Smart kids rarely have time or social skills for cliques.  In talking about his son, he had a gentleness . . . a sensitivity that was sweet and heart melting. I then had to derail those thoughts because the point of this crush is he's a non person and it's only a physical attraction. It's supposed to be safe in that it won't go anywhere. That's the beauty of a one sided infatuation.

Toward the end of the day I was multitasking.  I had two tasks on different screens and databases I was working in, and the girls I sit with were discussing camping in tents and RV's.  I was on top of it all and pretty proud of my flexing brain power when he walked into the kitchen.  The kitchen is right next to my desk.  I'd seen his back and profile all day.  I'd seen his head and shoulders above the walls of our cubicles, but glancing over while multitasking I was gifted with a  full frontal view and didn't at any point today imagine how he would look from that direction in a soft and worn t-shirt.  I love the lines of his chest in a dress shirt, but in that t-shirt I could see the contrast of the soft material against his solid muscles. I was surprised at how graphic my thoughts became in what I wanted to do in that moment. I once heard a coworker tell me that yoga pants were God's gift to men.  I finally understand that.  Every thought in my mind disappeared and I realized Crossfit is God's gift to me. At that point my mind went blank.  There was no thought outside of how much I wanted to touch him and after a minute or two of realizing I had lost all train of thought, I lost it.  I couldn't help it.  I erupted into a fit of giggles and decided to just enjoy the moment of becoming a ball of lust and hormones. It took a while for me to calm down and focus, but I got through the day and that moment when I glanced into the kitchen will get me through the weekend.

Copied from Comfort Zones, dated February 26, 2016

I had a moment where my super busy crush opened a door for me and remarked at how much taller I looked today.  He didn't follow it with a comment about it being too tall or say anything negative, but he did notice.  In my mind I might have thought that I was still at the perfect height to kiss him but in reality I just said it was the shoes. And there goes that puppy with the belly rubs again.  If you're picturing a puppy piddling all over the place, dial it back a bit.  Not that much, but close.   It's nice to know that I've grown enough to not fall into easy patterns of behavior because I know I deserve better and I have no need to lower my standards for that puppy dog feeling. Besides, I get normal doses from my crush. He just has no clue.  I hope.  I can be pretty transparent.

February 27, 2016

He had this confidence when talking to the many people that worked for him.  He would practically run around the office, always in a hurry to be on top of everything.  His face was often fixed to his phone or he was on a call, pacing the paths around the office that lead along my desk.  His amused laugh was my favorite. It was subdued and lit up his eyes.

February 29, 2016

I've gotten a few random body language compliments from the man of my sexy day dreams and I find myself looking forward to those interactions because the man giving those Scooby snacks is easy on the eyes.  He could actually be a serial killer but I wouldn't know it because I'm more concerned with his beautiful packaging.  I do love that packaging though.

March 2, 2016

Of course leaving this job means I'll miss spying on Mr. Hot (and busy being in charge).  He was out yesterday and when he came in this afternoon and I heard his voice, my mind was drawn to him and all hope of remembering what I was in the middle of was gone. There wasn't a hello and that's okay. I'm torn right now.  On one hand, every excuse I gave myself to never intentionally flirt with him is gone.  I'm not going to be working with him.  At the same time, I wonder if it was divine intervention that would remove me from a huge mistake that I really wanted to make.  I still want to make it. This was my very first crush since I met my husband in 2000 because I was a faithful wife.  This was a combination of butterflies in my stomach and the raging ideas of a horny teenaged boy.  I don't know his moods and much about his personality but I seem to have a fine tuned ear for his voice, and I love the way he looks in a suit. Or jeans.  Or a t-shirt worn into softness and nearly threadbare.  If anything, daydreaming about him has helped me let go of the man who quit on me almost a year ago.  Does that make him my rebound and I can skip all of that sordid messiness?

March 2, 2016, post script

For a while I kept fantasizing what I would say to Mr. Hot (and doesn't wear an undershirt and I love that) if we ever got stuck in the elevator.  Today we ended up in the same elevator after work for the first time.  My mind was in overdrive as I kept thinking of the naughty ride in my head, but we were a party of three that turned into too many in the end.  The ride was uneventful, except for the looks of unspoken thoughts exchanged. It felt like there was a lot to be said between us, but we couldn't speak with our audience. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I will hold on to that. It's mine and it is also pretty epic.

Revisiting an obsession . . .

March 4, 2016

My short lived fear of looking for validation in relationships was eased when I realized that even with Mr. He's Hot (and I'm bothered), I was still at least trying to be professional.  And even then, it was a physical longing that I only allowed in his direction and mainly in my head. I really tried to keep my thoughts pure because anything that wasn't would make me giggle because being a 12 year old can be fun.

Sometime after March 4, 2016

In the last week or so when he was a short walk from me, there was one day that he ran several meetings, back to back.  I walked past the conference room and I could see it was an important meeting.  It wasn't in something I saw in the people listening to him but in his posture.  I spent a few weeks watching him so closely that this was different. He had the same command of the room as usual.  He didn't have the look of boredom, or rapt attention like I've seen many times.  He has an expressive face and his passion for what he does is often on it. It was a look of weariness, and a look of determination.  I could tell from the random looks in my direction that he was doing the best he could to get through his day and it wasn't something he enjoyed.  (I enjoyed him being in a place I could easily justify walking past.)  I could see a look I've had on my face when I was so busy being something for everyone else that I forgot to eat or take care of my needs.  The look on his face told me tough decisions were made and whether or not they were all his decisions, he was taking responsibility for them, and the weight of it was on his shoulders in a way that he was trying to protect those he was talking to.

There was an unforgettable look on his face the last time I saw him.  It was a hesitancy and a shy smile.  It was a moment of seeing uncertainty which I had rarely seen on him. It was almost like the final goodbye I had been preparing for was sudden and unfortunate to him.  It was a moment where I tried to memorize his smile, and the way his left eye squints a bit. I tried to memorize his laugh lines and slight dimples. His was a jawline I wanted to touch many times and being a hugger, it was a sad moment to know that was my last chance and I didn't have the boldness to take it.  I had spent a few days trying to convince myself that leaving was the best thing for me, and the rest of the elevator ride, and sitting in my car before heading home, I was suddenly so unsure of that and dreaded never seeing him again but it was tempered by the thought that the last time I saw him was almost a private show. At the end of the day, he's so much greater in my head than any of our interactions could justify.

Have A Drink With Me, part 1

Kneeling before the Porcelain Goddess, I purged my last offering three years ago this past January. It felt like I should have known better and I really had suffered enough bar hopping to end up on cold tile with bad knees at my age. Normally I'd sip slowly until my cold drink warmed my skin. At that point I would switch to soda until I felt cold again. Really, there is no need to make excuses for bad behavior when drinking.  For most people, that is the only point.  For me, drinking in the last decade and a half has been about control and skating the line without crossing it. Before dinner was served, I was praising the goddess for allowing me to purge quietly and alone, holding my own hair back.  I slipped back down to the party at some point, and felt so much better slipping into anonymity during the speeches and awards. I am not against drinking.  I can sip champagne in celebration and will toast with the crowd, but then I prefer a drink without alcohol.   At the end of the day, at the end of the trauma, at the end of disappointment, I'm not a drinker.  Not anymore. There is something about mothering that requires you to be immediately available without being constantly present. Children need the space to be creative and make mistakes and explore boundaries, but they also need you close enough to rescue them. To me, this has meant being sober.  I've had enough random emergency room trips to expect a need to be able to drive someone to the ER at any given moment.  It has usually resulted in me being the designated driver because I refuse to model drinking and driving as ever being an option.

Most of my relationships included a double standard where I was with someone that wanted me to drink, but I could never find the line to not cross.  How much is enough to be relaxed and fun without being too drunk and an embarrassment? It was easier to stop trying.  If I had a do over it would be my trip to New York.  My ex boyfriend had spent a few years there and I wanted to take him back for his birthday.  We spent an evening at a wedding where the melon cocktail tasted just like honeydew melon.  I couldn't get enough. It was a great night, except when we tried to go to a club I was drunk and passed out in the back seat of the car and everyone's night was cut short because of me.  He dumped me a couple of weeks later,  handing me a small cactus plant and a line about seeing one that was almost as tall as he was (he was not taller than me) and hoping our friendship would see the plant grow to that size.  One night I was so drunk on Tanqueray and apple juice that the ground felt like it was moving and I couldn't find it because it was much lower than it should have been.  The next morning I gave the cactus my roundhouse kick and destroyed it before sweeping it into the trash. He didn't love it when I was drunk until we were no longer a couple and I would call him.  Then he loved coming over. I remember drunk writing him a letter and I wrote, "F you and the horse you rode in on . . . you killed my joke because you drive a Mustang." Clearly, drinking didn't help my writing. Eventually I asked him if he got off on the emotional damage he left behind and he stopped coming around.

When I wasn't in a relationship, drinking was always destructive and the bad choices were disguised as fun inebriation.  When I was underage, we knew the liquor stores in Echo Park where a store owner would ask for ID, but not actually check it.  Or we had a 40 oz. of beer for the homeless person willing to buy our case of long necks. I was going to raves all over Los Angeles where we brought our own bottles of Everclear and Tequila, but could buy beer from a keg and "happy balloons" from a nitrous oxide tank. I got older and my first bar was the 35er in Pasadena.  I would later become a regular at the Short Stop.  It was a cop bar at the time and I felt there was safety there.  More than once I'd pass out in a booth next to the DJ.  Once, as I was waking up, he leaned over and asked, "are your tits real? You gotta know they are perfect." That was the last time I got drunk there. Before that I met a bartender for the Barney's Beanery in Beverly Hills at the Short Stop. She bought me a shooter of Coralejo tequila to sip with my beer and then she disappeared on me when I passed out, but I had her number written on my body.  I would later meet her at work where she plied me with free drink after free drink, trying to recreate the melon cocktail I'd had in New York. I don't know how I drove home through rush hour traffic. One Christmas I drove from Covina to Hollywood on vodka shots and ended up at the Good Luck Bar at Sunset and Hollywood.  Another time, I remember waking up one morning and seeing how badly I had parked my car.  I didn't remember getting home.

A friend's big brother liked to give me special attention whenever we hung out. My friend would leave the room and his brother would steal moments to see how far we could go before we had an audience. I didn't mind when we were sober and I was willing but it was always his initiation. It was a game and I was still into much older men. At these times we never went too far. One night he surprised me by stopping by with way too much Long Island Iced Tea.  The room was spinning out of control and I couldn't stand up on my own. That was the night he took things further than I wanted to go.  I was too drunk to consent and this was before the campaigns that would have called it date rape.  He stopped after it was clear my "no" wasn't going to become a "yes." I never drank around him again. Truthfully, he wasn't interested in being around me after that either.

Being a wife and mother squeezed out the alcohol.  I'm a cheap date and can't handle my liquor now but that's okay.  I can still get into all kinds of shenanigans while completely sober.  All I need's a dash of anger and a cheering section.  Or a partner in crime. Tomorrow night I'm meeting friends at a bar and I have every intention of sipping Shirley Temples.  Or if drinks are had, there will be dinner because I want to be able to safely drive myself home. I'm very fortunate that I didn't kill anyone in the couple of years that I was spiraling and binge drinking on weekends. It's a miracle that I didn't get in any accidents while intoxicated. So, I'm not a drinker, but I don't mind when others drink.

Owning Up to Falling Apart

My moment of truth showed up just before 5 tonight. Foraging for sustenance landed me in strawberry shortcake ice cream. The dawning realization that it was all that had passed my lips other than my toothbrush this morning was clear evidence that I'm not doing well and patterns of brokenness are emerging.  Searching for protein, I also poached an egg.  In breaking the yolk and scooping bland warmth into me without bothering to pick a lemon from the yard to whip up Hollandaise, it was the comfort I was seeking and I saw that in my food choices.  I looked around at the wreckage of a neglected home and found myself surrounded in the hollow ache of last year when my husband left.  I'm not that person anymore because now I can see my phenomenal coming out of every smile.  It's time to give her a hug, acknowledge her pain, and help her up. I am determined to break these patterns but first I needed to acknowledge that as beautiful as my time at my job was . . . as giving as it was and as much as I learned, there is the sudden loss of income and identity.

This morning I had the first IEP recessed because I wasn't pleased with the inadequate job the psychologist did in her report.  Calls will be made.  Responsibilities will be taken and where heads should roll, they'll find there's grace because my life is full enough without a bone to pick. The other IEP was successfully closed and signed and I have a copy to send to Regional Center. There was a moment when the school district rep and one of the teachers were alone in the room with me.  They marvelled at how I do it all. I'm an autism mom.  We slay dragons.  We sometimes have to dig deep, but we can do the amazing and impossible. We talked about my kid's early development and speech delays. We talked about sensory issues, and my kid running head first into the door, only to slam the back of his head against the floor.  We talked about poopy painting and tasting.  I don't miss those days.

These meetings were always my job but with the separation, the husband is now involved in every meeting and decision in any way he can do it without being around me.  During the meeting he joined by phone conference.  It was the first time in a long while we heard each other's voices and we did our best to not acknowledge that.  I felt mild annoyance, from time to time, but a lot of what I felt was gone. He was in some ways just another random voice and not the man I wanted to love or maim. That's where I first saw my healing today.

I stopped at the Gamble House in Pasadena because it is beautiful and the grounds make me smile.  One day I may take that tour inside, but on most days, I prefer to check out the pond and watch the fish.  It was a time of quiet reflection.

Throughout the day I saw other people as I ran errands and it occurred to me I wasn't attention whoring or flirting with anyone that looked at me.  Part of me has always been afraid that I would start looking for validation in other people, but today I realized I'm going to be okay in that way.  I've always been not so private.  I was the girl in school that would get on stage in front of peers and sing. And dance. And act.  I even had a wardrobe malfunction with an errant nipple in a really tight Elizabethan dress that presented my breasts as a shelf that I could rest things on. Being a senior in high school that inadvertently shows her nipple off to way too many people at once was not easy to live down.  Although, I didn't get any complaints either.  Go figure.

I still haven't cleaned up my house.  Dirty laundry is piled and there are dishes around.   I'm not seeing it as being lazy but a form of depression that is creeping up on me. Honestly I don't feel like doing it, but I'm making the choice to deal with it before bedtime, and I'm also making a choice to make myself a steak dinner because food is good and I can't start unintentionally starving myself. I like my curves and the clothes that fit me now.  I'm still waiting to hear about an interview from my agency, and perhaps tonight will see an updated Monster resume in the making, but I'm coping by looking at my situation. I'm coping by not ignoring it, even if that is my first instinct and laying in bed in all my bloggy glory feels better.

Today's lessons: The feelings for the husband are easing into a comfortable place.  I'm not attention whoring all over my neighborhood, just my blogs.  Feeling sad is okay and I am still healing.  I should pay y'all in therapy fees but instead I give you words and angst.  Lots of angst all around.

The Education of a Reluctant Student

I liked leaving high school more than I liked being in it.  I graduated with honors because it was never hard.  I was in theater arts and play production.  I hung out with football players and I was fairly popular.  Years later I would see people that remembered me and I couldn't place them. It was an empty existence.  It was so empty that when I left school, I didn't have contact information for most of the people I looked forward to seeing in class, because I never looked for them when I was home.  Facebook has rekindled many friendships, but I'm the same person, so hanging out offline is a major accomplishment if I ever do it. I started in college because my parents wanted me there. They had dreams for me and taught me going to college after high school was like brushing your teeth.  It's not optional. It's what you do.

I was rebellious though.  I was afraid of the SAT test and refused to take it.  I went straight to Glendale Community College instead.  Actually, in the fall of 1996 my Dad went there, registered for my classes and bought my books that first semester.  I started registering, buying books funded by my parents, dropping classes and getting cash back.  I did this for years and they never stopped believing in me or supporting me. By 2004 I wanted to get through it.  I picked up the college catalog and my transcripts, and started marking off classes to see if I had taken enough to get an AA.  I had taken enough for my Certificate in Communications and a few classes later in 2005 I got my AA in General Education Transfer Studies.  I think it was a blanket term for those of us that loved taking classes but still couldn't declare a major because indecision was a skill in Junior College but  I was excited to transfer.

I transferred into Cal State L.A. as a Geology major. I had taken a few classes and did really well in them. I loved the science. I used to daydream about camping along an active volcano, donning a heat suit and scaling the inside for measurements.  It may sound crazy but I really wanted to be a volcanologist.  I've always had a love of minerals and crystals.  Eventually I thought earthquakes would be a safer, more mom like job. I was struggling though.  My professors were amazing, but college level algebra was kicking my butt.  I got through it, but my reality set in.  I was already Mom to two autistic sons, and a third was on the way.  I would get home from class, and if the nausea of cooking didn't leave me dry heaving, I was exhausted from growing a human and studying didn't happen.  I couldn't go on field trips where we would spend a few days studying the earth because I couldn't leave my family behind. Geology is the study of the earth and I couldn't do that from our apartment in North Hollywood. I ended up taking a break for a few years and in that time, I made peace with math not being my superpower.  Every time I thought about the chemistry, calculus and physics required (all math), I would put it off another year.

Finishing school became important to me again.  I had kids and I wanted to be the example they deserved. Coming to terms with my math deficiency was hard, but I did it. I decided what I loved was reading and writing.  My love of reading started when I was 9 or 10.  My oldest sister used to read grocery store novels and I would pick up anything she put down, warping my sense of love and romance for the rest of my life.  Don't buy into the lace and heavy sighs.  It's a formula and just as damaging to relationships as porn.

I applied to the college when enrollment was high and was accepted in 5 quarters which was the fall of  2010. At the time, I didn't know I would be in my third trimester with my second surrogacy. If I didn't enroll, I might have had to wait another year to go back.  I figured I would try 8 units, and if anything I could get an incomplete.  I didn't realize how much I would love it though.  In September I greeted both professors right after class and explained I was determined to get through their classes, but I let them know I was due in October and I had no idea how it would work out.  One professor didn't notice how knocked up I was.  She was a great professor and loved to geek out on the British novels with their sighs and carriage rides and hints at naughtiness.  The other professor knew I was about to go into labor from my waddle. He was a grandfather and very kind.  I missed two class sessions. It was my fifth birth and while I was able to get around, childbirth makes you leak.  Everywhere.  Staying home for a week was a prudent decision.  In the end I earned a B and a C+.

The next quarter I was encouraged to apply for scholarships.  I didn't have the grades for it with my earlier years of not caring, and I banged out an essay in 20 minutes. I wrote about being a mom and wife while being a student.  I wrote about being expected to take care of house and home and school was treated like it was my hobby and I didn't feel supported at home.  I ended up earning six scholarships in 2 years.  One was a fellowship that was inadvertently given to me. It seemed odd that an undergrad would receive a fellowship.  I talked to the office handling that. They gave me the correct scholarship, but let me keep the fellowship for my honesty.  Apply for everything.  The worst answer you can get won't affect anything but will give you practice in writing an essay. The best answer is free money and the prestige of Honor's Convocations.

My most memorable Convocation happened during my last surrogacy.  It was a gnarly pregnancy because twins were hard for me to carry.  The hormones made my heart race. The morning sickness was off the charts.  I was on and off bed rest so often that I ended up taking a year off of school.  That was emotionally hard.  After giving birth in the middle of a quarter I couldn't understand why I couldn't handle going to class while still at the start and middle of a pregnancy.  I went back for the Convocation.  Of course they had us stand in line for too long to make an entrance.  I was overheating and dehydrated. I ended up feeling weak and faint and puking in the middle of it.  I think I even nailed the poor woman in front of me.  For the second ceremony for the College of Arts and letters I was feeling better until I ended up sitting next to a woman that was wearing way too much perfume. It was a night of memories that make me laugh now.  For my very last Convocation, I couldn't find anyone willing to go with me and I skipped it, but the department mailed my certificate to me.

Here's a hint, natural body scents on a clean body can smell amazing. Perfumes and colognes should compliment your natural scent and be used so sparingly that others are encouraged to get close enough to smell them.  That was a public service announcement and my free little nugget.  It's pure gold so take it and love it like your own. I used to wear Red Jeans by Versace and I love most women's scents by Givenchy, but I typically only wear deodorant. 

I can understand Chaucer and explicate Shakespeare, but my love of minerals and nature keep me grounded.  I love jewelry stores for the research, but one day I want to go on a rock hounding trip. I would love to dig up a vug and find my own treasures.  I don't know if I'd polish them.  Honestly I'd be happy finding quartz.  One day I might start back in school to retake some math classes and raise my GPA.  I always thought I'd go back to school.  I don't know if it will be law school or if I'd go back and attempt that Rock Doctor goal.  Suddenly single has so much potential that I nearly gave up on.

Today I have Mom duties.  My first born is now 14 and has his first invitation to his IEP.  It's his triennial so it's a big one. My second child has an amendment IEP.  I never did housework last night, so that is one of my goals this afternoon, but perhaps after a nap.  Stress had me up at 4 and by 5:30 I decided to stay up. Stress also has me breaking out all over the place like a teenager. If I have teenage skin, I should have teenage boobs too, right?  I'll contact my temp agency and hope she's moved mountains and if she hasn't, I'll start submitting resumes again.  I'm waiting until after my nap because job hunting is emotionally draining. After this last job, the bar was raised significantly and I don't know that I could settle as easily as I was trying to before.  Tomorrow morning I plan to walk along the LA River because it's here and it is full of amazing and just enough trash to feel like the LA I grew up in.

A Fond Farewell in Hollywood

Today was an epic farewell to a time of personal growth and transition and to the office with people that didn't even know they helped me through it.  I have a feeling what was picked up and examined today will stay in my mind in a very happy place for a long time. The picture was tonight's sunset from the office I loved for two months.  The city is covered in a blanket of fog.  I remember the 1980's, so I won't call it smog.  There is a difference.  The ocean isn't visible and it looked like layers of thickness that increased to the west where the cooler ocean air can hold the moisture in low lying clouds of ice crystals.  Farther inland where it is warmer, the crystals melt into humidity and that is your meteorology lesson.  Thank the teacher later.

Above the darkness you can see the pink and yellow clouds that were still kissing the sun's rays.  It reminded me of right now in my life.  I'm funemployed until my next assignment.  The optimist in me sees something happening next week. It's in the pink and gold above the darkness.  Realistically, I won't breathe in relief until I have landed a job because this single Mom has 3 kids to raise and they depend on me.  That's what's right in front of me. If I keep my eyes above the darkness, I can bathe in the colors and feel the warmth.  I'm keeping my head up and something amazing is right around the corner.  It always is.

For tonight there is joy and peace and butterflies still buzzing in my belly.  For tonight there's Hulu and some housework.  I was heading to the beach for a drive along the coast to clear my head, but I had crazy butterflies in my belly, the look on his face in my mind and the naughtiness in my head still warming my skin and I went on autopilot and ended up at home, driving a little too fast and hugging the curves where I found them because my happiness was overflowing.

How My First Crush in 16 Years Is All About Me

It's so easy to blow off the idea of a crush or crushing on someone because crushes are what I identified with as a teenager.  After marriage and kids and work and keeping a home running and the art of adulting, it seems insignificant. It's something I can't imagine having time for.  Actually, I can.  I have.  It was fun. And yes, I lost time in my lack of concentration because his presence made my mind go blank far too often.  I have been in the middle of something and when work doesn't get done, I prove I don't have time for it. Crushing something takes a whole and perfect object and adds pressure to the point that something fundamental is released and changed and the modification can not be undone.  If you crush a grape - a very specific grape for wine making and not table grapes - you release it's juices and let it ferment.  The decaying of the grape, with special enzymes and time are what make a wine.  It's a process that has to be completed or it's unusable. Let it go for too long and alter the conditions required and the wine becomes vinegar which has a unique purpose, but I wouldn't ever advise sipping it. I tried it for a little while and even if it's diluted apple cider vinegar, it's just not worth it. It's the same with a friendship that crushes it's existence into something more.  How do you go back? I don't know that you can.

I think the process of living is in itself a form of a crush.  We go through experiences mired in trials that transform us and going back is impossible sometimes.

I've had lots of crushes in my life.  My first three or four long term relationships were guys that grew on me until I was obsessed and determined to make their kisses mine.  I tend to be a nice person that takes more than she deserves and gives more than she probably should.  Call it my lack of boundaries, or an inability to decide I deserve more than they are capable of giving me. It always started with physical attraction and then I got lost in what their favorite everything is, without really paying attention to me and loving myself first and best. My infatuation crushed who I was and wanted to be.

I didn't have a crush on my husband.  At first I was insulted that he didn't call me when I gave him my number.  On our first date, I was surprised that we had a conversation and he wasn't trying to see how far I'd let him go.  At some point the rightness of him settled around me. With him, I just knew. There were no butterflies, just a new feeling that we were aligned with destiny. I wanted to be with him all of the time and the love blossomed and filled my entire being.  Fifteen years is a long time to be wrong, so I want to believe we stayed together long enough to create and gain what we were meant to. I was content in our lives but the understanding of my joy lately tells me I was there too long and he saved us from existing and released me into living.  I'm not surviving.  I'm thriving.  He taught me to speak up for myself and helped me stop my boozing and smoking and promiscuous ways. He healed my brokenness and rewrote my Daddy issues.  I can always thank him for making me better, but I also believe we stopped making each other grow, and started piling burdens on each other instead of nurturing each other in love, grace, patience and understanding.  Without that laundry list, it was just laundry and undefined comfort in expected routines.

I love my current crush for it's frivolity.  I love the excitement and butterflies.  I love picking out then changing outfits a few times each morning instead of rolling out of bed and throwing on whatever isn't stained too badly.  I like the way my ear picks up on his voice and I have a silly smile on my face whenever he looks my way.  Today, very loudly throughout the office, he mentioned that I'm always smiling.  A friend in the know giggled and laughed with me and if my skin wasn't such a warm chocolate, you may have seen me blush but I felt the heat flush through my chest up to the roots of my hair.

The crushing in my infatuation was the slow walk over the last vestiges of commitment toward my husband.  In the liminal spaces of longing looks, I've given myself permission to look for another man's face and I've started longing to hear someone else's voice and it is not about betrayal or pain, but a birthing of pleasures in a new life and with a new freedom.  He isn't just a person I find extremely attractive.  He is my first crush in over 16 years. He symbolizes the first steps of determination from a future I didn't want and was terrified of.  I took that step after denying that possibility for so long and I find it's a meadow filled with California poppies and a blanket and I can lay as long as I want to, looking at the wispy clouds and feeling the warmth of the sun as it kisses my sorrows into oblivion and hope is restored for a future I can finally see myself in. The clouds part and gather to give shade in tandem with warm winds and it's amazing.

There was a crushing and I know I can never go back.  It's not about my crush. It's not about starting or finishing something with him. It's not even about my husband. My crush is about me and I don't want to uncrush this grape.  It can't be restored. The process has been started and the enzymes were added.  Given enough time, this wine will be full bodied and fruity and pair well with dessert.  Second helping please.  With brie and fig preserves please. Okay, and maybe a naked crossfit body, please.

Saying Goodbye To An Epic Couple of Months

I was off of work, but sat at the desk that I probably should have claimed when I first started.  The sun filtered through the haze that settled over Hollywood all day.  The pale pink sky didn't quite reach the red and flaming cotton candy look.  It was muted and ethereal, unlike clear evenings that can't hold the colors painted by a fading sun. I started my goodbyes today.  There were some people that I wanted to say goodbye to in person.  There were others I emailed.  One of the girls that started the day I did gave me a candle and probably has no idea how close to tears I was at her generosity and warm heart. It hits me in waves that ebb in hope and flow around me in moments of panic.  There could always be something better. The biggest loss in the job I'm leaving is the visual joy I have had.  The views of Los Angeles from the heart of Hollywood were the best views I've ever had from a job. I think I'll miss them the most.  I loved watching the water fountains in the courtyards around our building.  This past week I've seen sunbathers lounging around pools and stood in the window, feeling the heat of the southern California sun, touching me as I stood in sweet adoration.  The sun was starting to set in the west and it was an overcast day when I started writing.  The haze of cloud cover over Hollywood must have been a respite for the workers bustling around the Cinerama dome red carpet as they prepared for a premier that I really didn't care about.  I had spent yesterday and today slowly removing the pictures and pieces of paper that identified my desk as mine. I had post its and notes. My favorite was from something I scribbled that I saw online.  It reminded me of my husband and said, "I understand the spark is gone and I'm ready for the next step. Let me charge my stun gun." Not a direct quote, but that was the spirit of it.  I had my name spelled out in cardstock to help others remember me.

I'm not angry about the job ending but I am sad.  The company was an answer to prayers, but I believe there are more answers waiting for me.  It put me in a different place than I was and in ways I couldn't imagine.  I found myself in a job I loved and was eager to go to.  I have only had that experience once before and I'm sure one day I'll be matched with a company that will offer more of a challenge and less repetition. I loved the challenge here at first, but I could see the monotony start to take its toll in ounces of boredom that would tip my hand toward chocolate and excuses to watch the skyline, with several surreptitious glances toward his office. Because it's his office and he's usually in there doing office work things. In fairness, I was there for a specific task and I did only what I was meant to.

At this job I've started wearing dresses and heels and putting on make up and taking care of my hair.  I owe that to a woman who is also preparing to depart into the unknown with a dream, a vision, and bravery.  She was the feminine image I wanted to emulate.  Today I wore a low cut dress for the ego boost. I was feeling emotionally bottomed out and wanted to be looked at.  The men I didn't work with had no problem admiring my dress.  The men I work with avoided looking at me or specifically saw only my eyes.  Perhaps it was too low cut.  Last night I fought my sheets most of the night until I woke at 3 and couldn't shut off the worries running through my mind until 5.  Then my inner clock goes off at 6 every morning, so I'm running on too little sleep and lots of peanut M&M's.

At the end of the day I'm a temp with an agency.  Working temporarily and moving on to the next assignment is the nature of what I do. At the risk of gross cultural appropriation, part of me would like to think of myself as a gypsy.  There's a lot of bad in it, but I only see the mysterious seductress that stays for a while until the next job comes along.

Fighting Like a Girl and Pulling Punches

Fists are raised. Her right hand is balled next to her chin and her left hovers in front of her mouth and nose. A slight tuck of thumbs and a swallow of bile burns her throat, but she has a face to wear. The determination in her gaze hides the fear that is urging her fight into a flight, but she steels her resolve and plants her feet, bending her knees slightly so they don't lock on her when it's time to move.  He doesn't realize he tells her his next move as he steps before he reaches for her shirt. His cologne met her before she saw him and this close the assault on her nose is enough to make her flinch. She's been here before and she knows that she has learned the next move like a dance based on muscle memory.  She drops her chin and shoulder in a hook aimed at his ribs stepping in and on her right side below the left side of the rib cage he exposed in his attack. With a quick draw back of her stinging right hand, she lifts up his slightly slackened left arm with her left forearm, moving closer and following through with the force of her right elbow and forearm, twisting her back for a second hit with the back of her elbow, catching his ribs again. As he's bent in pain she takes a second to snap a left cross at his cheek and feels positive his stubble stung her more than her bony hand could have hurt him.  He was taller than her but he didn't have her solid frame.  He probably didn't look past her jeans and stilettos.  He takes a moment to fight the pain, and step back.  His fury builds but that moment was all she needed and she runs off, slapping the pavement in bare feet as her shoes lay abandoned on the street and her purse is still miraculously strapped across her body. Wouldn't it be amazing if we could all just defend ourselves? My first fist fight was me getting punched in the stomach because I teased a boy about his teddy bear on the school bus and insisted on touching it even after he said it would get my butt kicked.  I had the wind knocked out of me but the shock was most painful.  I remember walking home and the anger fell from my face in silent tears and shame.

In middle school I had more enemies than I knew what to do with.  I think it started as jealousy, but I was so not aware of anything related to my looks that I didn't know what to feel other than fear.  I was the last to leave the classroom after each period because I was afraid of getting jumped.  My looks were always given as you see them.  I still can't work with a curling iron and frequently see men in drag that deserve my girl card and breasts more than I do.  (Perks of not being afraid of a beautiful man is they will sometimes help you with makeup tips.) I will rarely spend more than $20 on any one item of clothing or accessories.  My designer purses are all gifts.  I'm loved.  Envy me. That same love showed up for me one day after school. I finally told my family what I was so afraid of.  The next day my sisters came to pick me up from school after drill team practice. They sent me to the car and went up to the drill team room where some of my biggest fans were.  I have no idea what was said or done.  I just know I was told to take a vacation for the rest of the semester.  The problems went away and there was talk about my sisters stepping out of line as the adults that came to my rescue when my teachers and administrators didn't.

Growing up I saw my Mom rage at my Dad, then pick up the pieces of their life and do what she could to take care of us and any other person who needed help. She's the most giving person I know.  There is something inside of her that she's given to me that has the ability to cut down the strongest tower.  For her, it is the ability to get up and do what survivors do.  For me, it's an ability to frame ideas that seek out the vulnerabilities that can be used to undermine a situation and tilt things in my favor. She has this fight that is full of strength and determination, but as a kid, it always came out as the phrase, "grab and twist."

I'll just leave that there a minute.

My Dad marched with Martin Luther King Jr.  He served in the Army during the TET Offensive in Viet Nam. Naturally, I grew up around his post traumatic stress and with a healthy dose of patriotism and respect for our vets. I know not to wake him abruptly because his fists rise before he does.  He's not a fan of fireworks and he taught me that time doesn't heal all wounds.  Work and perfect love do. You can't ignore or drown out your pain.  He never fought with Mom. She would rage, and he would stand quietly.  He didn't want to fight with her, and she needed a reaction.  Any reaction was better than feeling ignored.  It also taught me to work around a shaky temperament and I can dance on eggshells if I need to. That dance came in handy as a wife.

We learn a lot from our family of origin and sometimes we have to unlearn what we know.

I wasn't always an advocate.  For most of my youth I was self centered and obsessed with a good story and personal time. Fighting for someone else wasn't my thing because I didn't care if it didn't involve me, until it did involve me. When I had kids, and learned about autism is when I learned about  a good fight.

When we first married, we lived in the garage at my Mom's house.  It was converted and my project home.  I was learning plumbing basics and I was so proud of putting the trap in under the sink all by myself.  That was the first toilet I installed and it will be there forever because when I tiled the bathroom floor, I didn't know I was supposed to remove the toilet first.  It's grouted to the floor and it doesn't leak.  But a new toilet would require a new floor as well. Live and learn. When we moved into our first apartment it was perfect for our family of three.  When we were about to become a family of 5, it was time to move.  I expected part of our deposit back.  They tried to charge us a few thousand above that.  I looked into renter's rights.  I took them to small claims court and I won.

Later we moved and I started pseudo managing a property for my Mom.  She wanted a tenant evicted and I started and finished it.  In hindsight, I may have missed a few steps, but at the end of the day they moved out and it's not my fault they didn't search for loop holes. They would've found them. Now Mom gives and takes the responsibility from time to time, but I'm okay with that too. I usually have quite enough on my plate.

My kids have always been in public schools.  I was grateful that the free assessments set us on a path with Regional Center and the school district that started services and therapies we needed.  My kids didn't come with instructions.  Most people figure it out as they go and I'm in that boat, rocking and upchucking over the side and on the deck with the next person still finding those sea legs and just as annoyed that there is only one Head on deck and it's busy. It built up over years, but their behaviors were adjusted and worked around in the classroom to the point where we saw it as behavior that needed adjustments, and not the emotional neglect that my kids were suffering.  I was always involved.  I sat through classes.  I still know the voices of all of the principals and vice principals that have overseen my kids. At the end of the day, becoming a teenager is hard enough without sensory dysfunction and below average social and communication skills.  My son was taken from school by ambulance and put on a 72 hour 5150 hold.  Our constant vigilance at his side and his calm when with us got him released early.  He still had to endure being at that school for another 6 months until we were able to get him an emotional disturbance diagnosis and placement in a nonpublic school for autistic kids.  I had to write letters, follow up respectfully, document and keep on top of things. I've had to make calls to different departments and regions to see where I could rattle a few chains.  A couple of years later and my second child went through the same process.  A short while after that I would fight for compensatory hours and a refund of therapy co-payments and win with the help of an attorney that the district paid for me.

I'm also an In Home Support Services provider for my kids.  They have needs outside the scope of typical parenthood and the state recognizes this by  paying me and sending me W-2 forms at the end of the year.  My kids would need me to do what I do anyway so when the union started taking dues I had a problem with it.   It took a few months, phone calls, and even and affidavit but I got a check from them too.

I think the hardest fight is the one in which you decide early on that you don't want to give it your all.  It's when you pause to think about the repercussions instead of doing what you know comes next, instead of worrying about consequences you won't face.  It's when you decide to be gentle in your attack, setting yourself up for defeat, and knowing the road you are on is the high one. It's hard when people think they have you beat, but don't realize you haven't taken off your kid gloves and have been pulling punches because part of you still cares enough to want to protect them.

Hating Motherhood While Being In Love with Mothering Children

I can't tell you what kind of a mother I wanted to be because before I met my husband I didn't want to be one. My high school years included my parents and their journey as foster parents. I saw kids in foster care with more trauma in their lives than I have the right to imagine. Witnessing so much pain coming out as anger, hate and tantrums was really strong birth control. I saw that having kids wasn't all dress up and play time. I saw enough to know I wanted no part in that. It added to a messy soup of my trauma from the sudden (to me) destruction of my family. I saw my parents not talk for years and still live together and I couldn't understand what would change our functional dysfunction into not working and why my Mom would divorce my Dad. I get it now. As much as I love my Dad, and I do, I couldn't imagine ever feeling I wanted a husband like the one he modeled. I can see that same pattern in my own marriage now. I can see where I adopted my Dad's stoic indifference as my Mom railed out her frustrations and I would take my anger out on dishes and silence. I think of the ouroboros snake rather than irony. Irony alludes to humor and I see none when I look at my kids. A few hours ago I could hear my middle son rehearsing a made up conversation with his Dad and trying to make sense of what he has to work with now that most of his memories are impossible to see in the current changes in our family. Healing is a lot to ask for and I'm looking at it as an adjustment we'll all make. When I was pregnant with my firstborn, I was in a liminal space that was so beautiful I didn't want to see what was before it or what would come after it. I generally felt fine and infrequent bouts of morning sickness were distractions of novelty. I enjoyed the changes in my body and I remember we laughed as we explored the faint stretch marks that trailed across my belly as we marked week by week of his pregnancy. Even when I was bedridden toward the end and he wasn't growing steadily enough, I was in my own haven of life bearing. I was busy counting his taps and tapping him back. September 11th hit our nation in an attempt to strike fear in every home, and I was so focused on my husband's safety in downtown Los Angeles, that I didn't think far enough into the world to see that I would be sharing my child with it 15 days after the towers fell. It was a terrifying few weeks but early on I made a choice to not live in fear. A life of fear is hardly a life worth living.

Once he was born, I had to reconcile who I was with who I thought I should be. When I met my husband I was hanging out at pool halls, drinking with the guys and smoking 3 packs of cigarettes a day with a few cigars now and then. I was decidedly everything a mother shouldn't be. It took a while to discover there were a few things I could enjoy and things I wanted to let go of, but mainly I learned I couldn't blame my kids for my choice to have them, or hold them responsible for my choice to give up a few things for them. Joint custody has given me the space to be the mom they deserve when they're here, and the free spirit I crave to be can stay out of the house as often as I have been.

I remember his first birthday rolling around and I had the perfect outfit chosen for his party. I had no idea he was autistic then and how strong his sensory integration dysfunction was. I had a bad habit of taking him out of the tub and getting him dressed and then going back to drain the bathwater. It was after he was dressed that he climbed back into the water. I was so frustrated and angry and my upset only upset him into vomiting on himself. I already had my mother in law calling because we were running late and I was overwhelmed because he was climbing in the tub when I was telling her we were on our way.

I had our second child and his behaviors were almost the same as his big brother's. The differences were mild enough that I thought it was a personality variance. They were born 18 months apart and it wasn't until the older one was 4 that I asked for an assessment with the school district. We had an assessment and IEP on the same day and that afternoon we learned what autism is and that both of our sons had it. I remember right after the diagnosis I was at Kaiser and still pushing two kids in a double stroller. I was in a pediatrician's office and the boys were sick and being themselves. The doctor looked at me and said, "you poor woman. We have medication for this. You don't have to live like this." I sobbed into my hands at that moment while she stood uncomfortably, but quietly, affording me a rare moment to fall apart. After researching options I would later decide that the risks outweighed the benefits and I chose to medicate myself before medicating my kids unless they got to a point where they felt they were overwhelmed. Typically they're happy in their world, and it's others that are perplexed by their behavior.

With my youngest son's pregnancy I had the well meaning and quite invasive questions about my judgement in choosing to have a third child when we already had two with autism. It was during his pregnancy that I realized having children is a complete act of faith. With the stresses of a new child on a tight one parent income, I didn't always see the support I needed and I had to dig deep. I was very weak at times, even asking my OB doctor about late term abortions, which I had never believed in before. I realized having children is an act of faith in your partner and your commitment to a long lasting relationship that would see your children into adulthood. It's a physical expression of faith in a world that includes teachers, babysitters, family and friends that will all see and at times be alone with your child and it's faith that your child will live in safety with a protection that you can not see. It's faith that what has happened the first two times won't happen again and the blessings will outweigh the sacrifices. It's faith that I will be faithful in raising boys who will become men that will contribute to the world in a meaningful way and that my relationship with them will nurture men who will want to be the fathers and husbands their family deserves, rather than the one they might want to be as I find it a task of intention to push past my selfishness as a parent. I hope to one day nurture a servant's heart (as I'm still looking for it) and a spirit of generosity in them (that one I see when they ask if we can feed homeless people when we stop for fast food). I admit that the extended family, as a whole, only sighed in relief when the youngest was tested and found to not be on the spectrum. At that point our oldest offered to teach him how to be autistic. The baby has been hospitalized twice in his young life. The first time was for a near drowning. I didn't realize our firstborn had filled the tub to play with his toy Lego boat while he was home alone with their Dad or that the baby could climb into the tub at 8 months. My then nonverbal middle son (about 4 years old) saved his brother's life. The second hospitalization happened when he fell off the top bunk of their bunk bed. He was hospitalized for a few days for that concussion. I expect he will do great things in life. You don't survive trauma like that without having an indelible mark of destiny on your future.

My sons were born in 2001, 2003, and 2006. The following years saw surrogate journeys end in 2008, 2010 and 2012. I really loved being pregnant. Being a surrogate had more than monetary benefits. I was able to just enjoy the life growing inside of me. I went to my appointments with a cheering section that was there to celebrate and worry with me. Through my agency I was able to meet people I never would have encountered otherwise. I learned enough about fertility to understand the gift I had been given with irregular cycles and miracles on my side. After the first surrogate birth while my legs were still up in the air and I was in the glow of joy coming from the parents I had just gifted, I already knew I wanted to do it again. The last pregnancy was high risk. Being born is difficult enough. Usually we're all happy to see a wrinkled invalid that looks like it spent a few days being beaten up by a uterus. With each pregnancy, my body just seemed to know exactly how to shift and grow to accommodate the newest child. With the twins, my body had been through it five times before and decided it was at the right dimensions to start labor at 29 weeks. I was hospitalized to keep them in. I won't insult anyone's intelligence. There were extremely miserable moments. I held it together for the most part but it was difficult. It made me appreciate my kids when I couldn't see them every single day and just be with them. I felt like my choice to be a surrogate removed my freedom to complain. The agency and my couple were great about helping my husband at home, but I was so lonely during that time. I had this fear that I had to do everything perfectly or risk killing someone else's babies. That is a huge burden and in my hormone flooded state, I couldn't see how unreasonable I was being to myself. When they were born I would visit daily, then every few days to bring breast milk. When they left the hospital I felt relief and nausea. As amazing as my journeys were, I wasn't interested in another surrogacy and the agency wasn't interested in another high risk pregnancy.

In October 2014 my birth control pills gave me pulmonary embolisms. There's plenty of warnings in the fine print that comes with every pill pack. There's something about the level of hormones that triggers blood clot formation. I felt extreme cramps in my legs one night after walking a few miles that day. Later I had mild chest pain. It wasn't a big deal, except I typically didn't feel my chest, let alone pain from breathing. The doctor checking on me wasn't that concerned at first. He started with blood work that looked a little curious and followed up with an MRI. When he had the scan results he changed his posture and attitude from one that made it clear I was a hypochondriac to one where he sat down next to me and started looking me in the eye. I got it. It was serious. They couldn't release me or death would be their liability. I didn't really get how bad it was until the nurse hooked me up to the heart monitors and walked alongside me as I was rolled through the hospital to the cardiac intensive care unit. The nurses couldn't believe how casually I accepted the fact that sudden movements could dislodge a clot and I could have a heart attack or stroke. She was quite serious when she asked me to move slowly and freaked out when I wasn't moving slowly enough. I was hospitalized for a few days and on blood thinners for months and if I ever get pregnant, I would have to be on blood thinners and then reverse the medication for childbirth to prevent bleeding out. At the same time I can never go on birth control pills again. Hormones. When I start dating, there are many reasons a random test drive wouldn't be worth it. I still don't believe in abortion.

Believe it or not I'm more relaxed as a mom than I deserve to be. I wasn't at first. I've left kid parties early and never again spoken to mothers whose children treated mine badly. I've hovered in playgrounds as a barrier between my kids and anyone that would look at mine differently. It's not just playgrounds. There was one day at an In and Out in Laughlin a few years back when my son was being himself. A woman commented about his behavior and I apologized. After she watched us for a while she approached our table to apologize because she didn't know "there was something wrong with him." Clearly she missed the part where there was nothing wrong with his hearing. She left and I then had to apologize to my son for the ignorance of others. Now I will often try to let them sort out their own fights until I feel they absolutely need me involved. At least with each other. With strangers I'm still a fierce Momma Bear and I will cut you. Tonight kid1 had kid2 in a choke hold and kid3 was crying from kid2 punching him in the stomach. That required the Momster. Otherwise I listen until it can no longer be ignored. Usually if no one is dead, dying or has broken bones I'm good. I get cautious when I hear crying but it's that specific tone of crying that says there is pain or fear. That cry doesn't change from infancy. Mom radar is fine tuned for it and we have an ability to ignore most other noises, being hyper-aware when it becomes too quiet for innocent shenanigans.

We've had several conversations about all sorts of things. I write to find peace but I'm also a blabber. Usually this happens when we're in the car. They can't run away. I control the radio and there's no eye contact. We've talked about autism and what it means to our family. We've talked about divorce. We've talked about depression and suicide. We've discussed homosexuality. They know they'll always be loved and accepted no matter who they love. And yes, I talked to them about wet dreams and changing bodies, and individually I've had to talk to one about masturbation. This conversation happened in a closed bedroom. The first wet dream conversation was about 4 years ago. My oldest was 10. I wanted them to know it's a normal part of growing up. They don't have to say a word, just put soiled laundry where it goes and don't be afraid. I suppose moms with daughters have to have the period talk so their kids don't think they're dying. Lately my son's masturbation has been a problem because of his transparency. He's not great at hiding it and I'm not sure he even tries to. I told him private time with private parts should be private. I didn't want to body shame him when he's already othered from his contemporaries. I also suggested lotion might curtail injuries. It's not comfortable, but I know he has no problem talking to me and he felt relief after the conversation was over because in the end, it wasn't that bad.

I forget to take something out for dinner on many nights. Two to three loads of laundry a day will keep me from falling behind, but it doesn't save me from that special sweater that needs me to stay up a couple of hours on a Sunday night because they need it for school Monday morning. I do what I can without losing my calm and some things require them to compromise because I won't. Housework is not my friend when there are a million other things I need to do but on weekends when they're with me and I have nothing to do but listen to their sounds, it's relaxing to get a good scrubbing in. I realize they will talk like sailors if they think I can't hear them and my police patrols won't teach them to be the kind of adults I hope to raise. Homework frustrates me because I want to just give the answers. That was part of why teaching wasn't my calling.

I'm a mom. I'm a daughter and sister too. At the end of the day, I'm still trying to figure out who I am, but I know that the woman in the mirror is gorgeous and loved by the woman looking at her.