The Authority of My Life and Choices

  I was talking to one of my sisters about my drive last night and how it dawned on me that I had been living the last several months as though I was still subject to someone else's rules. Even when my children are gone and the house echoes in shared custody solitude, I am on my own, but subjected to the authority of what I've always done, whether or not previous choices were mine.  It made me examine the rules I live by and who I give authority over my actions.  It made me look at what I bow down to. Yesterday it was a revelation born from my field trip.  I had this idea that a beach day should be a whole day.  It was the idea that it had to be lived out the way I had always done it because that's how it's always been done and it's the way other people have said I should do a beach trip. There was so much freedom in acting on my every whim to visit several places in brief moments. I stopped where I wanted to and stayed long enough to see and feel and be.  My latest struggle is for the power and authority in my life and my choices.

God

My parents love God.  My Dad kept a poster on the wall with the alphabet and characters in Hebrew because he was reclaiming a lost heritage in learning all he could about it. For Dad, faith comes in studying the bible and doing what it says, as he sees it. My mom reads her bible early in the morning and reminds me that God is in control.  Trust Him, and it's a lesson she reminds herself of. My parents had bible studies in our livingroom.

I grew up in a Foursquare Church.  I was baptized on September 11, 1994.  We went to Sunday school each Sunday morning and in the afternoon we went to a Thai Presbyterian Church.  My parents were open to allowing me to go to other churches.  I went to Baptist and Catholic churches with friends.  I went to Synagogues and Buddhist Temples (my Mom grew up in Thailand and was Buddhist until she married my Dad). They drew the line at a few places, but I saw it as an arbitrary line. In my teens as part of youth group, Mondays we had Discipleship Groups.  Wednesday nights were youth group services where I was part of the worship team.  I loved singing and in honesty, it was performance, and not worship.  There was inauthenticity in my praise and I could never again be on stage for worship for that reason. Fridays we had more fellowship.  Tuesdays and Thursdays I was learning karate at a Christian Martial Arts Dojo. God/Jesus/The Trinity was what my parents valued and it was a great way to be with other kids in a safe place.

I went through my rebellious years.  I refused God and church and rebellion became me knowing God is real but deciding He had nothing to do with me. About 5 years ago I started taking my family to church again because I needed to let go of my anger. There is community in shared belief, but there's also the belief that there is something in charge of everything, big and small and that there is a plan and that plan is amazing if you believe in it.  I'm not perfect.  I lust after strangers and have a newfound affinity for male Crossfitters everywhere.  I get angry and it takes a little longer than I'd like to let go of it.  My rage is based on my lack of control and my beliefs are based on willingly releasing control because He knows the plans He has for me and they are greater than I can imagine. I believe in a bible that tells me to remain faithful to a husband that has rejected and abandoned me. I still struggle with the fact that I no longer want him because I believe the bible says I'm not to move on with my life, but my God wouldn't want me to remain in an abusive situation, even if I can't find the verses to back that.  I read that God hates divorce but hear He loves the divorcee, and my struggle is in knowing that the anger and pain can turn into bitterness and at times I feel I can't control my rage.  I let it go, I give it up and I forgive the ex so it doesn't destroy me and any future relationships.  I've been entertaining the idea of dating, even though I am still very married.

Attention

I love attention. I love posting something and obsessively reading my comments.  I love checking my Wordpress views, or hearing the little alerts that tell me I have a like or a new follower.  I don't like my own posts on Facebook or Instagram but I can see the allure in doing that. (I just refuse to be that person.  Everything I share is solid gold, so naturally I love what I shared because in my sharing, my awesome is showing.)

In the 5th grade, my teacher's wife wrote a song, and culled her singers from her husband's classroom.  We did a two day filming at the VA property in West LA in a Japanese garden (go past the golf course past housing) where I was part of a classroom singing a song on Almost Grown (a season long drama) and having a kid crush on Raffi Di Blasio, because he was adorable. My freshman year was about Leadership and Drill Team.  I loved standing out.  I was a singing, dancing drama kid in high school.   I spent several months as a television extra in 2000.  It was great to have a job where I was booked because of my looks.  I was cute or pretty according to the casting directors and that was enough to get a job where I could look for myself walking in the background of my favorite shows.  I have a reel somewhere from the beauty contest on The X Show (1999 men's show on FX) because someone in the mall thought I was hot and would look great in a lifeguard bathing suit, several sizes too small. Being an extra had it's downside.  I had the biggest crushes on certain celebrities and those crush fantasies died when I saw how petite they were. It wasn't about short men, but men that looked like little toys to me.

I like to see who is watching me when I go out, even if they don't say a word.  I like being seen. When I was younger, I would wear low cut shirts or short skirts, but I don't do that anymore because I feel I should dress and act a certain way as a mom.

Motherhood

Before I was a mom, I was bar hopping, shooting pool, smoking cigarettes and binge drinking.  I got my first tattoo from a friend's Dad on their living room floor with a tattoo gun he made using a walkman and a stick of deodorant to transfer the design.  I was living out whatever fantasy I felt like and there were no rules because I was doing my best to break all of them.  When I got pregnant with my first, I immediately wanted to be a good mom.  I wouldn't even eat chocolate because chocolate has caffeine in it and caffeine affects lung development. My mom is amazing but it took a long time to see it.  The first glimpse of her amazing was during the first few months with a cholicky infant, on my own all day and night while the ex worked, and was jealous that he couldn't get more of my attention when he was home, (and that's where his first girlfriend met those neglected needs, and the first time he made me feel like his failings were my fault). I called Mom while sobbing and thanking her for not killing me in my infancy.  At the time, I didn't know I had the baby blues, but in the second half of his first year, I could see the many ways my mom showed us her love for us and I wanted to be that mom.

Parents

So much of what I see as acceptable falls on the authority of what my parents taught me about being a good child, daughter and person.  It follows their values and ideals.  As a good child, I need to be quiet and obey what they tell me. I need to sit quietly and accept what they say as the gold standard, no matter what I think about it.

The other day, my Dad was explaining a situation to me a second time and justifying his actions to me.  I was in the middle of looking for seashells along a beach, so I stopped him to ask, "I don't mind the retelling, but are you telling me so I understand why you did what you did, or because you feel bad and need to make yourself feel better about your actions? It's okay to decide you're wrong.  (He started telling me about the history of this relationship.) There's no reason to be stuck in what you have done when there are so many rewards in what you can potentially do."

As their child, I need to be nice and put the family first. God, family and education were what they taught us and through all of it, I felt the responsibility of being ladylike from my Dad because my mom reinforced hard diligent work. I used to hate her work ethic because I wanted her around and she was always working.  When I was a kid, I had a recurring nightmare.  I would dream that my Dad killed my Mom, dismembered her body and put it in the barbecue.  Then I would wake up in a panic and look for her but she was always at work.  Being home alone with Dad in those first few moments after I woke up were terrible but he never knew about my dreams.  His PTSD is a family gift that keeps on giving. Dad may believe in negotiation, but my Mom is the one that has the analytical business mind.  Her English is something she's always been embarrassed by, but she speaks Thai and English, has a huge heart with more generosity than most, believes in and rewards hard work . . . I could go on, but this is about me.

In the conversation with my sister, we were talking about her going out to dinner with her daughter and how it wasn't the financially responsible thing to do, but then we both said, "why not?" (That was about our Mom, and had nothing to do with how we want to live.) We make space, give time, and put money toward what we value and what we value cannot be dictated because then we would be living someone else's dream.

Marriage

I'm not a fighter in relationships.  My fight is a silent treatment.  It's not in anger or as punishment, but more that I try to hide my words so they don't hurt others.  If my words are raging in my head, and causing me pain, I imagine the devastation on others would destroy someone I was usually so careful to shelter and protect. Maybe I should have seen him as less fragile. I'm much more interested in sacrificing so snuggling could happen.  I'm a hugger and snuggler and a giver by nature, but at one point I felt I needed to give so much of myself that I believed putting myself second was about making him happy and his happiness was good for me as well.  There was a backlash.  I would hide things or lie. There was lots of lying because I felt a certain way that didn't seem okay to him, so I hid who I was in senseless lies. I didn't see where his happiness became the only thing that mattered to me or him.  I didn't see how I taught him it was okay that I was second.

Patriarchy

My sister told me about an issue with her insurance agent. He tried to diffuse her ire by bringing up the brother in law that introduced them.  He asked how our brother was doing. She is a better person than I am, because that shift of authority onto a male without any connection to the transaction would have angered me further.  Tonight I went to the movies with my Dad.  He likes to talk through movies, and during the credits I pointed out the people watching the scrolling screen and suggested they might have been listening for the score.  He said he likes it when his kids teach Daddy something.  He meant it as a compliment, but I saw him infantilize me in calling himself Daddy, which isn't a name I've used since I was little.  A few months ago, I would have soaked up the compliment, and I'm not saying I reject it.  What I see is how he needed to fit his idea of me into a concept that didn't make him feel like less for the ideas in me that are bouncing around independently and in spite of him. I feel owned by the rules and values of a society that is still making strides in equality because we just aren't there yet.

Fitting in.

Fitting in means I'm willing to acquiesce myself into what goes against who I am in a way that makes others accept that I want to be around them. For the most part, I'd rather hide the truth than face the reality of who I am. Tonight I told my Dad about my blog and I very nearly lied about it.  I don't want to write under the weight of his judgement but it means more to be honest and authentic. I told him how to find it, but admitted I'd be okay if we never discussed what I write in it.  The power falls into what I've seen other people do or what would make fewer waves.  I'd rather be flexible and content, but so much of how I live and parent has to do with what others think and I have to make an intentional effort to put my kids first in terms of what is comfortable to them. I'm a pretty transparent person, but we live in a world where it's not normal and not typically accepted.

Me

I'm walking in a new authority.  I decided it's far better to belong.  I will be me in authenticity and passion and I will walk in faith that I am acceptable as I am, without needing to change to fit in. In the age of social profiles that are created to show others the best side we can possess, it's hard to just be who you want to be.  I can alter your perception with the angles and half truths I illustrate myself in but it is a constant challenge to not do that.  I don't use filters but I will crop out parts I of my body I want to hide.  The value in being authentic and refusing to hide is impossible to quantify.

I live in an indulgence of what feels good, and it can be excessively epicurean, but it makes me happy. I'm drinking alone right now. It's Whipped Cream Vodka with Simply Lime.  I feel good right now but I'm sure there will be editing in the morning.  When people ask how I feel about a movie, I'll usually say it was good because I assume most people don't really want to know what I think.  Tonight my Dad asked, and I told him.  I tore it apart like literature because that's what I do, and for the first time, I took ownership of my thoughts, no matter what I thought it would look like.  For my job hunt, I've been excessively picky because for the first time I'm directing my career and making sure it makes sense for me and my family.  That feels empowering and amazing. My autonomy isn't complete, but I'm getting there.

Your turn.

Where do you sit your power down, and who holds the authority over your choices?

A Panopticon Lesson on a Field Trip

I took a trip to Zuma Beach because it was suggested and I wanted to go.  I've had friends suggest ways to go out and meet people, but this trip wasn't about meeting people.  It was about getting out and exploring and doing something for me. I wanted to go and I was excited. I took the streets over 40 miles and I kept passing places that I had always wanted to see.  I was always interested but didn't have company or time.  Or I felt like I didn't have that freedom over what I wanted to do. Laying on the sand at Zuma, I watched surfers and birds.  I enjoyed the warmth of the sun.  I applied for jobs and secured an interview for tomorrow.  In that space where I was watching a young family build sandcastles I was thinking about my next trip and where I wanted to go, and that's when it occurred to me that this was my moment.  I didn't need to wait for next time or perfect conditions.  I would go and do what I had always wanted because this moment - this day was mine, and I was done giving up my time for the responsibility of what I was supposed to do based on someone else's rule book.

With joy and purpose, I headed south and stopped wherever the ocean was too beautiful to keep going.

A new favorite beach is Malibu Lagoon State Beach.  There was so much life everywhere.  There were birds and in one of the pictures I actually caught a fish jumping out of the water.  There were sea shells with live creatures still in them.  The lifeguard was so full of information and on his suggestion, my next long trip will start at Point Dume. He handed me a tide schedule and I plan on catching a grunion run this year.  I had been wanting to for over 20 years, and now I can stay out all night if I want to.

I stopped at the Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine on Sunset in Palisades.  It was beautiful and peaceful.  People drove into the parking lot with smiles and yoga mats.  There is a sign asking to turn off phone ringers.  It was beautiful and in some ways surreal.  It was interesting to see the Windmill and Houseboat near the shrines and statuary.  There was this beautiful cove of greenery.  I was so in love with how I felt that I took a selfie and forgot a more private picture for the blog, but I loved the way it felt, so I'm sharing it.

My day ended at Will Rogers Beach.  I sat in my car, watched the waves and ate my dinner.  I watched the runners and skaters and bike riders.  I smiled, and said a quiet thank you to a few men that cared about their bodies as much as I did in that moment.  Then I started practicing that not so obvious look that is a covert check out and far less creepy than my lack of impulse control. Before the sun went down behind the clouds, I took a nap.  It was a really good day.

There was a moment while I was laying on a blanket and watching the men in wetsuits as they straddled their boards, and realized I could go to all of the places I passed on the way to my destination.  I decided the present moment was mine to take and that was huge because I was giving myself permission by deciding I didn't need permission. It happened around noon at Zuma Beach, but the gravity of it didn't hit me until I was driving down Sunset on my way home and passing Vin Scully Avenue around 8 or 9.  For years I felt confined to the plans and agendas of other people. I had always felt like I needed company or permission.   I didn't have access to time that was my own for dreams or frivolity. Here I was, spending an amazing day proving to myself how remarkable this new freedom is, and then it hits me, we've been sharing custody since the start of October. It's the middle of April and I'm only now deciding I could go and do what I wanted to do.  It was a shock to finally see that my restraints are in my head as ideals of what I am supposed to be or how I'm supposed to spend my time.  I am my own warden.

I Need Some Space

I was just talking with a girlfriend about the spaces we need. I don't have many girlfriends. Having more than one female friend is a new area of growth for me, and even then I don't call the ones I rely on.  I see them when I see them and open up completely when I do. There are a few amazing exceptions, but for most of my life, I have had a hard time making a connection with other women.  I've heard people say that women are too full of drama but that's not my cop out.  I was never all that girly and that lack of girliness was obvious and uncomfortable. My loaner and somewhat Tomboy side is my weakness and my strength. I'm not into purses and shoes, but I love hand me downs from my sisters because they come from my sisters.  I get my retail therapy in grocery stores because I love food.  I hate clothes shopping.  It's necessary at times.  I get that, and I will shop but I hate it.  In high school I wore a 36DDD bra.  At my largest I was wearing a 40G.  I'm not a fan of looking for clothes that I love and can never wear. I play in makeup sometimes, but I'm not an artist.  It doesn't always occur to me to wait for someone to walk around a car and open the door for me because I can do it myself.  I still don't know my way around a curling iron and only got the hang of a straightening iron in recent years.  In Junior High one of my great (male) friends named me "Lion Lady" and he loved to pull my puffy mass around my face.  (I didn't mind.  It was better than being called Chewbacca for the same reason when I was younger.)

I had a friend right after high school that always wanted to hang out and I loved nights when all I planned to do was stay home and do laundry.  She wanted to be attached even then and her need for connection ended a friendship I couldn't appreciate.  Most of my friends at that time were guys.  We hung out and drank together.  This was my pizza and beer crew. We hit night clubs together.

I watched my male friends in their relationships.  Part of it was the maturity level we were at, but they needed space at times.  They were ready to romance their girlfriends and hook up with others in between, but they needed their time with the boys where they could claim their brotherhood meant more than whoever they were playing with that night. I'll spare you the phrases that rang loudest while they were pounding beers and smoking cigars and cigarettes. They needed space to reset.  I understood that.  They were gaming on a console or balling on the courts.  They were street racing their rice rockets. It was a thing. This was their reset.

When the ex wanted to go out with friends and paintball all weekend, I got it.  When he wanted to go on concert tours for his rap music, it was okay.  He was chasing his dreams.  When he wanted to go deep sea fishing all weekend, I remembered to wash his fishing clothes separately so we didn't all have to smell like fish guts and sunscreen.  He needed to reset with the boys and I understood it and didn't complain.  My job as mom was to be with my kids.  That was how I usually felt.  It was the life I accepted.

I had my impressions of what a mother was from Joan Cleaver but more so from my own parents.  They were usually hard at work or sacrificing for our family.  Dad took a road trip across America and that was when Mom decided she was done.  Their divorce was final the same month I turned 18. I have never even seen either of my parents drunk or high.  Dad used to smoke pipe tobacco.  It was cherry vanilla, but they were the example of family first that I grew up with. My adolescence had a reality check and rude awakening once I became a parent.  I couldn't do what I wanted to, and I felt I was supposed to want to be a stay at home mom.  When I found out about my ex's first girlfriend after we got married, I decided I needed to finish my schooling. I needed something that was mine and had nothing to do with being wife, mom, daughter, or sister.  I needed something that was selfish and all about me.

After one of my last finals at Glendale Community College,  I was planning on meeting a friend and his girlfriend at a local bar.  He was one of those guys I used to hang out with.  I was one of the guys to him and one summer he picked me up after work every day and we would stay for a while at Manhattan Beach where he was learning to body surf  and I was soaking in the sun.  We'd go through an 18 pack at my place and he'd fall asleep on the couch. I covered him with a blanket and he called me mom. That evening it was just hanging out for drinks at a local dive bar. It was really one drink.  I ordered a Cape Cod that was too strong and slowly nursed it, begging my ice to melt and sucking on my lime wedge. I ordered a second one I couldn't finish. My ex insisted on taking me and we didn't have a sitter so he waited in the family van right outside with our kids while I had a drink in a bar.  We had been married around 4 or 5 years at this point and I had learned by then that going out wasn't always worth it in the end, but I really missed my friend.  As a wife, eventually going to Target or the grocery store meant he would call me around an hour after I left to make sure I was okay and coming home soon because the kids were being kids and he needed help.  Then I would get home and usually unload and put all the groceries away myself.

Now we have shared custody. My time alone starts tomorrow after they leave for school.  I'll have a five day stretch to do whatever strikes me as fun.  I'm thinking of heading to the beach in jeans with a sweater because I expect it to be cool.  I'll watch waves and pack a lunch. I may take the streets there and back.  I'll come home and taste the burn of alcohol and I won't worry if I've had too much to drink or acted too drunk.  I'll put on loud music and probably dance in my underwear while drunk because that sounds really fun right now, but my kids are home and I will not stress them out with my need for freedom.  I'll watch bad television and read mediocre prose with a good storyline.

I like these spaces.  I don't want to give these spaces up.  These spaces make going solo on expeditions my first choice and dating is not an option if I want to keep these spaces as my own. These spaces help me see the abuse in the spaces I didn't have. Even if checking on me was framed as needing help, it was control that was taken from me. These five days are mine.  I'm eager for the chance to kick the joy into them.

Under Construction and the 6th Street Bridge

I visited the Sixth Street Viaduct today.  It's being demolished and replaced because it's not safe in our shake happy state. I could go into the North American and Pacific plates and the mysteries of Alkali Silica Reaction, but I'm sure not everyone finds it as fascinating as I do. My earth science geek out can wait.

It was a field trip suggested by a friend from high school.  He's been the reason I've been taking so many field trips lately.  I told him I was staying home and job hunting as my latest career move and I conserve gas for the necessary outings.  He pushed me to just enjoy myself and I'm really glad he did.  I love my field trips and I've found so much healing along beaches.  My next trip is Zuma because he says it's his favorite and he makes it sound amazing. Tomorrow looks promising. I can job hunt using apps between selfies and iPhoneography.

He's one of those friends that always leaves me in better shape than he found me in. Every so often he wants to know how I'm doing and he gives me just enough push to encourage me while guiding me. He's a salt of the earth kind of man with just enough sweetness to let me know he's always going to be a heartbreaker. We talk about my kids and he reminds me this will be okay in the end because he has an optimistic streak even I'm envious of.  I remembered how shy he was and he reminded me it's because I was always flirting with him.  I had forgotten about that, but I've always had a thing for guys in football uniforms so I wouldn't put it past me.  It wasn't intentional and he didn't make me feel bad about it in reminding me. We're just friends but there are moments when he'll call me love, or ma, or princess and I feel loved and not so thrown away.  He was the only one I wanted to talk to when I was having chest pain and eyeing that hot Italian ER doctor.

He suggested I check out the bridge and I asked if I could just wait to see the pictures he takes, because writing screenplays and capturing artful pictures is his thing.  It was one of those moments where he was calling me a princess. In my defense, he had just suggested I don't carry a large bag because it would make me a target and I was thinking about needing an escort. In most of what I do, I don't have an escort. I was thinking about not going because there is construction dust. It's a hard hat area . . . full of construction workers . . . Okay it was the thought of that last bit that had me sold. His warning on my mind had kept me in my car for the most part. I drove around and under the bridge, but I only got out of the car for a quick couple of minutes because I was wigging out about muggers and rapists at 10 in the morning lurking around dilapidated and graffitied buildings that were crumbling and abandoned in a quiet area in Central Los Angeles.

On my way home I thought about the bridge being destroyed.  I watched the machines pick at the concrete for a while.  It is falling apart and unsafe, but it still took so much work to chisel it away.  They used water hoses in jetted streams along with heavy machinery.  For such a large task, there weren't that many construction workers.

It made me think of my life in the last year or so.  There were times when structures were being demolished and it felt entirely lonely.  The beauty I saw in the past was being destroyed and it was hard to watch and painful to live through.  I didn't use a hose, but there were plenty of tears to help wash away the debris. I couldn't imagine what my life would look like as my own. My team was tiny.

Rebuilding started and I missed the foundation being poured because I was so busy missing the old me.  My construction and support team has gotten larger.  There have been a few men working hard to build me up and restore my confidence.  I may have even used one or two as a tool in strengthening my self esteem. I sometimes feel bad about that. There has been so much undeserved family support. The audience that watched me fall apart under the loss of a marriage I couldn't imagine living without watch me grow in silence, or offer quiet acknowledgement that they're glad I'm no longer begging for another chance to prove I'm willing to beg for scraps. They stop in from time to time and have watched my frame being erected.  They're curious now that the wiring and plumbing are in and the mudders are sealing seams in my drywall.  I'm feeling stronger and I can see my amazing when I look in the mirror and that is pretty epic. I can see what the architect envisioned when the structure was destroyed because of the first major cracks from a slipping foundation.

Sexy Fiction: The Rub

The day behind us was long and difficult.  I could hear it in his voice when I called to see if he was still in the mood for the dinner I had planned. The smell of the roast was just starting to waft out of the oven and would be ready about half an hour after his arrival. He walked in with his tie neatly rolled in his hand, and his worn brown leather messenger bag slung across his chest.  The top buttons of his dress shirt were undone and I could see the soft tangle of light hair peeking out below the slight adam's apple that shifted under his square jawline which was already covered in a 5 o'clock shadow. I nibbled his chin just below his left ear and relieved him of his bag. I pulled him to his favorite chair.  It's the overstuffed one that feels like a throne.  He reads in this chair.  He tells me about his day in this chair.  I sit him down and pull my bathrobe tighter around me before pouring his favorite single malt whiskey over a ball of ice in an old fashioned glass with his initials acid etched on the bottom. I love his sense of style. He looks so worn and I can see the weight of his day.  I kiss away the words that start because I won't continue his frustrations until we've melted the edge off a bit.

I place a towel at his feet and remove his loafers and trouser socks.  I fold the legs of his slacks up and push them the rest of the way past his calves to his knees. He cocks his head to the side and the sweet crinkle of laugh lines around his eyes tell me his mood was already improving. My bare feet padded softly on thick charcoal carpeting to the bathroom where I filled the vibrating foot spa with warm water and scented bath salts. Walking back to him, his smile pulled at the edges of his mouth, but not quite his eyes. Not fully.  He often wondered if he was doing enough to make me happy and if he should have been doing more.

I placed the spa before him, and he began to protest that he should be doing this for me.  I give him the look of promise that he is learning to anticipate and lifted and placed each foot in the vanilla scented warm water.  I plugged it in and walked away, dropping my bathrobe on the couch that had become my favorite spot to watch him. He loved it when I showed him that Victoria's Secret is that she is a man after his own heart.  I could see the reflection of the smile that has now reached his eyes in the mirror above the fireplace.

I returned to him with a shallow bowl filled with rough mounds of cool coconut oil, and a stiff brush.  I started scrubbing each tired foot with the brush.  Once the water began to cool, I took his feet out and dried them gently before each foot took a turn being rubbed with coconut oil. I started with the bottom of his feet, kneading them with the soft pads of my thumbs.  The oil softened and melted quickly from the heat of my hands and his feet.  His eyes closed and I flicked the arch of his foot with the tip of my tongue while holding it firmly and I enjoyed the shock that he tried to pull away in.

"Watch," comes out more as a pout than I intended.

The heat in his gaze maintained his silence and I took his second and longest toe into my mouth and watched his expression shift from contented joy to anticipation and excitement. His eyes were on me and I continued rubbing his feet, and ankles as I worked my way up his calves.  I loved his firm muscles and soft hair on my sensitive fingertips.  His body relaxed and when he started to look too relaxed, I used my mouth or hands to remind him of the sexual nature of our situation. It usually resulted in a groan that tried my self control.

As he nursed his drink, I started the important questions about his day.   I could feel his body relax as the stress began to fall away.  He told me about his latest acquisition and the challenges of combining the two entities into a cohesive new company.  I can see his excitement return to his features as he explained the unique skillsets of his teams and how they worked so well together.  He alternated between being in his excitement and looking to me to make sure he could continue because there's fear that he may bore me.  When we first met he wanted to talk about his accomplishments and I just wanted him to keep looking at me the way he did.  I could watch this man read nutritional values on a box of cereal and still be riveted. I smiled at his slight insecurities because he can't see how amazing he is to me and I liked it that way.

The smell of our dinner was strong enough that I knew it was done.  I stood up and slipped into my bathrobe so I could pull dinner out, and finished setting the table so the roast could rest.  I caught his expression in the mirror again, and saw shock and petulant disappointment. He's so cute when he's disappointed.

"Dinner," I remind him.

"But we were in the middle of things."

"Dinner before dessert," was thrown over my shoulder with a smile and a wink and his smile matched mine.

Do Better and Be Better

You have the individual power to uplift someone or tear them down. You can wrap your needs around someone else to the point where your survival takes their life. Don't be that person. This will be a day of conquest and joy for me. I'm feeling good.

You never know when another person is dangerously on edge and the words they hold and chew into calm are ready to unleash scars that will ripple into your silent places of reflection.

Do better and be better. Kindness is free.

Motherhood as Leadership

I was one of those Leadership kids in my Freshman year.  Over 20 years ago it was the last year of Junior high and not the first year of high school. We had meetings and someone took minutes, but it was really a free pass out of class to run around and plan school dances and fundraisers.  There was so much more to what it was supposed to be, but I only ran for my office as a popularity contest on someone else's social agenda.  I got the hall pass and sweatshirt and front and center seats for major assemblies, the panorama picture and graduation.  We booked the d.j. and diluted fruit punch concentrate into hydration for the circles of dancers that showed off their moves, but would pretend to be wall flowers as soon as the lights were back on.  We sold tickets and decorated a depressing boys gym into a room suitable for raging hormones, gross insecurities and cliques of kids rushing in hordes for potential dance battles and fist fights. I never understood what the goal of the class was meant to be because we had a series of tasks but I didn't have the understanding of the reasons behind them. In recent years, my thoughts on leadership have grown.  During my last pregnancy, we spent a lot of time at amusement parks.  The ex lost over 100 pounds and he wanted to go and keep going with his new-found energy.  We had littles and I was pregnant with another couple's twins.  We would walk in a line where he would lead and I always took up the rear to make sure we didn't lose anyone.  That was when I decided I wanted to be more than a mom.  I wanted to be a leader to my sons.  It was in noticing that our pace wasn't set by the most capable, but by the one that needed the most guidance and hand holding, which switched between kids several times per hour.  In taking the rear, and making sure my kids were on course, I was guiding them. I was encouraging them to catch up to Daddy and watching that they didn't wander in a different direction.

Leadership isn't about telling people what to do and expecting them to jump because of your position or their fear of you.  It's not about puffing up your position, but letting your team know the ways they are a valuable and essential part of your team. It's about guidance and encouragement to lead your team to want to do better and think in ways that promote the team, and not the individual. Leadership means the leader is as much an integral part of the team as every single member, but the leader is accountable for fostering a culture of advancement.

For my family, leadership is about establishing a compelling direction and for now that is a direction founded in acceptance and unconditional love.  No matter what choices they make in life and love, they know I will always love and support them.  Soon after they started telling me they loved me, I started telling them that I will always love them, whether or not they love boys or girls. Their choices might not always make me proud, but I will always be proud to be their mother.  I do my best to encourage open communication and I don't place my shame or my feelings on them if I can help it.  I help them solve problems and the day they stop coming to me with them, is the day I know I have failed them as a leader.

My goal for my family is to foster relationships that build each other up.  I hear it gets easier when brothers are older.  Leadership in this way takes the direction of enabling a structure of support.  It's encouraging them when they play together and discouraging destructive competition. It's in helping each other to do well.  It's a thank you when one sacrifices for the other, or when one helps with a homework problem explanation when my reserves are low and I need the perspective of someone else in my single mom home.

One day the authority I empower as mom will help my children internalize my ideals.  When those thoughts become theirs and they understand their own manifest and latent benefits, they will idealize and live out these lessons in every area of their lives.  Leadership teaches others to lead their own lives with intention.  It's not enough to be an angry mother with timbered calls of authority.  It's the gentle guidance that makes them search for answers on their own, with nudges from me that lead them along the path I had scouted in my own adolescent adventures.

It's been a difficult year.  There's no way to sugarcoat that. Being positive is part of my personality but it's also about leadership.  If my kids see that I can be positive in a negative situation, it shows all of us that our answers are not impossible. It's about knowing I will make mistakes and just get things wrong. It's allowing them to hold me accountable and asking them to call me out on my prideful ignorance.  I frequently remind myself to be the mom my children deserve, and not the mom I feel like being.  I let them know that our family is ours, and our home is not just mine.  It helps them find enthusiasm in being part of our family and obligation becomes privilege.

I believe leadership is found in doing what is right, rather than what is easy.  It falls in line with financial stewardship and embracing the idea that you don't know all of the answers, and you don't have to, but your curiosity will be rewarded with at least trying to find the answers.

That Time I was the Other Woman

It wasn't on purpose.  It never was.  He was sweet and made her feel like his world was better with her in it.  He wanted her to meet him while he was working because he was always working and she was his happiness.  Her new soundtrack was about the longing and love he made her feel as they sat and talked and kissed in her car while he was on a break. She only saw him at work.  He was on location and she was happy to follow him on sets all over Los Angeles.  He would wrap warm arms around her and lend her his jacket.  She wore Versace Red Jeans and he wore Versace Blue Jeans. It was unintentional but it must have meant something in the signs she was searching for. They would smoke cigarettes together, and he would light hers with the Zippo lighter she bought and had engraved with his name. He always lit her cigarettes in a show of old Hollywood chivalry. His house was in Rancho Cucamonga and too far for her to visit, but he told her she would be proud that he mowed his lawn every weekend.  He only had his kids on weekends and he wanted her to meet him at his house one day - to meet his kids.  His kids were his world and his ex girlfriend wasn't in the picture anymore. His work schedule made it hard to see them anytime but the weekends.

Her friends didn't believe he was real because they never saw him but made fun of his last name and called him Mango.  He was sweet and they gave him a code name she loved.  Her friends saw the shiftiness and wondered why they never saw him.  If he loved her, why was it so easy to stay away from her?

His story began to shift in the days and weeks they dated. Working as a gaffer was hard work and long hours, but eventually he became the supervisor of the security company on most sets.  She didn't question his lies because it didn't matter what he did as long as he kept making her smile. The ex was all the bad in the world.  She was the source of his pain and she took all of his hard work and spent it and didn't care about him.  She went from ex girlfriend to ex-wife in a few dates, because his dishonesty was killing him and he needed her to know that she meant enough to be open and honest.

He met her at her favorite pool hall with his son Michael and brother Jason.  They played 8-ball.  Michael was sweet and shy and happy to be with his Daddy and Daddy's friend.  Daddy kissed his friend, but friends sometimes kiss and it was innocent to a five-year old.

She met him at work and his co-worker told her that he was still married, and she shouldn't trust his lies because his lies were destroying worlds.  She couldn't believe that.  His words brought hope and happiness.  His words made her feel lovely in all of the low places because he wanted her but loved her enough to wait and fill their visits with words and kisses and the kisses were chaste because he respected her.

One day she ran into his brother on a location set.  Jason felt bad that she was so misled and he gave her the honesty his brother was withholding.  She was dating a married man who went home to his wife every night and beat her when he was angry.  She was dating a married man and the proof was irrefutable. Jason took her to meet their mother and unwrapped her Christmas gift in memories through a scrapbook wedding with grand babies. Her boyfriend was the groom and the Daddy and she was a homewrecker.  She was a trollop.

Jason wanted to touch the places she wanted to be touched.  Jason knew how to pull her across a dance floor and wanted to show her what he thought the meaning of life was and it filled the spaces her boyfriend left.

She would never kiss her boyfriend again and dumped him because he had a wife.  The longing and pain were real. He was pretending but it was real to her. She wouldn't see him again, though he begged her and she missed him.  She would want closure because it was a word that meant she might not have been wrong to give him her heart. She would spend weeks feeling like the lowest scum on earth for being with a married man, for feeling like her happiness could justify the destruction of a family.

She would never again date a married man because the point of marriage is that you aren't open to dating. What this boyfriend taught her would settle into solid lines never to be crossed because he taught her what marriage isn't in the weight of what she danced in.  His allusions made her feel beautiful and the unfairness of his lies made her wonder how much was real.

She would settle for a man who wasn't handsome but made her feel desire that consumed them both.  He wasn't successful but she found home was in his arms. She would learn to trust him through the times he betrayed that trust. She would wait in faithfulness through his solid and malicious rejection, until she would decide that she had enough of what he offered and she would want more joy than he could ever give again.

One day she would look up the old boyfriend because cyber stalking is her gift.  She would see that he is divorced and looks nothing like he did in her memories. In 16 years, his children grew into beautiful expressions of their parents.  She could see that the pain he caused them cut him out of their pictures and likely their lives. The shadows of released inhibitions weighed down the happiness in his smile and though he now tips the scale far less than he used to, he stands as though there is more weight on his shoulders.The fading tattoos that were one or two now mapped destruction all over his entire body. She would decide he wasn't worth a hello.

She would continue looking up other ex boyfriends to hold them up and see if she would want them back.  She would decide to keep the memories they gave her but that they weren't worth the friend request. They weren't worth a revisit.  She would pour herself a fresh cup of coffee and daydream about the shape and form of her next lesson with a Cheshire cat smile and joyful anticipation.

Fiction Fun: Running through Water, A Selkie Escape

She makes her way through weighted sand that is begging her to stop, holding onto her with each step. The water has beaten wet sand into submission as she treads woodenly in staccato steps. The song of night calls her name and she has no will of her own.  The cool waves crash at her feet, reaching icy fingers toward frozen toes. She's in the depths of a lost reserve and the song she hears howls a sad refrain that promises she'll forget. Slow steps lead to a cacophonous harmony of angry ocean churning until bitten ankles are numbed and the piercing pain gives way to  stiff movements. She's urged forward. A fresh sting of cold hits her thighs in a shocking protest of discomfort. She begins to run forward in a slow lift and fall as the water lifts her and pulls the sifting sand from under delicate feet.  Layers of clothes cling to her and pull her deeper until the water lifts her up then in deeper and she's pulled by the will of the waves. She makes it past the breakers where pinpricks of ice slow her breathing and a shooting star draws her attention away from the siren call that will silence the pain that echoes in her mind and she looks back at the shore where she sees him. He watches her go and longs to save her, but he's not enough.  She often told him that she couldn't be enough and in the moment before them, he was the one that couldn't find enough within him. The shroud of loss fell away and he could see that the well of life within him kept him from seeing where he was empty and she was filling his barren spaces.  Her life hid his death.  He calls her name but she can't hear him.  He can feel her forcing through the waves away from him because as her pulse slows to the chill of the night, he can feel his own heart slowing because she's taken it with her.  She has taken him and his powerlessness leaves him shattered on dry sand.

As she watches him there is a tingling throughout her body and the painful numbing becomes a warmth of freedom.  Her clothes burst free from her as the waves strip her body, but the cold is no longer painful.  She feels warmth burn through her body and her legs are suddenly light and strong. Silky hair halos around her head as she is taken under and she begins to breathe in the salty water. She feels peace and knows she is finally home.

Just when he felt it was her end, she shifted into her selkie form and swam away.

Have a Drink with me, part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

Withholding Words: Self Censorship

You may have noticed a missing post.  Or you may not have because I may be overestimating how much my words mean to you because they mean a lot to me.  My words are symbolic of a freedom I'm dancing in. I admit that I'm still walking a line and feeling out my comfort. I censored myself. I'm a really light sleeper with a huge day finally behind me and when I got an alert at 4 in the morning, I stayed up and typed.  It was honest and raw and not entirely pain free, but not what I want my blog to be about.  This is about me.  Mainly me.  It's also about the many ways I've been shaped by relationships that are no longer relevant. It's about me and how I'm crushing this chrysalis, and that last post was more about me and the ex and it gave him more proprietary space on this blog than I want to offer him right now.  One day there will be no fear of what his reaction will be.  There will be no fear in closed spaces with him. There will be no need to forgive him because I will have forgiven him. It was a post about our sins against each other, and maybe in time I'll make it public again.  Just not tonight. Not when I see him in court and the attorney can tell by my body language that a bailiff escort out of the courthouse was appreciated by me. Not when strangers can see my body language shift from confident to fearful in the shift of a gaze. This is my selfish therapy platform where I point out my weaknesses and find gentleness from within with an accountability to a nebulous crowd.

I met a woman at the courthouse.  She introduced herself to me and handed me a card with her name preceded by the word, "Goddess" as the first part of her given name.  She called me Goddess as well.  She asked if I spoke spanish and I admitted I only know enough to get me through a conversation about love or food - the important stuff.  She thinks I should rewrite that memory in San Pedro at the Friendship Bell that I shared about in Water Baby.  I let go of that boy so long ago, that it's faded into good memories and I'm not sure I want to walk over them with new ones. We talked children and beaches and the healing I've found facing the Pacific Ocean under a blanket of stars.  Her beliefs differ from mine, but I could censor my disbeliefs into appreciating the beauty in healing wherever we are blessed to find it.  We talked and her light brought me peace amidst the snickers and phone conversation about me going on a few feet from me.

While I didn't get what I wanted in court, there was grace and an alignment of circumstances that can only be described as favor.  Miracles happen where you look for them.  I was encouraged by four men that looked me in the eye and expressed the value they saw throughout my day.  It was just the pick me up I needed, when I needed it and least expected it.

While I uncover our sins

While you were talking my thoughts roamed into the list, picking apart what to do and when to do it and not worrying where I fit in because I never did. While you were sleeping, I ate while I watched you snore and I cried silently and sometimes I wrote in a journal I tried to hide from you.

While you drove me to the bar and waited in the car for my fun to end, I couldn't see your paranoid control and fear that I would find another person in the drinks with old friends I never wanted to date but I knew it would be my last night with friends at a bar.

While you were running away for weekends of paintball or deep sea fishing or concert tours, I was being Mom to our kids and asking my parents for help with groceries.

While you said we couldn't afford to pay the debts in my name, I managed to pay them without your consent or assistance.

While you were ignoring me, I was escaping into teenage paranormal romance books, because these books didn't have a sex life to be jealous of.

While you were flirting with the waitresses in front of me, I was afraid to look at other men because of the reaction you might have had.

While I was birthing babies, you were kind enough to let the laundry wait for me.

While you were battling food poisoning, I came home from the hospital to make my own dinner after the birth of our firstborn which set the tone and my practice for the other pregnancies.

While you were losing weight and excited to go on adventures, I was willing to walk through Sea World a couple of weeks after our last child and years later Legoland with a c-section scar less than a month old.

While you had lost the weight of a person and insisted on amusement parks, I tried to ease the sensory needs of our autistic children.

While you wanted the fame on stage, you didn't see that we were putting you first and sat uncomfortably in your shadows and darkness.

While you were our leader, I took up the rear to make sure we didn't lose children on adventures because it never occurred to you that we couldn't keep up.

While your words said later for nearly a week and I was stumbling in the dark to do our laundry, I made the choice to step on a ladder and change the bulb myself at 5 months gestation.

While I was on bedrest and you made yourself look like a hero, you forgot to mention the help our surrogate couples hired so you wouldn't have to pick up my slack.

While you were working, I had phone calls and follow ups and exhaustion from lack of sleep because sleep came in the morning when you were gone and I had peace.

While you were getting drunk I was sober and moming and driving and urging you into bed.

While you were raging and breaking cabinet doors, I was raging right back in my mind, afraid to move because of where your rage might have turned.

While you were locking yourself in the bathroom with a knife I was irritated because I knew you wanted my audience, but you didn't care that our kids could see it too.

While you were driving home and not excited to see me and the weight I waited to rest on your shoulders, I was excited because you could see the children destroy all I had done in their artful undoing and I really wasn't sleeping all day - just most of it.

While you were punching cracks into the windshield on the freeway, I wondered how this came from a game of punch buggy.

While you walked through the door, we were happy to see you but we missed the puppy joy mark that was the bar you were setting and you thought we didn't care because we were only matching the joy you showed us in coming home.

While you were hungry and forgetting your wallet or keys or running out of gas on the freeway, I paused my day to rescue you for a moment to be with you and be the hero I hoped you would be to me.

While you ignored my suggestions, I found I could feed them to others and you would actually hear them.

While you complained about money I hid in my Amazon account, I found you were hiding so much more and convinced myself it was your right but guilt and shame plagued my sins against you.

While you were gambling, our son nearly died and the fault was mine because I am his mom even though that tub was filled on your watch and the destruction in the house was a mess you sat in while I took two kids to the grocery store and battled the budget you gave me alongside their wants.

While you had a girlfriend online, I had baby blues that nearly ended our eldest son's life.

While you joked about my being on my phone during our dates, you were tagging me on yours.

While you wanted to snuggle and just be with me, the house wouldn't run itself.  I had to get up and be a wife and mom while you lounged in bed and couldn't hear me not asking for your help.

While you watched television, I was escaping into books right next to you because not being present while next to you was my idea of bliss.  I loved watching Legolas, but couldn't see the point in memorizing a trilogy when there were books filled with new worlds to discover.

While you were trying to impress her and found her so amazing, I was secure that our marriage would survive because in my selfishness I saw my happiness and couldn't see you didn't have any in yours.

While you were waiting outside a concert to drive home an artist that wouldn't even get you into the show, I was being awarded at an Honor's Convocation.

While you were making financial choices I didn't agree with or believe in, I was borrowing from my parents who now trust me on business accounts for emergencies as long as me doesn't include you.

While you were trying your best to not be my husband I was trying harder to be your wife.

While your Christian rap ministry took you on tour, I was home with our children, wondering why you couldn't be that man on the streets in your own home.

While you wanted me to be a wife and only a wife, I fought you each semester and quarter to be more so we could have more, never imagining my new identity would be the one thing you couldn't take and that you would try to destroy all else.

While you were buying three touch screen computers and a WiiU for Christmas, I was giving our sons a welfare Christmas from the Dollar Tree, and they were giving me gratitude and love.

While family and friends pointed out what I couldn't stop seeing, I defended your actions and managed to make them my fault.

While you were working to provide for our needs, I was shopping as therapy for the home I wanted us to build.

While you were figuring out our finances, I was planning on retail therapy in the grocery store.

While you hated my friends, I avoided them for you but you still spent the night out with friends who kept bringing strippers to the house that you spent the night at.

While you shattered who we were, I've been picking up the pieces I want, and smashing to dust the parts meant to die while I find the ways in which to fall together.

Resisting the Slut Inside of Me

I'm having a night.  It's not a good one.  I'm digging deep for those happy places.  I'm remembering the heat of a blush that starts in my chest and races up my face because I had joy in my Crushing. I'm remembering the giddy joy that took over my Easter evening over the ocean in Santa Monica because that night was filled with Laughter.  I'm not crying, but I feel angry enough to, and the animals know.  I have a cat determined to head butt my temple and a dog trying to become a foot rest.  They sense my tension and the anger as it ebbs around me. Yesterday's phone call is getting under my skin and I have to face the ex tomorrow.  I'm not worried about seeing him or the girlfriend he'll probably bring with him.  I'm not concerned about how I'll look or what I'll wear.  My confidence has grown since he left me in insecurities and doubt. I'm angry that I had to change my plans to fit the maelstrom he's caused in my week. Yesterday's powerlessness is raging again tonight.

It feels like a lifetime ago, but once upon a time I may have felt this mood and ended up at a bar.  I would have looked at a stranger from head to toe. My gaze would have lingered in a way that made him question if I was actually looking at him or behind him. Not many can take that intensity without doubt and it was intentional. I would have looked him in the eye, disrobing all doubt - disrobing him visually. I would have let him buy me a drink to watch him try to convince me that he had what I needed.  My Hunger was for attention but he would have seen what he hoped for. I would have left after using him for an ego boost and a couple of free drinks.  These instincts are primal and I'm killing them with every choice to be better than the person I was. I would have looked like the girl you don't bring around your family and friends but I would have felt empowered.

The person I am now will blog it out.  I'll then read some of the posts that revive the memories of those happy moments. I'll click on "author favorite" in the tag cloud because putting them all together like that makes my happy place easier to get to.  I will then re-read the papers I was just served, gathering whatever documentation I think will be relevant in the morning. I'll clean out my purse and make sure I don't have a pocket knife in it. I will get elbow deep in dishwater, probably breaking another nail in the process.  I will switch laundry loads, then flip through my bible until I find peace.  And I will repeat my forgiveness into the quiet of an empty home until the peace stills into sleep.

Broken Birthday Wishes

My birthday sucked this year.  Big time.  Most birthdays aren't days I celebrate.  I had one year when the ex invited my large family for a restaurant meal.  It was big, and for a few hours it was special, but it came with a price. The emotional lashing in the days before it tempered the night.  There were pictures posted on Facebook and my smile was genuine, but I don't even remember if it was 29 or 30.  I wanted to make it a big deal because it was a milestone to me. It was the lead up that felt like a big deal because there's supposed to be significance in it.  When the next morning came, I was slightly jaded.  I still had laundry and dishes and kid chasing and the part where I was special felt like exhaustion from the gratitude I was in service to.  I'm used to still being Mom on my birthday because if I don't do dishes or laundry, it'll be waiting for me in double portions the next day.  I didn't expect breakfast in bed. I rarely eat breakfast.  I often made my family breakfast as a short order cook, and hoped for time to go back to bed. I've spent birthdays at the zoo and Chuck E. Cheese's. I used to say that all I wanted for my birthday was my Kindle, Amazon store credit and a hotel room with room service and housekeeping.  No one ever believed me and one year I'll do it for myself. My birthday hasn't been about me since I was 21 or 22.

Birthdays and especially Mother's Day are not about me.  These are days when I get to show my family how much I appreciate whichever ways they want to show me they love me. Kid2 once took the cookies I had baked and made them into cookie sandwiches with school glue.  I almost ate it until I asked what he used.  I would have swallowed it with a smile because mom duties include instilling value in the children we raise.  My birthdays have become a day to really feel gratitude for my Mom because I know my birthday is about her as much as it's about me. I don't get it when people celebrate the entire month, because usually I want the day to end. I'm not afraid of aging.  I like where my years have placed me.  I've earned my laugh lines and the random gray hair I sometimes find. Eventually I will take ownership of my birthday again.

In the last year, I've found there is so much peace and joy in life alone and on my last birthday, my ex reminded me of how much pain and damage he could cause. I'm all for putting individual needs first until those needs start to fall as burdens on others.  I took off my wedding band on Valentine's Day, but I decided I was not going to continue waiting for him to divorce me on my birthday which was the Friday before it.  Up until then, I felt that if he wanted to leave me, he could be the one to divorce me.  I didn't want to hold his hand, or finish what he started because for a long time I didn't want that. We didn't fight.  I'm not a fighting type for the most part because I'm fully aware of the damage I can cause and I never saw him as capable of handling me at my worst.  I never wanted to hurt him but my reactions would say otherwise.  I don't think he could imagine the damage I could inflict intentionally. On my birthday, I saw that it wasn't about waiting for him to finalize things, but deciding his choice was the best thing for me as well. I am content in the knowledge that he will no longer be able to control my financial freedom or how I look or behave around other people.

Every year my birthday Facebook post is a reflection of where I am in that moment.  I had been posting for years, but In 2015 I started expressing more than gratitude for the happy birthdays I received and I wrote:

I'm at the age where decades blur with the business of life and if you asked how old I turned today, I would say I turned old. It's easier than doing the math because I won't remember my age until the next milestone which will be 40. 

 I'm at a place where I feel that love means doing what you know is best for the person you love, even if it's not 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.  

I found passion in school but failed to temper it with goals or a dream, so now I'm living the dream and it looks nothing like I thought it might. I still don't have a live in housekeeper. Or a dishwasher. Or more disposable income than sense.  

I went from finding a random $20 in the wash to a few coins and sopping wet toy cars and game chips.  

I stopped going with the flow of life to picking fights for everyday injustice. My calm nature holds in check the furious beast that loves to research the alleyways to victory. (Autism Mom superpowers)

As a new Mom I refrained from buying toys by gender identity. 13 years later I hope to raise feminist men because equality feels better to me than misogyny. 

 Another trip around the sun and my creaky joints keep trying to tell me to slow down, but that girl in the mirror keeps telling me I'm gorgeous and slim (clothes sizes lie - arbitrary numbers and nonsense) I used to try to show off my cleavage or legs. Now I just don't want to embarrass my kids when their friends see me. 

This was when I was still content in my marriage and I thought both of us were happy. This was posted in February with a few redacted bits:

 2016

Life is about balance and there might be beauty in my ashes or hope through my despair and the gift of humanity is emotional interaction and deeper meaning in the mundane.

I reached out in love to two really amazing people before the sun came up. I saw them posting online and I knew I wasn't waking them-although I could probably call them at any time of the night and get the same love. Love can't tell time. That's why infants survive until they sleep through the night. This morning there was anger and rage streaming through my tears, and I called them instead of passively aggressively posting that it's my party and I'll cry if I want to. I see that as growth. I was greeted with love and encouragement and a reminder to pray through. 

I got to work (stepping out of my car) and a complete stranger found me as a person well put together. She couldn't taste the salt stained cheeks or see the red eyes begging for rest as I fought my bedding through fitful sleep last night. I'm still running on fumes of 4 hours of sleep and way too much of that burnt coffee that Starbucks calls medium roast. I looked at her. I looked into her eyes, ignoring years of meaningless meander through a faceless city and I thanked her. She was safe to confess my latest heartache to, because after this morning I'll never see her again. She hugged me. She saw me for my strength and embraced me for my vulnerability. 

As my day progressed, new co-workers peeked over at me to wish me well for my birthday, one spending moments of his day to ask about my plans. I was encouraged. They complimented my white Home Depot dress and found out what a Home Depot dress is. It's sexy and classy and you wear it at Home Depot when you're feeling low and it'll boost your day by the time you leave. It pairs well with my Ruby Woo Mac lipstick because nothing says you're kissable like red matte lipstick that is a cross between berries and blood. It reminds people of love, sex and death and is somehow sensual.

My new license plates came for my new car and I was grateful for the unwrapping of my present to myself. I finally have a car I'm excited to stick my CSULA Alumni license frame on. My neighbor offered a hand (that Home Depot dress kept delivering all over town) but I enjoyed putting them on myself. 

There is no cake because I don't eat wheat and didn't plan a flour less cake. I've also always thought blowing spit and lung juice over a cake that others are expected to eat is a bit gross. Sometimes frosting will seduce me with the siren call of a sugar rush and pre diabetes because I am a sugar addict. Self-control isn't always one of my gifts.

Tomorrow is a new day and a new year. It's leap year so I have 366 days to set new goals and kick the custard out of life with a blowtorch in hand. Custard is creme brûlée with extra sugar and a torch. And the food joy is exponential when custard becomes brûlée. And fire. (I just pictured Beavis and Butt Head, did you?)

Parts of that post were cut out.  I stepped out of my car that morning knowing that by this time next year, I would be a divorcee. As much as I was crumbling at the edges, I was determined to face my day with pride and grace.  That was the face this stranger saw.  After nearly a year of believing that I could forgive anything if I kept my eyes on my faith, it was a moment of deciding I didn't want that anymore and a test of what my faith means to me. My prayer life has suffered since then.  That's my truth.  The day was full of good and bad, and there are times when the bad still batters me.

I had planned to take my kids to Catalina Island that weekend.  My car died in January and my trip became a down payment. The ex did his best to control my birthday weekend and my powerlessness reduced me to angry tears on my commute home that day. Plans were shifted because I do what the kids allow.  I tried to salvage a good memory that weekend and bought a Playstation 4 for my kids which was met with a meltdown by kid2 and collects dust because kid1 and kid3 believe in the gaming potential it holds.  Just Tuesday kid1 and kid2 were talking gaming, and I heard kid2 say, "you should just get a Playstation 4." I reminded them they have one and I was met with laughter.

What I didn't include in my Facebook post that day was a moment.  It was a brief moment and for a while it was my private happy place.  It was a moment that made me feel attractive and desired.  There was a look and that look was everything.

Beach Therapy and Rage Control

The divorce diet shaved about 30 pounds and put me in the sizes I wore the last time I was single which was six pregnancies ago. I was really happy about that this morning. Caller ID and voicemail are a gift I need to learn to use more often. I answered a call I didn't have to and I felt a familiar rage and my happiness melted away. My plans for the next few days have shifted and the lack of control feels like powerlessness and it boiled into fury. I get angry at times and today I just needed to drive. Driving in, wispy purple clouds curled overhead in sheets of fog through Palisades. It was hot and sunny at home.

I picked up rocks as I walked along the shore, depositing them in a pocket. The stretch between jetties was covered in ladybugs. Some were walking on damp sand. Some were on their backs, stuck in the sand, having been tossed by the angry surf. Some ladybugs were making baby ladybugs. One hitched a ride on me as I walked back to my car for a short nap.

 I love the the life around the rough waters and the way the water filters through mud and sand and back to the ocean.    I am enjoying the quiet and solitude. The people ride by on bikes and share their smiles as I watch the horizon. There is goodness here and just past the breakers I can see my joy again. [wpvideo 6ikycC3g]

My Transparency, part 2

Tonight I was thanked for my transparency and told it was refreshing.  I call in to an intercessory prayer line on the first Tuesday night of the month.  These ladies in Alabama have been praying through my lowest lows and praising in some of my most profound miracles. Transparency is something I've been thanked for more than once in church.  A lot of people hide what troubles them, but I usually don't.  When I'm upset, it's all over my face and in my voice.  I really don't have a poker face. I don't buy into the shame that often surrounds our most petitioned prayers.  I believe in prayer and I know focusing on our biggest goals is often how they fall into our laps. That and lots of hard work, persistence, follow up, tenacity, grace and fistfuls of favor. I told my ex so many lies.  Stupid lies about the smallest, most insignificant things.  The one therapy session he went to, he told my therapist I was a pathological liar.  I could see how he thought that.  She couldn't. The more we talked, the more it became clear I only lie to my parents and him.  I'm working on telling the truth to my parents, even the uncomfortable truths that involve how I feel about things, and not just facts of my existence. I don't talk to the ex anymore. These are people with opinions I cared about.  These are people who I couldn't share myself with because for some reason I felt shame in my choices when it came to my parents and the ex. I wanted approval and I lied to hide myself so I wouldn't have to face the fact that I might not get approval.

My Dad will often quote scripture.  It's just part of who he is.  He traced our family tree and found that we come from a Sephardic bloodline on his father's side.  It makes sense.  My maiden name is a fairly common Egyptian name. That being said, the bloodline follows the mother, by tradition. He still likes to remind me I am of the vine, and not grafted into it, and I accept that this is his belief.  I've witnessed a friend's bar mitzvah. It was at University Synagogue on Sunset, and it was such a rich ceremony to witness.  Dad takes it to another level.  He buys gluten free matzoh for me so I can have communion at home. (I won't tell him it's not seder worthy matzoh if you don't.) He was studying Hebrew when I was born and used what he learned in choosing my name. It comes down to pronunciation and letters we have that aren't in the Hebrew alphabet. He's had more than one passover meal and loved the look on my face when I tasted the horseradish to humor him.  (The things I do to show him I love him.) He walks around with a yarmulke under his Viet Nam Veteran trucker cap in an act of faith, and he's given me a prayer shawl, and Chumash because this heritage is important to him.  I have a mezuzah next to my front door, but one graces the doorways in his home and he has one on the dashboard of his Suburban.  My Dad's faith is stronger than I care to imagine and his favorite music is Messianic worship songs to Jesus in Hebrew and English.  I grew up with him quoting "whatever is hidden will be shouted on the rooftops," as one of his favorite scriptures. There are variations of this throughout the bible and he has many more scriptures.

There's irony in that being one of his favorite verses. He will often tell me I disclose too much online.  It's not safe.  He wants me to be afraid of what might happen if someone decides they're super interested in me.  So not my problem lately and it's almost comical. I'm not saying I'm invincible, but I will not live in fear. I remind him of the many times the bible tells us to "fear not." My ex hated that I like to share.  He is more private than I am.

I feel being private invites gossip.  I will share enough that you at least have the full story and enough information to be bored with the subject of what I have done.  I write this blog under a pseudonym.  I'm not hiding in fear.  I'm job hunting and it is a move of discernment and wisdom.  Companies want faceless workers who don't exist outside of work performance.  Would you hire me with all I've blogged about since February?

I've always been the person to tell you more than you are comfortable knowing.  My friends are often speechless because they don't know how to react to my truth.  My close friends see my openness as part of who I am and more reasons for open love and acceptance.  And a good laugh.  My honesty is often snarky. My nephews know I will "tell it like it is" because I have.  I've had long talks with them about dating. My nieces and nephews know I will talk to them about the uncomfortable things.  I don't always need a response.  I just want to make them think, and hopefully my perspective is guidance and not control.

I've done lots of things most people wouldn't be proud of.  I feel my past doesn't define me but it has helped shape me. I learn from my mistakes all of the time and some of those lessons are more fun than I deserve. I believe if you don't want people to know what you are doing, you shouldn't do it.  Most of the choices I'm not proud of are followed by the thought that it's done and I can apologize if my decisions adversely affect others and move forward, but I don't bother trying to hide it.  I own what I did because nothing in my life was done to me without my being part of it. I've done it here when I wrote Transparency.  I'm not a victim to my choices and  I won't feel shame for what I've walked through in life.

I'm transparent.  I will shamelessly explain what I'm going through because what I'm going through doesn't define me.  I am not my marriage or divorce.  I'm not my surrogacies and I'm not just an autism mom, any more than I will accept a disorder defining my children. I am who I choose to be, shaped by who I have been, and open to the possibilities of all I care to dream. I blog about a lot that I don't necessarily post on Facebook, but it's less than I would share over coffee.  I don't have a censor that says I should hide from people because at the end of the day I'm comfortable in my own skin and while my skin isn't necessarily thick, I don't wait to let others test it out.  I don't try to listen for what others think.  My day to day life is primarily my kids and lately just me. I use the errands I run as an excuse for a field trip, and enjoy my kid free zone.

Today I took a walk around Mulholland Fountain.  I was on my way to my Dad's place and decided to stop for a few minutes of sun and xeriscaping that circled the rose garden.  The roses were mainly white, but evenly spaced are red roses that peek out in tiny bursts. I have pictures around the filled fountain when I was a baby but I don't remember the last time I walked around it.  I loved the way the trees framed the mountains behind the fountain.

There's little room for the opinions of others when you are busy looking for roses to smell and sunsets to catch.  There are enough little and big things for me to obsess over and observe. There's no shame or reason to avoid transparency. If I find shame in what I think or feel, I will do my best to shift my perspective because I can change what I think but I can't remove the stain of shame in actions that make it hard to live with myself.

My Children Need a Reset Button

Sunday night I picked the kids up a day early. I don't mind my schedule shifting, but the kids don't do well with changes to their routine. Bedtime came later and the idea of going to school the next day was harsh. After school yesterday there was fighting and micro aggressions became assault. I decided I needed to go to my happy place. I thought of that single mom that recharged every few months with her kids when she shared her  Blessings with me. I made a choice knowing at least one child would be angry with it. He was.

We piled in the car and I told them we were chasing the sun. I knew kid1 would hate it because he hates the beach. We parked at Will Rogers just as the sun dipped behind the mountains.

It was a last minute trip with no planning so we didn't pack extra clothes but kid3 always remembers his skateboard. He's a perfect opportunist.

My plan was to pick rocks and find munchies along the pier. Realistically, I know better than to take kids to the ocean and ask them to stay out of it but I wasn't going to freak out over water and sand. That's what a heater and a drive thru are for. Kid2 and kid3 played tag with the ocean and did really well in not pushing each other. Kid1 sat in the car and found more anger by the time we were leaving.

We took the streets home and I pointed out Pacific Palisades High school where my sister graduated. Then I pointed out the street that led to my elementary school, Brentwood Science Magnet. I pointed out UCLA where kid1 plans to go after graduation. Kid2 likes my alma mater, CSULA. I told him I chose that school because of it's location. I didn't tell him how happy it would make me for him to be a 3rd generation alumni. I won't limit him in his goals. I pointed out the Beverly Hills Hotel and admitted I would love to spend a night there one day. I showed them the iconic clubs on Sunset Strip like the Roxy and Rainbow Room, and the shops that aren't flooded with merchandise but are more about the experience they offer. I pointed out the cars that wound through the streets alongside us.  They liked the Ferraris the most, but there was a Jaguar and Lamborghini worth pointing out. I showed them where I worked in January and February. They were curious and my tour guiding kept an open and easy rapport.

Later I plied kid1 with cheesecake and blood orange sorbet. He likes anything with blood oranges in it. Kid2 likes cheesecake and caramel ice cream. Kid3 got strawberry ice cream and no cheesecake but it's in our freezer right now.

Kid2 was happy. Kid3 thinks I'm the best mom. It pays to be irresponsible on a school night. Kid1 was happy to have his sorbet and head home and was even singing in the shower.

There was joy in them last night. They were ready on time this morning. Adding chaos to their thrown off schedules brought peace. I win.

Picking at Scabs When I Should Allow Healing

These scabs are healing into itchy discomfort. I scratch them off with frequency. I don't mean to. My body moves separately from thoughts of healing with intention to what is familiar and feels good. Lies. My self moves into ways that feel. Good or bad, I must feel this thing that makes me wonder if I might have wrecked him just as beautifully as he has altered me. I think of him in kindness and sometimes in echoed sorrows from misguided angst. I've let go of the rage and at times it will surprise me with a visit or because it is no longer around to help me feel. When the rage is gone, thoughts dance in nostalgia and I am bereaved in longing and glowing embers of memories and unfulfilled dreams. Early morning birdsong wakes me and pulls my thoughts out of my control into a movie screen of memory and in predawn silence there is no control in child song distractions. In the glowing light of gentleness before the onslaught of life's demands, there is kindness and wonder and no way to let go.

Closing The Book and Starting New Chapters

I've closed many books in life. You read the last lines. You read them a second time and you sit with it in your hands. You relive the good and the bad and walk through the things that may never have an answer. Then you sit with the book before you and you thank it for what you felt, and wonder if you'll ever read something that wrecks you so beautifully and you take a deep breath. You smell the ink on pages that smell like the history of raw emotions. There are dried tears marking pages of the best reads. You feel the weight of the book and you test the binding you may have abused. You fold back the dog eared pages as you prepare to start a new book because you don't need to go over the important bits you tried to relive. You've internalized those memories and they are carefully kept in the forefront of your mind, no matter how many times you've tried to ignore their significant clues to the ending you didn't see coming. It's time to put it down and move on to the next one. As per Dr. Cantu via Dr. Calabrese at Cal State LA, never deny literature as something that is not a part of your heritage. Don't give it to someone else because it was written in a language not your own. Don't deny yourself by giving ownership of a text away to anti-intellectual whims. Literature is universal with themes that cross cultures. Its values are eternally true.

As for your individual story, we are surprisingly adaptable to revision.