Oceans and Waves

It's been a gnarly week.  I left work early on Monday.  Exactly 2 years after my pulmonary embolisms, I was having chest pain that felt like I was eating wheat, but I wasn't eating wheat.  Part of me knew it was probably tummy troubles, but because of the tight chest and childhood asthma making a comeback lately, I thought the prudent thing would be to check it out.  I hadn't eaten wheat at all in the last few days.  My chest felt painfully tight for at least 15 minutes straight and puking until there was nothing left didn't help.  Apologies to whomever had to listen from the stall next to me at work. An ER visit with tests, a blog post and a nap later and I went home to tackle mom duties. Indigestion from stress and I was ready for more.  

Hindsight is always crystal clear.  I had 2 and a half cups of coffee with enough coffee grounds in it to pretend it was tea and I was doing a divination reading.  It's probably what upset my stomach although I haven't had any other heartburn symptoms until tonight.  Even then, my wet burps weren't painful.  It was a demanding week with the boys.  They are consistently themselves, but my ability to handle it was shifting and I was short on reserves.  Today I had three people push my buttons in a way where I reached out to a friend in an effort to not lose my shit.  I smothered my anger in chocolate and headed to the beach after work.

There's something so healing about the sound of waves crashing and it was a beautiful night to stand over the ocean.  I haven't actually been in the ocean in years, but I imagined what that used to feel like and the memory shifted my perspective for just long enough.  I should paint the picture.

When I got to the beach, the sun had already dipped beneath the horizon and the inky blue of night was splashed across the sky with the pink and gold of a light that can't be dimmed even after the sun makes way for the moon and stars. The clouds were drifting far above, and I knew the rain that started falling in Burbank would wait for my recharge in Santa Monica.

I walked along the pier and got to the end where anglers were using huge amounts of bait for the small mackerel they were catching.  Lower atmospheric pressure meant the ocean was swelling in anticipation for the storm and the water reached further up the pilings to the pier I stood on.  I stood over the water that crested in small translucent blue green waves.  The water was fairly clear and even at night with the lighted bobbers being used by hopeful anglers, I could see down several feet into the water.  The water rose and fell gently, with hardly a gust of wind.

I took the time to swipe left and right, because online dating is something a friend does and he makes it look not so scary.  We even swiped right on each other so he could see what vibe I'm sending out when a man asks me to visit him in his home but I've never met him before, and a second asks me to meet him in his home for a massage an hour and a half after a "hello."  He couldn't see anything other than how deep my need for conversation is.  I lightened the mood a bit, but the offers remained the same.

I took my time leaving the pier, meandering from side to side while walking east, appreciating the sound of water, and people, and Pokemon players.  I stopped and stood for a while to admire the waves that were cresting, then crashing into foam and a rushing gallop of waves running along the surface of the ocean.  Here I could see clouds of sand churning and dancing, making clear waters murky. I walked further toward land and as the waves crashed violently, further out, spent waves weren't consistently able to reach the same places.

I thought of those summers as a child when I would go out far enough into the ocean that I had to tread water because I couldn't stand.  I remember the feel of water so deep that I could curl my body up into the fetal position and just float on the waves, bobbing buoyantly on the surface.  Or I could hold my breath and go further toward the shore and the waves that were cresting would force my movement.  I could relax my body enough to be tossed into somersaults.  These waves would run toward the shore in shallow rushing foam, pushing me forward toward land.  On the shore, every 7th wave would reach far up the sand, but the other waves couldn't go as far.

When you first arrive at the shore and you start walking in.  The icy cold of the water first gives you pause at your ankles and again at your thighs.  Your body keeps telling you to stop .  The further you go, the more the waves fight you until you see the big ones coming and you can just dive below them and come up without being pushed away.

It was a moment where I realized I could stick my head up above the water and I could see where I was and what was coming my way in life.  The waves and the force of them is consistent.  That doesn't change.  What changes is the depth of the water, and the point at which the ground interferes with the cycle of the waves. Where I am shifts with who I choose to be. You fight to stand and move forward and then it gets easier and you see where life will move you.  Your body acclimates to the temperature and the force of nature becomes a balm as the waters wash away concerns of life, giving way to the feel of existence in ways that are foreign and call back to the time in utero when we were warm and safe and held. You dance away and laugh at the waves that try to reach you but you know where you stand and they are always out of reach. 

The farther in the ocean we are, we are carried.  We are pushed and held and oblivious to the distance we've slowly moved up north with the will of the ocean. We don't even see what's happening because we're so involved in being carried and guided by the waves - by our circumstance. The ability to stand changes the closer to land I get and the more firmly I plant my feet, the more violently the waves will push me, and crash over me.  The sand will shift away and suck me deeper into the muck and sludge.  But I don't have to stay where I am and life won't allow such obstinance.

Tonight I stood above the ocean and figuratively raised my head above the water to see where I was, deciding I'm not in the crash zone anymore. I'm in deep water, but every once in awhile, I find myself in the crash zone, being pushed out far enough to realize the waves that once overpowered me are still unable to reach as far as they once did and I'm diving deep without much effort lately.  Sometimes the waves are bigger than I am, but I haven't left the beach and that means I'm still trying.  And sometimes that's enough.  

What's with my Motivation?

I was blocked last night.  I totally deserved it and it made me laugh.  The moment passed and the reality of what I did hit me at lunch today.  Last night my Tuesday night sitter quit on me.  I was dealing with ex texts in the afternoon. I had a costume to help with and pumpkins to carve and I just wanted to get off of my feet. I was mothering my boys all morning and running late, so I picked up my lunch and my hangry moment pointed out that I cared more about feeding myself then I cared about getting blocked by a man I was kinda into. He was beautiful and tall and smart.  He was a feminist.  It didn’t make me ignore the parts I didn’t like.  I just felt like I didn’t have to see him enough for those parts to bother me.  We were chatting for about a week and I asked him out only to get a delayed acceptance.  It wasn’t a no, but a not now and it irritated me.

I’m very used to having men eager for my attention and when his busy life meant dinner with me would be on hold (when clearly people eat dinner every day), I had a tantrum.  I’m not the type to yell or fight.  My ex used to joke around with his friends that I am not a black woman because I don’t feed the rage that most women (in general) fight with.  I’m too calculating for that. My initial tantrum was a teasing nudge. The full-blown tantrum was to set my inner psycho free in all the terrifying ways.

Really, he asked for time.  If I were advising a friend, I would say to continue flirting with and dating others (advice given and taken).  I don’t get exclusive unless it’s something we’re mutually committing to, but flirting and giving up my kid free time are two very different levels of amazing to be reached. I would have said to give him space.  Forget to text for a few days.  Make him wait on your response a bit.  Let him see that his response was read but answer it hours or days later, and not immediately.  But I ignored my advice.

It’s not the first time either.

The first time was when my last crush became more work than fun.  He was uncomfortable with my open adoration.  I liked how uncomfortable it made him when I looked into his eyes like I might actually see someone who was worth my time.  It’s rare and I treat that as the gift that it is. If you’re special to me, you’ll know it because so few men are.  The day that I was bored of the push and pull, I remember writing a blog post that was solely focused on the amazing I saw in him, leaving out the bits that I’m not sharing here either.  I did it to push and nudge him and it was too much for him.  I was looking for a reaction and I loved the reaction because I couldn’t continue caring for him.  I mean, I care, I just couldn’t see myself falling in world shattering love with him. I had reached a plateau and it was going downhill.

My standard is high.  He has to be capable of treating me better than I treat me.  He has to be a warrior dragon slayer because I am and he has to be able to handle the tough parts that I hold.  I never saw myself being able to pour my darkness into him because I never imagined he could hold it.  He was beautiful, and smart.  He was creative and driven.  But it wasn’t enough, so I pushed and nudged until he walked away.  I think I was hoping there was enough grit for a reaction from him, but he reserved that for others. It was like he couldn’t trust me with his demons any more than I could trust him with mine. I hear he’s happy with someone else now, and that really does make me happy.  I wish him all the best, and can appreciate that I was amused.  I grew.  He was never the one for me.

The man from last night was never going to be the one either.  I might have considered a few months of frolicking fun, but beyond that . . . I couldn’t see him ever meeting my boys.  It was a lot to ask me to wait on a dinner when I needed that visceral gut reaction that I can’t get through a device.

The way I pushed them away was similar.  I found men that couldn’t accept the amazing I saw in them because they probably couldn’t see it in themselves.  When you can't see your amazing, someone else's view will only feel bad and be rejected. I can't shape their ego that rejects what I see and it becomes bigger and more terrifying than they could dream of. I was offering a kid free night to sit and enjoy company because he must be amazing for that alone, but he has to have so much more for something deeper that I just couldn’t see in either man.  I handed them the ways I was intrigued and amazed and threw out scary words like “I could fall in love,” not actually committed to that idea myself.  And I waited.  And I watched.  And my intensity burned them and they stepped away, both admitting it was “too much.”  I walked away in laughter, probably giving the impression that I was shattered. I enjoyed their rejection and there's something wrong in that.

The bigger question is why would I do something like that?  Why would I be so attracted to men that were visibly less confident than I am? Why would I push them away with affirmations of their beauty only to enjoy their rejection because I wasn’t transparent enough to say to them that I could see they weren’t reaching the bar I set above them and they probably weren’t interested in it anyway, and we could be friends.  What is it about me that wants to kick their legs out from under them when they aren’t able to meet my expectations.  That is the part that bothers me most.

At the end of the day, I’m taking a hard look at my motives.  I’m seeing the why and the how and I don’t love what I see, but I can love myself despite it.  It’s like wanting to hurt something because it’s cute.  It’s a psychological phenomenon that I play out in the men I am kinda but not entirely into.  It’s my way of balancing their good with my aggression in a way that distances myself and won’t really hurt them.  Okay the guy from last night probably thinks I’m going to stalk him now, and I can’t stop laughing at that, but it wasn’t meant to traumatize him.

I think it's the parts I see in them that reflect what I used to see in me.  I was insecure as a wife.  I didn't love myself.  I didn't look for my reflection in random mirrors.  I didn't believe I hold all of the amazing that is me.  My oldest had this moment a few years back.  He had just transitioned to a school for autistic children and in the beginning, he was being a bully to the other children that were lower functioning.  He had been bullied by neurotypical kids at his previous school and when he moved, he saw in them what he was teased for and in a repeated cycle, continued the abuse as an abuser empowering the victim within in a way that was broken and hurting others.  I'm hurting others as a temporary salve.  It's wrong and I need to stop it.

I’m intense.  I’m empathic.  I’m a bit of an old soul.  And I love that about me.  It was incredible to see so many articles I could identify with filtering through my Facebook newsfeed today.  It’s like the universe is pointing at the ways I was dodging a bullet I didn’t even know was coming by reaffirming the ways I am a powerhouse that needs grit in a man that can polish my rough bits.

He needs to be tall and beautiful (because I’m shallow).  He needs to be smart (for when I’m intense). He must be a warrior that can take my dark because I have large doses of dark daily and most men aren’t asked to hold it because I don’t think they’re capable.  That says more than it should about the men I’ve dated or the one I married.

You're Overthinking it, Love

Me: I hope you aren't drowning in my dark.  It can be a bit heavy if you aren't me.

Him: Yes.  Stay in the light.  It's warm.

Me: I get the impression you can handle it, but don't let me overburden you.

Him: What does that mean?

Me: You have a strength about you but it's not a strength that you can put on like a jacket.  It's who you are and it was born through survival.  It's easy to lean on you and borrow what you have.

Him: Wow.  You're not wrong, but how did you get all of that?

Me: We hung out and talked for like 20 minutes in my car.  You were there.

I overthink things.  It's a default setting for me.  For years that skill was put to use in advocating as an autism mom.  My Mom had a few wars to wage and my research superpowers were called to action.  As a student and mom and wife, I was able to do it without sleep and not always remembering to feed myself with a kindergartner on my back, asking me how to spell things. Now it's about people and interactions and I can't shut it off.

It's funny sometimes that I can see what I'm doing and call it out in others, but it's hard to stop.  A couple of weeks ago I was at La Velvet Margarita Cantina in Hollywood with friends, having fun playing wing woman to the men with me.

I gave one friend advice that got him affection from his girlfriend:

Me: buy a rose. Call her up. Tell her this rose was handed to you by the guy walking around and selling them. It wasn't until you touched the petals that you missed her because they reminded you of her skin. Then ask if you can drop it off.

Him: you're good.

Me: yeah . . . When you see her, make the rose an extension of your fingertips along her cheek. She needs to feel what reminded you of her.

For my other friend, I kept offering my friendly "hello" to random women and nudging my friend in their direction.  He'd chat and come back for a debriefing, and I kept telling him, "stop overthinking it, love."

That same night there was an Andy.  Walking past him, I called out, "You're beautiful."  We had a couple of separate moments where the conversation started, and I walked away, but I have fun rejecting men and I was looking for an excuse to let him go.  I wasn't lying.  He was beautiful, but that is never enough. His rejection came in his passivity.  He let me initiate each interaction and I was okay letting him go because I wasn't interested enough to accept the mixed signals he was sending.  I watched his body language and the way he had moments of turning out toward me and moments of turning his back to me.  I noticed way too much about what he was doing to appreciate the short conversations we had.  I was over thinking it.

I'm really great at over thinking things.  I'm exceptionally talented at over complicating the simplest things.

Today I'm working on bold authenticity because it's easier to hide in something false.  I'm working on accepting that life's events are neutral and I can guide my response by defining my interpretation.  I'm living in intention and outside of expectations.  (This should be a post one day, but don't hold me to it.) I'm working on being present in the moment, because it's not a super power right now. I'm working on self love because when old patterns emerge, I can no longer ignore them and beating myself up over them is my default.  I get to see what I'm doing and what my motives are and face them so I'm no longer controlled by them.  And I get to release the need to over think things by addressing them boldly, no matter what that may look like.

Pulmonary Embolisms

Two years ago I was just getting used to eliminating wheat from my diet. I was prediabetic and eliminating sugar, but starting to walk more. My car was dead. I was working part time and taking the train to get to work, calling it exercise. The mini storage I worked at was 8 1/2 acres and it was inventory day so I was walking to every space to make sure the locks matched our records.  That night I woke up with horrible leg cramps. I figured I just needed more potassium and planned for bananas and avocados from the store the next day. I rubbed out the cramps and went to bed without even waking the ex. 

The next morning I had mild chest pain. It wasn't bad. Every so often it caught my attention and I'd rub that spot without even realizing it. I was also working as a driver for my ex, so I ran to Costco for him to pick up the cookies for resale. I delivered an order. I was going to do a second one when I felt like I should get my annoying little pains checked out. You aren't supposed to feel your chest. 

I drove to the emergency room and walked myself in. I mentioned chest pain but I probably didn't look like I felt it. I have a high pain threshold and have had a few natural childbirths, even with back labor. I'm a badass. 

At first the doctor didn't look at me. He ordered tests and walked away. He'd tell me a result and order more tests, then walk away. After the cat scan he came back and sat next to the bed. He looked me in the eyes and that's when I knew it was serious. 

I had pulmonary embolisms and they covered my entire left lung with a few clots on my right. I was sent up to the cardiac floor with someone to push my bed and a nurse to make sure I didn't die on the way up. My birth control pills, or the hormones in them gave me blood clots. 

Getting into my bed seemed to stress everyone out because I moved too quickly. The danger of a blood clot dislodging and finding a home in my brain or heart means I could have had a heart attack or stroke and died within seconds. I wasn't too worried because at least I wasn't doing jumping jacks. 

The fear of the situation never really settled in me. I had spent a month hospitalized with the twins two years before and I was used to the hum of machines, the squeak of nursing clogs on linoleum, the nurses that would shift between urgency and calm . . . Smiles and detachment. 

I didn't realize this was an anniversary (because I'm not that morbid) until Facebook reminded me (because they have no memory filter) and it looked like: 

Conversations with nurses:

Me: I'm sensitive to wheat. 

Nursing assistant: here's a white roll. It's not wheat. 

RN: I need to clock out for a break and I'll be right back for your history. 

Me: you don't have to cut into your lunch for me. I'll stay up. 

RN: it's just a break and we work through those. 

Me: maybe that's why they forgot to connect me to the heparin IV in the ER. 

Me: can you move the IV? It's pinching my hand. 

RN: that's considered invasive. It's not something I can just do. 

Me: come on, I haven't started the Coumadin yet. Apparently I'm really great at clotting. 

RN: are you a smoker?

Me: I smoked 2 packs a day about 14 years ago. Actually, I bought 2 packs a day. I usually shared my cancer sticks. Worst investment ever. 

RN: do you have an advance directive?

Me: no, but I've thought about it. (I start to explain) 

RN: no! Wait! I can't discuss it with you. 

Getting blood draws and vitals every couple of hours with bad hospital food is not pleasant. At the same time, I get to have a nice view and lounge with no bra or pants. No pants!!!

After being in the cardiac intensive care unit for a few days and gradually being permitted out of bed, I started walking laps around the unit. I was on blood thinners for a few months. I can never again go on hormonal birth control because the risk is too great that I'll have blood clots again and any future pregnancy would be on blood thinners and high risk. I won't say all birth control pills will kill you. I'm just lucky enough to have a body that doesn't like me to live too wildly because then I wouldn't have a story to tell. 

Birth control pills and exercise tried to kill me. Because of this experience, I get everything that's abnormal checked out immediately. It feels like I'm a hypochondriac but when I think of my kids, it's worth a few hours in an ER where I get to meet doctors (that are never my type) and ask:

"Are you here to save my life? I'll be your damsel in distress."

"I hope you don't rush through every single one of my vital signs."

"The nurse took my temperature but I'm sure it's gone up since you came in."

"Do you do this sort of thing with all of your patients, or am I just a lucky girl."

"I know it's the nurse's job, but I'd be happy to let you stick me."

SO TOTALLY KIDDING. 

Humor is important in a hospital. You go in healthy and they poke and prod you with long wait times. You go in dying or think you could be dying and that generally sucks too. 

You go often enough and you learn the lingo and know a heparin lock is coming. You prepare to be exposed and touched and pleasantly surprised when exam gloves hold warmth. You ask for heated blankets and nap when you can. You know that your nurses are your lifeline because your doctors won't really have time to talk. 

You notice patterns in how busy it is. Monday's are crowded with people that wait all weekend for a doctor's note unless it's cold or raining because people prefer staying home, and hot weather brings pregnant ladies kickstarting labor with dehydration. Honestly, I'd rather be boring and healthy. 

This week I will celebrate my life. I'll take myself out for a really great meal. I'll buy myself flowers and pick out lingerie. I'll take a candle lit bubble bath and appreciate the last two years that saw near death, a broken marriage and the opportunity to fall in love with myself again. . . The opportunity to fall in love with someone new. 

Micro Midlife Crisis

When I was younger, my dream was to have enough disposable income to have someone else clean up after me.  That's as far as I got. When I started college, it was about doing what my parents wanted me to do.  I didn't want to go.  My mom wanted to send me to Thailand for the summer and I refused.  (It was about a boy and not my smartest move.) I had no idea what I wanted to do.  I was one of those students that kept taking electives, hoping it would point me in a direction.  It pointed me in many directions and nothing was really calling to me.  (In hindsight, taking your core requirements will do the same and keep you from wasting time.) I ended up taking classes on and off for so long that by the time I got my BA, the kids starting in the fall were born the year I graduated high school.  My 20 year reunion is in less than 2 weeks. When I became a wife and mom, my goal was to be really good at that and put my family ahead of myself. I wanted to support my ex. Unwinding after work was his right, even though I was exhausted with an infant. He wanted to disappear for a weekend of paintball, then it was deep sea fishing and eventually his rap concerts and I stayed home with our kids. It never occurred to me to have a night with the girls. When I finally did get "me time," it was time spent running household errands alone. (I know how to party.)

I got a call earlier this evening from a friend having a freak out moment that I'm really familiar with.  He was bothered that so much of his identity is tied to his relationship with his kids and the people in his life and he realized he didn't do anything that was just for himself.  He was so involved in the success of those around him that he forgot to sort out his goals and line up his accomplishments.

My first freakout like that happened in my early 20's.  I was a mom, wife, sister, daughter, and had no idea who I was anymore.  I lost touch with the girl that loved shooting pool, smoking cigarettes, drinking with friends, beach days, and hiking to Sturtevant Falls from Chantry Flats.  Even when I was doing those things I was unsure of what I loved, and what I was doing because it's what my friends were doing. I could handle being home alone but not being out alone. 

In early marriage and motherhood, it was so easy for me to get caught up in being who I thought I was supposed to be.  This person took care of the house and did it with a smile.  I looked at motherhood as something that didn't fit what I grew up with.  My mom went to work, then came home for snuggles.  I didn't feel like I was missing anything. My Dad stayed home with me or both parents worked alternating graveyard shifts so one of them was always available.

As a new mom, I tried to follow what my ex had as an example growing up because he loved his mom and I wanted to be like her.  It's hard to fit an ideal that was never yours and that was colored by the fantasies of a little boy that may not have a clear understanding of the realities of motherhood from the perspective of a mother.  Her input (innocent as it was) always made it seem like I was failing.  I just couldn't do it the way she did.  It nearly broke me.  I sometimes joke that I will do my best to ruin every relationship my kids ever get into by being amazing now, but really, I only hope they find someone to love them like I do.  I hope to never make a woman or man feel like they are lacking because of the ideal of what I view as my daily shortcomings.  Yes, I have boys, but we live with the expectation that gay or straight, I will always love my kids.

When I looked at my life and realized it wasn't what I wanted my life to look like, I tried to work within what I was capable of to transform my life.  I started small.  I got curious about subjects and would spend hours reading about topics that interested me.  It started with bees and gardening, jewelry making, cross stitch, crochet, scrapbooking, and for a while I started making soap with fat and lye.  Eventually having lye in the house was way too scary because I had small kids.  I still have my soap molds, and have happy thoughts about getting to the "trace" stage and may pick it back up one day.  (You'll just have to look up soapmaking.)  This helped for a little while.

Eventually, I went back to school. I needed to finish.  When I went back it wasn't about my parents.  Finishing school became my goal.  I wanted my degree.  I wanted to earn that class ring.  I never got my high school ring because I always expected to go to college. When I decided to go back, I remembered how much I loved being in the classroom.  I loved the discourse and the moments when one person would make a profound observation that would shift my perspective into a new interpretation.  I loved that feeling.  A man that can shift my perspective with a sentence is one of the first things I look for in dating, and why I often spend my kid free weekends alone.  (Reaching the bar I set is a really tall order but he has to be smart.) My education is the one thing that was all mine, and could never be taken from me.

I had another moment of awakening earlier this year.  I wrote about it here. I had been doing things the way I was taught for so long that it became my expectation. When I had the freedom to do it my way, it took a while to realize I could. That realization felt like freedom.

My big midlife crisis happened when my ex had his moment of realizing his life didn't look the way he wanted it to.  When he left, I was lost.  I could handle the things I was already handling.  I had the bills in my name.  I had been the handy person around the house, or I knew who to call.  I knew how to exist in the ways I needed to.  What I didn't know was what I wanted my life to look like.  I didn't know what my life should be now that I was only obligated to my boys and myself.  It was scary because I had to figure out what I like to do in my free time now that shared custody means I have so much of it.  I'm still figuring it out. I was recently asked what I like to do, and I listed my usual field trips, but I'm still searching and I hope I never stop searching.  

I was listening to house music again for the first time in decades on Friday.  It felt like urgency.  I couldn't stop dancing in my seat and it probably looked like I had to pee.  It probably made me feel like I had to pee.  But it was amazing in the memories it brought up of raves and dance crews (shout out to the Kinky Dolls . . . anyone?), being known and handed drinks when I entered a party . . . Yeah, and then there were some things that don't need reminiscing.  The music was a reminder of a time I had forgotten in the dark alleys of motherhood martyrdom.  

I spent so long being a wife and mom.  I was a student, then I graduated, and I had decided my kids couldn't become orphans to the stacks, so my next goal of law school will happen once my nest is empty.  I had fluid ideas of what I wanted to do on our next camping trip or what my next job might eventually look like.  I had to start figuring out where my happy places were.

I started bullet journaling.  I really should get back to it.  You can look up bullet journals online and there are many amazing variations.  It's about finding one that works for you.  Mine ended up in a three ring binder with different sections for my goals. I had a daily "to do" list. I had a calendar.  I had long term goals and 18 month plans.  I had a list of books to read and movies to see.  I had financial plans and outlined the way I wanted to shape my existence.

The daily to do list was a list that was marked in some way each day.  It wasn't enough to write a list that got crossed off.  I had a box next to each item and I would mark those boxes as in progress, completed, rescheduled (with a date), and cancelled (with a really good reason for being cancelled). I was accountable to myself to work toward my goals every single day.  Right now I have a cork board with my long term goals listed.  The bullet journal had deadlines. My white board has short term plans for me and the boys.  But the bullet part is what was driving me to do more each day.  To get back into it, I would need time to daydream.  I need to visualize what I want my life to look like.

It won't be solitary.  I can do solitary, but I'm ready for partnership.  I'm ready to support and be supported.  I won't fear what was and color the future with it.  I'm sure I'll find him because I'm open to looking in a way that I wasn't a couple of months ago.

It will include road trips and local adventures. I've never been to San Francisco or Catalina Island.  I want to explore and be a tourist.

It will include my boys, but there will be things that are just about me and maybe friends or a special someone because motherhood doesn't mean I need to be a martyr. (If I say it enough I'll believe it and the guilt will fall away.)

It will include mountain sunrises and streams and beaches at sunset.

When my friend called tonight, I was excited.  There is so much power and possibility in realizing that your life doesn't look the way you want it to.  There is so much potential in that realization because not everyone can see the disconnect.  He arrived at a place where he can slay dragons and rescue princesses.  He gets to be his knight in shining armor with Prince Charming hair and damsel in distress and that is the greatest gift he could give himself. I'm excited to see what his life will look like in the next few weeks.  More than that, I'm excited about the ways I get to start my planning and plotting again.

A midlife crisis isn't the end.  In my marriage, it was the end that opened up an amazing start. It's a place to embark on your next phase of amazing.  It might suck in this moment, but this moment tells you where you've been and which direction you get to lead in.  You get to lead your life!

Have you ever had a dream you let go of? What's stopping you from picking it back up? 

2016 Presidential Election Soapboxing

Warning, this is a really long post and this is your only trigger warning because my life doesn't give warnings and I usually don't either.  When I was little my parents would leave us at home (my eldest sister is a decade older than me and would kid sit us), go for a short walk and come back with stickers on their clothes that said, "I  voted."  It was kind of cute to see them leave the house, hand in hand to go vote together.  It was once a fantasy of mine to do that with my husband.  It never happened.  The one time we did vote together, the kids sat with one of us in the car and we took turns.  My parents did this when we lived in East Hollywood.  I was little and their unhappy moments were far from divorce worthy.

In middle school, I ran for office and won.  It was a popularity contest.  I had a couple of friends that didn't like my opponent and they wanted me to run against her because they thought I would win. I did.  I wasn't qualified.  I didn't even know what my job would be.  I wanted it because my friends thought it would be cool and I wanted to be cool for them.  I ran for it.  I won.  In the end, my opponent should have won.  She's currently still amazingly beautiful, smart and successful.  I'd vote for her on anything she chose to run for.  I lost touch with the people I ran for.  I don't even remember their names or who they were, but I still have a Facebook friendship with the woman I ran against. She was my Drill Team Captain and for a time was one of my best friends. Don't do what they did. The person that should hold office should be most qualified. 

Years later I would turn 18 and get to vote for Bill Clinton.  That was a big deal because I liked him enough to say that I wanted him to lead the country for a second term.  He may not have been a man I would want in my life, but in spite of his moral shortcomings, he did right by our country.

I didn't always make voting a priority.  As a stay at home mom, I was often sleep walking while covered in kid vomit.  Getting out to vote was just another thing to add to my list and it wasn't a moment of pride or joy.  As a couple, the only time we voted together was for Obama's first term.  We didn't vote for his second term.  The last time I meant to vote, I had work duties and mom duties and there wasn't enough time in my day. As shameful as that is, it really just speaks to my mindset about life in general.  This election, I'm voting tonight by absentee ballot, so nothing can come in the way of my civic duty and the voting joy I feel right now.  It wasn't a priority for my ex either.  His sample ballot arrived at my house a few days ago.

This election matters.  All of them do, but this one has elicited a visceral response so strong that I am choosing to not remain silent.  Normally I keep quiet.  I feel that so many people have fought for the right to vote that it's not my place to influence individual decisions.  It's also backlash from the times my Dad handed me his Sample Ballot that he filled out for me.  I won't say that Hillary Clinton speaks for me on all issues, but that's because she isn't me.  And no, I wouldn't want to be her.  She is a better person than me for walking through her husband's infidelity, taking him back and owning responsibility for his actions so she can command the office that she's worked so hard for.  Her vision more closely aligns with mine than Trump's does.  Even if my Dad believes she is the Antichrist. Seriously. Trump . . . Well, he's a special snowflake and I want to address his stance on certain things and how they apply to my experience of the laps I've taken around the sun.

I actually listened to one of his speeches in its entirety a few months ago, and I could see his allure to others.  The last time I tried to listen, I couldn't stop laughing.  That's a problem because I know better.  You can't get angry or make fun of the ignorant, but you can pity them. He's a bigot that isn't aware that he's racist.  He appeals to those that see Hillary Clinton as far from religiously grounded because she believes a woman has a right to control her reproductive decisions.  He appeals to the Veterans that have fought for our country, though he does it in a placating, superficial way.

It's not enough to say Donald Trump is sexist because there are enough people doing that for us.  Here's one.  I'm not even going to go into all of the issues.  It seems unnecessary . . .  overkill.  What can I say?  He makes it easy.

My Body

My Mom had three daughters and miscarried twin boys sometime before me.  I gave her varicose veins and thyroid problems. She was done and I don't blame her.  She's since expanded her family through adoption. When I was born, she wanted to have her tubes tied.  My Dad didn't consent and the doctor wouldn't perform the procedure.  My Mom wasn't able to make a medical decision about her own body because it was 1978.  I'll never understand what makes a man think he has some form of entitlement over a woman's body.  Even if he is my Dad.

Today, I watched a friend's video where she spoke about the 8 boys that cornered her and put their hands all over her body.  I'm starting to think that is some sort of rite of passage.  In the 8th grade, I had to walk to a quieter section of campus to get to my electricity electives class. I appreciated the class, and have used what I learned to swap out outlets in my home. I was the only girl in the class, and on a daily basis, boys would slap my ass, or grab my body, uninvited, as if I was theirs to own and touch.  I complained to the teacher.  In a perfect example of male ineptitude, he shrugged his shoulders and told me, "boys will be boys."  I wrote, "Yessie's butt" on the bottom of my gym shirt, covering my butt in an attempt to own my body (no irony intended) and adopted the attitude that owning what they were doing to me was what I wanted, taking away their power and the allure of a sexual assault.  Saying I wanted what they were doing was what made it stop. Sexual aggression isn't about arousal, but about power. I complained to teachers and faculty and it wasn't until the end of the semester that I changed classes.  The boys were never punished.

I have serious "What the fuck?" moments when I think about the fact that there's a man running for president that thinks it's okay to grab a woman . . . To demean her because he has some sort of right and authority over the way she looks . . . And people want to award this behavior because they are afraid of a woman that is great at being a politician in the way we would expect any man to be.  I have friends that think this is okay.  Seriously.  Line up her offenses and see where men in her position have gone wrong and you'll see she's vilified because of her gender, and not held to the same standard because she is lacking a penis. For Trump to get away with his admitted behavior after how I and many others treated Bill Cosby shows me that race is still a huge issue for our masses.

I grew up being told to never travel alone, or go to bathrooms alone because it's safer to travel in numbers because being a woman means we should always be in fear because we are always vulnerable.  I learned that when I'm catcalled or approached on the street, it's less likely to turn scary if I smile and give the attention they're after. It has shadowed my interactions.  I often tell men that I think they're beautiful, but that usually doesn't mean I want them.  It's a way to own unsolicited assessments of my looks.  If I do it back, it's not invading my sense of self with what I'm interpreted as.

I'm used to a friendly hello,

being whistled at,

catcalled,

asked why I'm not smiling,

having a tongue stuck out at me suggestively,

having my ass slapped when walking in close spaces with groups of men,

walking the long way to avoid quiet streets,

thinking of personal safety when planning a night, or day,

letting someone know where I'm going and who I'm with when on a date,

telling someone when I'm heading home because I might not make it home,

not trusting a drink if I didn't see it poured,

being followed down the street, 

not drinking enough to relax if I'm not with people I know or trust,

unsolicited dick pics when online dating.

With my boys, I hope to raise them in such a way that they know they are responsible for the sexual culture they live in.  We all affect each other.  We're all responsible. 

We don't need to elect a president that normalizes sexual aggression as locker room banter.  I know too many really great men that respect women and themselves too much to act on an impulse.  I don't attack the cute men running past me.  And I don't expect a medal for my self control either.

Digging deeper, I considered a late term abortion with my youngest child.  I was deeply depressed.  It wasn't the depression where you tell people you want to kill yourself.  It wasn't a cry for help.  Many late nights were spent sitting on the floor with a handful of pills next to the bed where my ex and our older two were sleeping and preparing to kill myself without a note.  I was crying silently and scribbling in a journal. It was in those moments that my son would kick me and remind me that he was there and wanted to live.

I grew up in a Christian household.  I personally view life as starting from the moment the sperm meets the egg. There are so many things that can stop that from happening and anything I can do to help it along should be done.  How amazing to step into the face of a miracle and take part in it.  I've always felt this way, but for a time, I couldn't see how I could be what I needed to be.  Being born is the most difficult thing any human could ever do.  Everything after that and your body naturally fights to survive.  Anything after that comes to the negotiation of our choices from moment to moment.

My family couldn't understand why I would have a third child when I had two with autism already and couldn't afford the children we had.  I couldn't get emotional support from my ex. I kept pushing back survey ultrasounds so I could schedule them where he could find out the sex with me until my doctor said I would miss the window of time to get the clearest picture of my son's health.  I can't tell you how many times I cried in my obstetrician's office, going over the literature for an abortion because I couldn't see a way out of the loneliness of being a single parent while with my ex.  I stuck it out for the kid that kept kicking me when I was down.  He is the reason why I'm hyper aware of how I'm doing now.  I will never slip into that kind of sorrow again without seeking help.  But I almost aborted him.  I didn't.  I got to snuggle with him all morning.

I made choices with my body.  I wasn't just pregnant.  My body changed before I knew the seven children I carried were part of me.  I had tender breasts, a constant need to run to the bathroom with a full bladder, heartburn and exhaustion.  I cried because I was happy or sad or because I didn't know how I felt. I was sensitive to smells and was constantly working my abdominal muscles by dry heaving. I avoided pain meds, coffee, alcohol, rare meats, deli foods, chocolate, green tea and any other thing that could harm each child I carried.  My body shifted and grew.  I learned what stress incontinence is.  I pushed a person out of my body, leaving slackened muscles and stretch marks in their wake.  A pregnant woman isn't just pregnant.  She is a bringer of life and sacrifice.  I chose this for myself, but it's ridiculous to believe I have the right to make that choice for any other human.  It's insane to think a man would be able to make this decision for women he has never met.

Who I am

I come from an international family.  Right now, my Thai/Burmese mom is in Thailand with my caucasian/Okie step-dad.  My Dad is a mixed concoction of African American.  My siblings through adoption are Vietnamese, Mexican and African American.  It's not enough to say we are okay with other races because we're Facebook friends, or we've been together at work or a barbecue.

Gandhi once said, "If you really wish to overcome your pain, find a young [Muslim] boy, just as young as your son . . . whose parents have been killed by Hindu mobs. Bring up that boy like you would your own son, but bring him up in the Muslim faith to which he was born. Only then will you find that you can heal your pain, your anger, and your longing for retribution."

Profound, right?

It's not enough to claim connection in superficiality.  We must learn to appreciate other cultures from their perspective and not your interpretation of their experience from the distance that we're accustomed to.  

I'm a native from L.A.  It's normal to live next to a neighbor for several months but never notice him until you start dating people and you notice him because you start looking at others as potential dates. You realize that the guy next door showers at the same time most evenings and after his first noticed shower, a nice neighbor might suggest he should invest in curtains.  (No, I'm not a nice neighbor.) 

A long time ago we were called a country that was a melting pot, and then we became a bouillabaisse.  I have no idea what we are now, but I know without the unique amazing attributes we carry as individuals, we'd be lacking so much as a whole.  (And it's not just my obsession with white boys that have no idea how amazing they are or globally sourced food joy.)

When Trump says something offensive, like making all Muslims responsible for the actions of a few . . .  I could name some of the things my ex did, compare them to Trump and clump all men into a category, but that would rob me of the fan girl moments I've had with my latest really tall glass of water.  I would be robbing myself of some amazing fantasies and epic geek outs. My post the other day was ignited from comments Trump has made about "the blacks" or calling himself "a negotiator like you guys."  He doesn't see how his diction distances himself from the black and Jewish community or anyone else that he can't see as a contemporary. I don't need to hammer out all of his shortcomings in this arena either.  You can go here for a fun little snippet. There are so many more links I could share with you, but I get to vote tonight, and it's not just for the next President of the United States.  I have other issues I get to learn about.

Yes! Opportunities

My life is rarely predictable.  It’s not supposed to be, is it? Would that be great use of my adaptability or optimism? Not likely.  I go with the changes.  I can’t predict or control what happens, but I can certainly shift my perspective and choose my direction and that guides my reaction so that it’s less of a visceral reaction and more of an intentional response. Lately things have been coming up, and my first response is typically to say, “chet!”  It’s not a “shit” moment.  It’s a failure to curse.  It’s so messed up that my response isn’t even fully formed in vulgarity and missing the mark allows me to grasp the situation for the opportunity it is.

I spent many years as a stay at home mom.  I didn’t love it.  I did it because I didn’t want someone else to have my children’s earliest attachments.  I didn’t want to miss those first milestones.  I loved early morning snuggles and nursing my babies on demand.  They were learning just as much from me as they were teaching me.

Shared custody is the biggest possible “chet!” moment.  I can’t control who is around my boys.  I can’t control the fact that decisions that were once solely mine are now shared and dragged out longer than I’d like.  I can’t control what they eat or how they’re treated when they aren’t in front of me.

I was never a true helicopter parent.  I watch from farther away . . . Sometimes mothering means you get to keep an eye out for your littles when you can’t trust the other littles.  It always means your eagle eyes are on the lookout for predators. My mom supported me in anything I wanted to do.  She still does.  Swimming, dance, gymnastics, acting . . . She paid for classes and when I wanted to quit, she accepted that too.  I tried to follow this.

I’m also an autism mom, so I had a whole set of duties that are unique to my family.  It’s easy to get carried away into doing everything, but my kids teach me that they need the space to fly or I’ll just crush their wings.

It looks like I’m a homebody every other weekend.  There’s housework, and home cooked meals.  During the week, I get to rely on the support of my team.  I have a team of family and a caregiver that steps in and they overlap where I need them to so I can bring home the bacon, then cook it later.  I can’t be a badass without them.

The reality of my reliance is there are moments when I get to let go of control.  It was hard at first.  I remember that first court hearing when I made a huge list of demands.  It included parenting classes and financial responsibility.  I had it lined up that everything I wanted was important or I would try to take away the boys.  I had no intention of that.  I just didn’t want the new girlfriend in my arena.  The kid’s schools were my home turf.  I had friends and teachers that have been there for years and I couldn’t handle having this woman at the school.  At the end of the day, we came to an agreement that had his loophole built into it.  I got to learn to let it go, and from that moment, everything I couldn’t control about my kids became secondary.

I even adopted a motto:

It’s not my shit.  It didn’t come out of my ass.  I don’t have to clean it up.

Last night and all day, situations came up and I took these “chet” moments and turned them into “Yes!” opportunities.  My day didn’t crash.  My kids are being cared for.  I’ll get an earful later, but I get to give hugs and they will be listened to.  I get to listen to them complain about a long day. I may be handing out foot or shoulder rubs.  I miss doing that sometimes and the boys love it. But I get to shift in a way where these pop up situations don’t destroy my day.  I get to rise to the challenge, make the calls that matter and accept that the small details don’t matter.  I get to accept in these incremental moments that I can’t control anything but the way I respond.

A favorite visual of mine is a baby duck.  Don’t think of a momma duck.  (Those bitches be cray cray.) Think of a baby duck that is so focused on learning to swim, they don’t even notice the water rolling off their backs.

Dehumanizing Rhetoric

What we internalize often comes out in unguarded moments.  When attacked or attacking, there is little thought and much instinctive regurgitation of whatever vitriol we've allowed to brew and become part of who we are.  In moments when we are driven by a feeling and less thought, what comes out is what is already inside.  I'm not writing about a reaction that is less thoughtful response and more instinct.  I'm writing about the intentional distance used to negate a deeper connection we might otherwise reach.  This is about creating negative and superficial spaces. I've been good at dehumanizing men and distancing them for my needs but I'm adaptable and I'm shifting.

Boys

Most of the men I've dated are referred to as boys.  It's not about them, but me.  I realized it when I was talking about someone I saw as a man for the first time.  He was more than a decade younger than me.  I entertained the idea of dating him long enough to decide I couldn't be a cougar, but I was talking about him as a man.  I dated men older than him and they were all boys, but this (younger than me) man was someone I saw as a man.

I started dating in May and in the embrace of my shallow frivolity  they were all beautiful.  They all have been able to take care of themselves.  They were all easily physically stronger than I am. They've all been old enough to buy their own booze and vote on election day.  They are grown men, but I called them all boys.

If he's a boy, I can distance myself from the idea of a serious commitment, which I did.  I only considered a serious relationship a few weeks ago but it wasn't with anyone in particular. I couldn't imagine anything more than meaningless dates.  Recently I imagined waking up next to someone, and stumbling into the kitchen to worship steaming cups of coffee together.  I had a moment of picturing meal prep together.  I was chopping through vegetables while he was hovering over the stove and we kept bumping into each other with laughter between us, then helping each other wash our hands in warm sudsy water.  I imagined hiking together and spending time at the beach together for a sunset.  I imagined the crackle and smell of a beach side fire.  I imagined doing all of the things that make me happy alone, but I imagined having company and help.  That was a big deal for me.

After that day, I started referring to men as men because I don't need to negate the idea of a future anymore.  I can see it and I can almost feel it.

The Ex

I spent a really long time living with, creating little people with and loving one person.  I was a faithful wife, so when I fell in love with him in 2000, I thought that was it.  It was a huge deal to have a crush in January of this year because it was the first one since I met the man I once promised my forever to.  We're still legally married, and yet, I call him "the ex."  He's not even my ex.  He doesn't get a name or a description here.  At first it was about fear.  My marriage falling apart could have destroyed me and for a while I couldn't see survival outside of existing for my kids.  I had to get through each day for them.  I started living for me at some point and I love my life now.  I love who I am now.

I started calling him the Ex as a buffer of protection.  He'll stay "the Ex" for the sake of his privacy on my blog, but in interactions with others I call him by name.  I no longer fear what he can do.

This doesn't mean there's space for love.  That died a long time ago. I pity him and the distance in diction is no longer necessary.  It's like standing tall to tell you I'm a woman.  It's who I am and I don't need to announce it because it's in everything I do. I don't love him.  I don't fear him.  He's the father of my kids and I can accept that they are thriving in both homes.  I can easily move on with my life because of that.

Fear

I choose to come from a place that isn't based in fear.  There's effort involved.  When what we are looking at is unknown, in fear we act out aggressively.  We attack so we aren't hurt.  We create walls of protection and find ways to alienate or other what we don't know.  We use words like, "the" to give us distance.

My Musical Legacy

There was a conversation with an adorable ginger Monday night.  I was at the Mondrian hotel on Sunset strip and watching Empire Records after a short Q&A with director Allan Moyle. It was an amazing event all around, hosted by GenArt.  This very attractive (if shorter than I like) redhead was telling me all about his experience with vinyl and my experience made me come off as so much older than I am.  Part of it is being the baby for nearly two decades with older parents.  My whole household was older than my generation. Then Mom started adopting and we don't fit much of any family's identity anymore. We call it the zoo and it's who we are.

I'm a native from L.A. and this man with freckle kissed cheeks was from the east coast.  From what I remember of my short trip to New York in 1997, everything was about the latest in everything.  The latest music and style was what mattered.  Status revolved around replacing the old with the new, as quickly as possible.  The wedding we crashed showed me that hairstyles were more of a decades heavy throw back, but everything else was about finding the new things that were the commodification of a generation and nailing down that zeitgeist in any way possible. It was insane and overwhelming to me and I was there only about a week. Vinyl records died and then came back on that side of the country.

In Los Angeles, vinyl never died.  Growing up I played my Dad's Diana Ross records.  He had a small collection of R&B records. I loved smaller 45's because they were mini-records and cute. Most of them were black, but sometimes they came in yellow or red. As I got older I went to house parties. My best friend and the man I named my firstborn after would learn how to DJ, and keep everyone dancing at every single house party I threw until I got married and the parties stopped.   He still DJ's although I'm not sure where and when, but I know he "spins" his records at a Barcade in Koreatown.

I remember hitting record stores with my friends and I would wander for hours while they would go row after row, digging in the crates.  Of course Tower Records was everywhere.  I remember running to the Wherehouse for singles on cassette tapes or the latest Mariah Carey or Madonna albums on CD.  We'd go to Amoeba, Rockaway Records, or Aron's Records and just look for music. It was about hanging out to avoid going home but it was about holding onto a heritage passed down from parents and older siblings.

There's something in the sounds that carry our emotions either through lyrics or melodies.  There's magic in the flow that wraps around us and wrings us dry.  There are still record stores in Los Angeles because they never went away. They evolved.  They re-emerged, but they never went away.

There are kids and adults that geek out on vinyl.  There's something about an automatic arm that moves with precision.  Or sometimes I would hold and guide the arm with the needle onto the dark and smooth outer edge of the record, and watch the needle move towards the center as the songs played through the crackle of imperfections laid into a record.  You can't get that in digital media.  Even modern songs that incorporate the sound that tries to imitate a record can't get it right.  It's too precise.

I'm not a fan of live music usually.  The first time I heard Mariah Carey singing, "I'll Be There," over the sounds of applause, I was bothered.  She didn't sing it the way I wanted it to sound.  I wanted it to be perfect and I wanted to be her only audience and I couldn't feel that way with the sounds of the crowds she was actually singing to.

As I get older, I miss the nostalgia of records.  I miss the sound of melodies woven through white noise and the soft hum of a muted speaker, waiting for it's duty to be lived out in song.  There's a heaviness on a record when vocals dip into sotte voce.  It begs for a physical reaction. I can't remember the artist I used to listen to, but I remember the feeling of her lower ranges gravelling through a record, and that sound memory is a gift.

My kids have never known the sound of vinyl imperfection. With digital media, computer programs modify voices and instruments into perfection so we can take it for granted that if it's on the radio, it will be perfect.  My sons don't know the way Ethel Merman could cut through a room with the way her voice rung out, unassisted.  You are offered that taste on a vinyl record. That was true perfection.

For me, vinyl records mean the sound of the needle first hitting the spinning record with the crackle and groan of the grooves speaking before the melody flows and is met with the power of human ability.  That first sound fills you with anticipation.  I don't plan to get into records again because I only had the by product of my Dad's love of music before.  Really, he had 8-tracks and I'm not going there either.  There are some things I am willing to part with.

My contribution to the legacy I was given is the willingness to sing powerfully. I'm not a singer, but I sing.  It is strong and loud and in my voice are the emotions that won't be held back.  I sing to my sons, looking into their eyes, unashamed and unafraid.  I give them all that I have and maybe one day they'll hear a vinyl recording that speaks to a memory they can't place.  Maybe one day they'll feel the power that I did as a child and it might be one day when they move out or when I'm gone.  It will feel like the memory of their mother singing her heart out to them like it matters, because they do.

First Date

There have been many bad dates.  There was one that was really special and then it turned not so special.  I'm thinking of that night here, but you can read how it ended here.  

There's excitement that looks like piles of discarded dresses and jeans and that mini skirt that will wait for the next date because I'm not that kinda girl on the first date.  I could be, but I'm not.  The search for the perfect outfit matters tonight.  What I wear matters because what I look like matters.  More than that, he matters.  This is more than boredom or opportunity.  I like the sound of his voice and the way he smells.  I like the way my mood shifts and optimism is born with the sound of an alert from my phone telling me he thought of me and has something to say to me.

I brush out the curls I tried to iron in and it's a big puffy mess that ends up getting flat ironed again.  I ignore the random flyaway strands that stand erect on my head like an electrified halo, and focus on my makeup.  I don't want to wear too much but I need to wear enough that when I look in the mirror I'm not looking back at my Dad.  I end up wiping it all off and starting over because in my excitement, my smokey eye looks like I was sucker punched and I want him to want me, not pity me.

I perch on the edge of my bed, completely ready, except for my shoes.  Do I wear the ones that are comfortable? I could go night hiking in these if he wants to prolong our dinner date.  Do I wear the heels that offer solid footing? Do I wear the strappy stilettos that I already imagined framing his face by his ears? No. That will wait for the night with the skirt that I will keep yanking lower even though I know how short it is before I ever put it on. I decide on flats so if he decides to take me on an adventure, we don't have to make up for my poor wardrobe choices.

Looking at the clock, I end up taking off the long dress and slap on jeans with a low cut top that would go well with the stilettos or the boots because really, part of me wants him to imagine these shoes right next to his ears too.  I look at the clock and there's a whole hour before I need to leave and I realize I'm failing the girl stereo types in my excitement.

I take the time to get caught up in an episode of a show that makes me feel things and I regret it as I'm blinking away tears and hoping my makeup won't run because touching it up would make it feel caked on.

We meet at the restaurant where I forget to wait for him to open the door for me.  I like the way he stands next to me and the air in the room is charged because one touch on my arm or his open palm on my lower back sends warmth through every inch of my body.  I follow the waiter to our table and start pulling out my chair before he has a chance to because I forget that some guys want to do this too.

He sits next to me and our conversation flows into his passions and hobbies.  Hearing him talk makes me want to share and I jump out with my excitement and I'm calmed almost immediately when I feel the warmth of his palm on the back of my hand and look into his eyes, getting momentarily lost.  At the same time, talking constantly might mask the fact that I can't understand most of what he says.  His dark hair and thick accent are so sexy to me. My thoughts ramble faster than I can speak and I get a little tongue tied. I try anyway and my words stumble in a heap right before me.  I feel the weight of his solid thigh now resting against mine and his gaze is intense and a little hungry.  My mouth is suddenly dry and I nearly knock over my water only to see his quick reflexes save the day and his amused laughter washes away my anxiety because in that moment my clumsiness is secondary to the way his amusement makes me feel.  I appreciate the fact that I don't drink on a first date and try not to laugh at the party foul it would've been if I had ordered that Cape Cod.

Our meal arrives and suddenly I'm not hungry.  I knew I couldn't handle an entire gluten free pizza on my own, but I didn't realize I'd get so full so quickly either. I want to pick at my food and watch him eat because he's ravenous after a long day at work. I'm lost to the smile on his face and the smell of his cologne mingled with the scent that is uniquely his.  He looks at me like I've just ordered food I don't plan to eat and there's a moment when I understand why men don't understand female quirks and I decide eating what I was hungry for is better than wasting a meal because of nerves.  It's a pleasure filled moment when I'm surprised by textures and the unexpected spice combinations make me want to savor each bite. With the first taste I'm lost to a sensory moment of textures and an infusion of herbs that demand my full focus.  Eyes closed and odd sounds coming from me, he can't contain his laughter and the sound rocks me out of my food joy bliss with a smile that doesn't even care about what might be between my teeth.

As we eat, our conversation winds down into what you would expect from two people really comfortable in each other's company.  Our meal is finished and we're turned toward each other, side by side in a booth.  His arm is more resting on the seat back of the restaurant booth than touching me but I still take the moment to move closer to him so I could feel the warmth of his body.  I laugh at a joke, unsure if it was actually funny or not and inch closer and he takes that as his cue to pull me closer, and tilt my chin up for a gentle but chaste kiss.

We leave the restaurant and he walks me to my car, holding my hand like I might get lost without it.  I put my purse and leftover pizza in the passenger's side and he leans down for another kiss.  His hands are warm and solid, but not demanding in his embrace.  His kiss is gentle and while he's exploring, he's also very responsive to my reactions.  He opens my car door and this time I let him.  I'm seated and he shuts my door, leaning in for a last kiss once I lower my window to say good night.

And that was when I decided he'd get a second date.

It was halfway through the third date that I could start to understand what he was saying and I chose to end it.

One day someone special will ask me out.  He won't assume a date means I want sex, although if I'm saying yes to a date, I've already decided I would potentially be okay with that.  A spin on the dance floor won't mean he has freedom to touch my derriere.  He'll be tall.  He'll be beautiful.  He may be a ginger, but I love blondes and brunettes too. More than that, he'll be smart and able to shift my perspective with an observation. For now, I'm content dating myself and seeing friends that don't want me for sex.

Blushing

I saw it again.  I imagined myself bumping around a kitchen with a man.  We were chopping produce and washing hands together.  Unlike last time, I imagined the man I keep having small talk conversations with. I felt the flush that I had when a friend pointed out I was blushing on Saturday.  Wow.  Just wow.  And a healthy dose of an epic YES! It was just a moment and a momentary fantasy that isn't even committed to one person.  The big deal is that there is a fantasy that involves something more serious than a single date.  It's more serious than the crushes I commit to.  It's about no longer being content with being a loner and opening up to the idea of sharing my free time with someone else.  That is a huge deal.

Right now my boys are banging and crashing and playing and being happy in their shenanigans. I still can't see myself inviting anyone into our brand of crazy, but the moment came and the fantasy was real for a moment or two, and I imagined an actual person.  Take that,  anti-social tendencies.

I say this, but I've made solo plans for tomorrow night. Old habits die hard.

But there was a conversation . . .

What I said was, “I’m a lightweight.”

He said, “oh, a cheap date.”

I said that just last week when sipping a margarita and surrounded by friends.

What I thought was, “I don’t drink on the first date.”

What I should have said was, “are you asking me out?”

Instead I said, “yeah” and walked away, lighting up the room with a smile.

I am Yessica Maher.

I had a hard time sleeping last night with the to-do list that comes with Monday's usual custody swap and an evening appointment for the kids. That and my childhood asthma has been making it hard to breathe as an adult. In the early hours of this morning as I was contemplating all that would be coming with the sun, I started to think about my last blog post. I love myself and yet I'm still hiding behind my blog.  I don't want to diminish the wonderful feeling that in my words, all you get is the voice in which I write. Aside from my last post, and maybe a random other post where I buried a picture of myself in a slideshow, you really don't see what I look like.  Okay, so in recent months I may have shared pictures of me in my childhood or 15 years ago.  But nothing too recent until really recently. You don't really know who I am.  I'm hiding. Unless you're one of my Facebook friends and probably annoyed with the posts that link to my latest ramblings on a daily basis. I really don't even know how many of my friends read my blog and how many just like the pictures when a post comes with a visual. If you follow closely, you'll know that at one point about a year and a half ago, I couldn't even string together a whole paragraph.  I still have a hard time getting lost in a book. Focusing on getting lost comes with the guilt from spending so many years escaping from my family in young adult paranormal romance. I've grown in ways that I didn't expect and yet, here I am, hiding in anonymity.  I love myself, and yet, I'm hiding my identity like I'm not proud of the woman I have become.

I started writing under a guise because I was thinking of the damage my words could do to a job hunt.  After a conversation with a friend today I realized I really don't party all that hard.  I don't do anything that is extreme or dangerous that would label me a hire risk.  I'm just not that exciting.  Hiding my identity was supposed to be about potential jobs, but the reality is it's about protection and hiding.  Loving myself means I get to own up to what I say.  Not only is my face on my blog.  I am in every single word.  I don't hide behind a pseudonym on Instagram, Facebook or LinkedIn.  I don't hide in other areas.  In the most meaningful expression of who I am, I hide the most.  This place is my playground and I hide from everyone even though I give the most honesty here. You won't see a feminist forward or a fur baby moment. This is me.  Not borrowed or shared.  Just me.

After last night's post, I realized I was holding onto old fears.  I had a blog years ago that focused on being an autism mom.  My ex didn't want me writing about him or the boys and I realized it was hurtful to put my kid's lives on display for my therapy.  I write about my family now as they're relevant to my exploration of who I am, but I try to be mindful in keeping this about me.  I get to be selfish here.

There was a short while where my latest crush  and I would talk about writing.  I haven't seen or talked to him in a long while. He is a dedicated writer that will spend time in creativity every single day.  He crafted his words for hours at a time in a way that I don't.  My writing comes out in spurts of inspiration.  I scribble out a thought and hammer it out in moments before dozing off.  I wake to finish my posts.  I don't treat it like a job and he always did, encouraging me to write because he's just a really great person.  He was really uncomfortable with my observations of him.  I saw him in a way that was intense and writing about him made me happy with an equally taxing cost to him.  In all of the ways a conversation with him made me want to write, he never once discouraged me from what I wrote or how I wrote or even the times I wrote about him.  I realized today I was hiding from my words based on a situation with my ex, when my latest crush showed me that the censorship imposed on me was based on someone who no longer matters to me.  He didn't say anything to persuade me of anything.  He simply existed as he was in a way that shifted my perspective while healing old hurts. Talented and special.

Here I am.

I was named Yessica by my Dad.  He was studying Hebrew at the time of my birth.  In honor of the Hebrew alphabet missing a "J" sound, he named me Yessica.  It was a name he's always translated to "God's Gift."  That's what I get for making the 7 year old baby a middle sister.  I get to be his gift from God.

My Mom chose my middle name, which is Ruth.  It's biblical and I held onto my namesake for so long as I stood in prayer and hope for my marriage.  It was the belief that no matter what kind of husband my ex was being, I could choose what kind of wife I would be.  It was over 11 months before I realized I was more attached to my role as a wife than I was to the man I married. I get to be someone else's wife one day.

My paternal heritage gave me a typical Egyptian name and it blends into the legacy of a woman brought into the United States on a slave ship from Africa.  Her name was Americus Starks and I'm almost certain it wasn't a name given to her at birth. I have educators and preachers in my lineage.  There was a State Senator.  We are Choctaw Indian, English, African American, and Mexican. When my divorce is final, I'm reclaiming my birth-name.

On my maternal side, there is a family that is strong enough to rely on each other through extreme developing country poverty.  We are from Thailand and my Dad just informed me we are also Burmese.

I married and gave my children their father's name. It comes from his Irish side, although the family remembers his Dutch side most. Taking his name was the first fight I lost.  I wanted to hyphenate my name or just add his name after mine, but taking his name was important to him.  It identified me as his wife.  It bound our family under a single name that I adopted as mine with a history to claim as my heritage and a future to forge in the legacy of our children.  It was a blessing that became a curse in shame.  It is a burden that daily reminds me of the road I've traveled and grown strong through.  I'm happy that I get to let it go.  When I think of the day I had his name covered on my arm with a tattoo of my son's names, I can easily recall feeling so free and empowered.  I imagine my name change will feel like that except getting a tattoo of his name was always my choice while the name change never was.  I'm sure it'll feel better once I get past the paperwork.

I am Yessica Ruth Maher.

I made a contract with myself a few weeks ago:  I am a brave, courageous, heart led leader.  Whether I lead only myself, or my children, or a horde of people ready to reclaim their voices in the shadows of an experience they share with me, I choose this identity.  I am brave through fear.  I am courageous through discomfort and pain.  I lead from the heart, choosing what is right over what is easy.

I am a daughter to the parents that raised me and the parents that claim me.  I am a product of their contributions to my identity and the support they never cease to offer.  I am a child that knows love that looks like duty and feels like honor.

I am a sister.  We are a combination of blood relatives, step siblings, adopted siblings and siblings through marriage.  Our gatherings are huge, but we know that family is bound by duty and we'll always be there for you, even if we don't like you at the moment.

I am a Mom.  I'm an autism mom.  I'm the mother of a sensitive but neuro-typical child. I'm the mother of boys. My firstborn and I survived the baby blues. My youngest saved me from my deepest depression while in my belly. I was a surrogate mother and helped families grow in ways that healed parts of motherhood that ached in painful shadows of comparison that I could never touch in ways that I wanted to.

I am a woman that lived in constant depression from 1992 until I was pregnant with my youngest child in 2006.  He saved my life with every tap and jab to my womb at precise moments when our lives were hanging in a precarious balance.

I'm Yessica.  You can call me Yessie.  Just make sure you don't forget to call me for dinner.

Living Like I Love Myself

I love me.  I really, truly, and with an open heart, love me.  I love me when I'm insecure. I love me when I need to be alone.  I love me in my silliness, and through my intensity.  I love me when I can slip into  being me, whether it's as Mom, Sister, advocate, one of the guys, or Freakzilla.  Yeah, she's still around. This self love hasn't always been my reality.  At one point it only meant I had fresh batteries.  I can admit that and love myself in spite of the times I hated being who I am. I hated living in isolation when I wanted to reach out. I hate that I have to learn to be social again, pushing past my loner tendencies. I hated what I thought and felt to the point that I offered lies to cover my truths.

In depression, it's easy to disregard your amazing for the ideals we envision.  It's easy to think we would be better if we were just . . . thinner, prettier, smarter, more confident. We don't see that "just . . . " is the most devastating weapon of self destruction we could create. It's easy to think, "I'm an okay person," ignoring that you are the only person capable of loving yourself with the complete understanding of what makes you uniquely different from every other human being on this planet at any point in time. We hold ourselves to a standard of someone else's creation, not valuing the unique design of our own rubric based on our own awesome attributes. My reality check came a few days ago when I was looking at my old Facebook pictures.

I was fairly committed to my massive ass expansion and I was content in it.  I was smiling and happy in the moment these pictures were taken, but I didn't love myself. In the first one, I was surrounded by family at Christmas.  The second was at my brother-in-law's birthday party.  Number three was my niece's sweet 16, and number 4 was a couple of months before my ex ended our marriage. I felt I was happily married and didn't know he wasn't.

I'm big on selfies lately.  They make me happy because they capture what I was feeling in any given moment.  I can go through my Instagram, look at a picture and tell you what happened in that day, and at that moment. My joy is what inspires my vapid selfie moments and they capture a feeling so that at any other moment, I can recreate it.

What my lack of selfie moments pointed out to me was that I didn't like taking pictures or looking in the mirror for that matter.  For years, the only mirror in the house was the bathroom vanity mirror.  I didn't want to see myself.  I was only in pictures that someone else was taking and I was asked to pose for. There are years of my life where I don't have pictures of myself.

It amazes me sometimes how an idea becomes a tangible reality when I'm explaining it to someone else. I was talking with my Dad this afternoon and as I'm telling him he should really start treating himself like he loves himself, it really began to solidify for me that I really do treat myself like I love myself.  Before this conversation, we were sitting down for a meal at Burger King. His choice.  I was telling him he needs to take better care of himself and treat himself like he loves himself.  The irony of the moment hit me when I took another bite of my open faced protein style burger.  I was eating food I didn't like, even though I wasn't hungry.

This morning I made myself breakfast.  It was eggs over medium on honey ham with shredded cheese on top.  It's not healthy, but it was delicious.  I enjoyed every single bite.  When we were out, I wasn't hungry, but we were stopping so he could eat.  I looked over the menu and couldn't find anything that screamed out, "this will give you intense food joy!" I settled on a burger without a bun, which somehow translates to no salt and pepper or sauce of any type. It was depressing to eat, and I was still eating it.  My doodle moment at the top of this post was about treating myself like I love myself and it was something I found on Pinterest and gave to a co-worker that wanted encouragement, and I'm hammering that out now. (I need more deskside doodle moments.)

Don't say mean things to yourself.

There are so many thoughts that run through our minds.  It's hard to shut them off or slow them down.  Sometimes random thoughts filter through and I've had a full conversation before I realize what exactly I've said to myself.  I have to be intentional with myself.  The self criticism has to go out the door.  It's not easy.

At one point when my ex was still here, but he had told me the marriage was over, he did his best to let me know all of the reasons I killed our marriage. Single handed, because I am a powerful marriage destroyer with the ability to control someone else's general happiness. (I should really learn to use these powers for good, right?) He handed his phone to his girlfriend so she could tell me (from the phone still in my name) that I was a horrible mother, physically unattractive, and deserved the way I was being treated by my husband.  I was treated like a mistress by my husband of 15 years.

I'm fairly confident now, but I still have moments when my confidence dips and I feel like I might be ugly or undesirable, ignoring the men I turn down because I am so picky.  Often, it just takes a walk.  I play music with my earbuds silencing all else and it makes me happy. Sometimes singing along, I take a short walk with my head held high.  I stride with one foot directly in front of the other, hips swaying in the imbalance of my gait.  I get appreciative looks. I've gotten strangers to pull over to get my attention and I've made shy men smile like I just handed them my last lollipop as a promise I might intend to keep (I never do).

Treat yourself the way you would treat a small child.

As a new Mom, I used to eat after my kids.  I don't mean when they were too little to eat table food. At that time, they got to taste little bits of what I had.  When they got older, I would make dinner and help them through their meals, only to eat the rest of the food off of their plate.  I treated myself like a garbage disposal.  I would never make my kids eat my scraps, and yet that was good enough for me.  I would insist they eat what tastes good to them, and I wouldn't force them to eat if they weren't hungry, but I would keep offering them food so they had what they needed when they were ready for it.  You would think I would do the same to myself, but that has been a more recent development and it looks like it did when I was a teenager.  I loved myself then, too.

 Put yourself to bed early.

Being Mom means you're constantly touched and pulled on and needed all day.  As a Mom that was also a wife, there were many nights when my whole house was asleep, but I was wired.  I would watch television or read a book, or just try to sleep but sleep wouldn't come. Laying in bed next to the ex when he was ready for bed, I would try to fall asleep with him and even faked sleep many nights to appease his desire to go to bed at the same time. Then I would stay up and make a midnight snack of a can of chunky soup, a fist full of sharp shredded cheddar and topped with another fistful of French fried onions (I did mention massive ass expansion).  By 3 or 4 a.m., I would go to sleep.  At 7 in the morning, I was getting the kids up and out the door, helping the ex get out the door, and falling asleep around 9.  I woke up by noon, ran errands, made calls, and did a crap job of housework.  When the kids were home from school, I would help with homework and start on dinner, because all meals were homemade with fresh ingredients.  My Dad introduced my kids to frozen meals when I needed help with groceries after my ex left.  I gave them fresh foods and learned how to cook new meals because I love them.  I would give myself cans of soup, piled with tons of unhealthy. Crazy, right?  Add 12 units of English literature and that's how I worked on my BA. Writing about it and the ways I had to argue my case for school with my ex each quarter got my 6 scholarships in 2 years. I did mention I'm a badass, right? I know I say this to myself all the time.

I go to bed fairly early now.  I spent this week going out.  I was at a friend's house Wednesday.  I went to a sketch show at Bar Lubitsch Thursday.  I celebrated a friend's birthday at La Velvet Margarita Cantina in Hollywood on Friday and met more friends at the Arts District Brewing Co. last night.  I'm making an effort to step out of being a loner. This in no way means I left at closing time.  Each night I was in my bed by midnight and happy to be there.  Cinderella has no idea how awesome her curfew was.

Go play outside, and allow naptime after playtime.

I love pretty things.  I love the beach at sunset and hiking trails where I'm surrounded by open skies and can see far out.  I love nature and museums and mostly I love my city.  Lately I've made every effort to be a tourist.  Just yesterday I explored the secret stairs in Hollywood. Hollywood was originally planned as a gated community called "Hollywoodland." The famous sign has nothing to do with the entertainment industry and everything to do with real estate.  It was built in the hills before cars were popular and staircases were put all over so young families could get around the neighborhoods with ease.  It's worth the Google search for the PDF.  I take myself to places I want to see because even without company, I still want to see it all.  I prioritize what interests me.  I have a whole list of places I want to go to and I keep that list at work. On Friday, I go through the list and decide what I want to knock out on my weekends alone.  It's a trip to see something pretty but it ends up looking like exercise and at the end of it, there's always food I like, and a nap.

Don't put yourself in danger.

I love solitary beach nights.  I love going to Will Rogers State Beach and watching the sunset.  I love laying in my car with the windows down and listening to the waves crash.  I love sitting on the sand, surrounded by darkness and completely alone.  Unfortunately, it's not safe so I often end up at Santa Monica Beach where performers don't worry about their tips being stolen because the police are all over that pier. I didn't make it to the beach all week and I'm not going to make it at least until Wednesday and I'm a little bummed about that but my week with friends was pretty epic. 

I went hiking a little while ago and ended up pushing myself too hard while unprepared.  I have learned my lesson and now carry much more water than I need.  I won't start a trip with a near dead cell phone.  I really want to go back to Sunken City and hike down to the water again, but I can't think of a person I would endanger like that and I won't go alone again for safety reasons.  Yes, I really just wrote that.  I want to do the dangerous thing, but I would never put another person in that position.  I won't go without a buddy because of the danger.  I won't invite someone else because of the danger.  I want to go again, but I won't because I can't put myself in danger.  I say this repeatedly because I need to remind myself that I don't put myself in danger when I love myself.  This is why I protect my boys like the fierce dragon slaying autism mom and advocate I am. But those were really pretty sights to see and I might go back without putting myself in danger. I might actually listen to the "No Trespassing" signs. 

Getting back to self love through not putting myself in danger, this also means I don't drink and drive.  Texting while driving isn't cool and I might offer a call that is hands free instead.  I don't want to pick up an old smoking habit even if it does feel like teenage rebellion. 

In a way, dating goes under this section too.  I would much rather not date, than date a boy that doesn't want to treat me like I matter.  I want to be treated like I'm beautiful and smart. I get plenty of attention from boys that want me to show them a good time. I want to know that if I'm handing my heart to someone, he will try to treat me the way I treat me, because I really love myself.  He needs to act like he might make me feel better than I already do when I take myself out for a good time alone. I want to be treated like a coffee mug. This is what kept my fascination with my latest crush from being consuming. I never could see that going anywhere solid. 

Feed yourself healthy food.

A few years ago, my doctor told me I was pre-diabetic.  It was early enough that I could make changes in my diet and I did.  I'm no longer pre-diabetic because I stopped eating like I wanted death to come early. I didn't do it for myself.  I did it for my kids.  Around the same time, I was always uncomfortable and had severe gas pain almost daily.  I started limiting my sugar and keeping a food journal that included what I ate and how I felt.  I didn't measure portion sizes or count calories.  I stopped eating 4 chocolate bars a day.  I loved almond filled croissants and grilled cheese sandwiches, but started limiting things that weren't healthy.  Within weeks of cutting sugar, I learned I'm sensitive to wheat in a bad way.  After dropping the wheat from my diet, I lost about 10 pounds in a month.  At my heaviest non pregnant self, I was about 230 pounds.  I ate what I wanted to eat, whether or not I was hungry.  It was often junk food that I ate without paying attention to what I was doing.  I was eating out of boredom.  I was eating because it was there and I didn't want to waste food.  I was eating because I couldn't feel whether or not I was hungry, thirsty, full, or loved. Eating took away the need to feel what was so far out of reach.

Fast forward to a period when my survival relied on being able to love myself, and I started eating like I love myself.  Cravings for unhealthy foods slowed down. I don't limit anything, but I no longer want it like I used to. I still eat sugar and I like it, but I don't want it as much as I used to.  I have both sugared and sugar free candy at my desk, but often share it without eating it all. My favorite snack is raw sugar snap peas. I drink sweetened coffee and tea sometimes but I also love Perrier (L'Orange and Green Apple) and the original V-8 juice.  I don't drink soda and rarely drink fruit juice. Just for the sake of the blog, I stepped on a scale today. I weigh 175 pounds, without exercising on a regular basis. Normally I don't weigh myself. Without paying attention to the way my clothes fit, the way I feel or a BMI that I can interpret, weight is just an arbitrary number and I normally don't torture myself with it. It's here because it's a standard we all use. I only take myself on field trips when I don't have my kids, and that's only every other weekend.  I don't diet. I don't measure my food or eat anything that makes me feel like death would be better than digestion. I eat like I love myself and the reward is I get to buy new jeans every time my pants start acting gangster, because that's the only way I'd sag my jeans. I'm wearing the same sizes I wore in high school.

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I get to act like I love myself.  I crave healthy snacks.  I eat when I need to, and not just because I can.  I'm not as fluffy as I once was and there's very little effort in it.  And the confidence that comes with loving myself feels like that first crunchy, creamy bite of creme brulee.  It's heaven.

Reaching out of Isolation

I like being alone.  It's my default preference.  It's safe.  When I was younger I was often in my own little corner of a shared bedroom, playing alone because my feelings were often hurt and I was able to play with my vivid imagination and not get ignored by big sisters that I couldn't relate to, or neighborhood kids with better gross motor skills than mine.  (Kickball and pickle are all fun and games until you can't keep from kicking the ball onto the roof, or catch the football without making it bounce off of your hands after you just threw it like a flailing duck that should be shot.) My mom saw my isolation as a gift in ways that I couldn't.  She put me in gymnastics, dance, and swimming.  She knew I wasn't cut out for team sports. Drill team doesn't count.  That was a self inflicted hell on my knees.

In elementary school, I connected with two beautiful girls.  They saw me and called me "friend."  We did sleep overs and car washes.  They introduced me to Guns N'Roses and Metallica.  I survived elementary school because of them.

Middle school happened and schools changed and I had one or two really great friends I saw in school and one that I had slumber parties with.  We would steal her mom's car in the middle of the night and learn to drive together, always trying to replace the gas we burned off, joking about our shenanigans and confessing as legal adults about what we did at 14 years old.  My isolation meant that when I graduated high school, it never occurred to me to collect contact info because I wouldn't just see these people on Monday or after summer break.  I would go home and enjoy my solitude.  I burned too many candles, read a million books and listened to music that made me feel things.

When we were barely legal, my best friend would pick me up for nights at house parties and raves that included drunk driving and dancing on go-go boxes while taking off more clothes than I would now.  It was wild.  I was broken and as much as I loved her, I eventually pushed her away with broken parts trying to maim others.  I wasn't a nice person.  I married in the years we were apart, and when I was pregnant with Kid1, she found the space to forgive me for the ways I hurt her.  She is amazing and still the most beautiful and powerful woman I know.

As remarkable as she is, I pushed her back again. Looking back, pushing her away the second time had nothing to do with her or with me.  I pushed her back because my ex didn't like her.  I pushed my guy friends away because they couldn't see what I saw in my ex, and I was choosing the man that promised me forever for the friends that gave me forever without needing to make a pledge.

One of the hallmarks of an abusive relationship is isolation.  If your person needs to be your only person, it's worth looking long and hard at.  If your person is open to friends becoming family, there's a good chance there's nothing to hide.

Isolation from people by my marriage was a gradual process that didn't look like denied permission.  It looked like I had a boyfriend that my friends didn't like and made fun of.  I wasn't asked to choose, but I couldn't stand seeing my ex feel hurt by them, so I chose him and walked away from my friends.  There was good in that too.  They accepted me drinking like a fish and smoking like a dragon.  He wanted to wife me and make me a mother and I wanted to stop because that was what would have earned his approval.  His friends became my friends and I let my friends go.  Eventually, his sadness looked like he needed to get out and have time with the guys.  I understood that because I needed it too, but I had pushed them all away.  He would go out and I would stay home with the kids.  He had concerts and paintball, and I stayed home with the kids. I stopped looking at strangers because I was worried he would get jealous if I got attention from someone else.  After Kid1 was born, there was an incident.  We lived in a 30 unit apartment building.  There was a man visiting another unit that left the building smiling at my ex.  There was a fist fight in front of our building over a smile that made me look like a cheater.  I felt the need to become invisible and I got really good at it.  I had the perfectly formed incentive and I loved him too much to see that as scary.

A lot of what I've seen in past relationships has made me very hard on potential dates.  It doesn't take much for me to kick a new guy to the curb, down the gutter, and then seal off the manhole.

When it comes to my kidlets, isolation was about protection.  My kids had sensory needs that had them poopy painting on walls when they were younger.  They like being naked.  We used to replace all furniture every single year because of destructive kids, and really, they're still destructive.  I need to replace my broken dinner chairs again.  I have a home in various states of broken.  Right now it's the chairs and the motor on my jetted tub sounds sad.  I have a paper towel dispenser that I need to screw back into the wall and a toilet paper dispenser that became a toy before it was thrown away.  It hasn't been replaced yet.  It will be.  When I get around to it.  But inviting people into the messiness when I'd rather just escape until they are home and I want to stay home with them hasn't been a priority.

We've been sharing custody for a year now, and in this year I've been going out alone a lot.  I go to the beach or a museum. I've started hiking and being a tourist in my hometown.  I love it.  It doesn't require company.  I've in the last couple of weeks decided I don't want to be a lonely cat lady.  I've recently started meeting people out and about.  I don't mean my one date allocation for men.  (I will one day go out with a guy more than once and the cute Italian guy I couldn't understand doesn't count.) I mean, I've been going out with people I know, and not just one on one sessions where I can get stuck in a session of complaining about life.

I have a tribe.  Our friendship was mired in the trenches of transformation that looked like 5 days of screaming and crying.  These people are remarkable and bigger dreamers than I am.  A few of them have had events and asked for people to show up.  I decided that when my tribe calls, I get to show up.  It's a stretch, but it's not without it's rewards.

I don't drink often or much. I don't drink around my boys often.  Last week I had a gluten free beer and ended up fairly drunk.  I wasn't trying to get drunk. I just wasn't trying to waste a full beer. I've started having a drink while out enjoying a solitary dinner, then sobering up completely before heading home.  I'm a grown up.  I can do these things.  As a wife, I was often our designated driver.  I could never handle my liquor and even when I was drinking, I was a lightweight.  Add kids, and I often felt like I couldn't drink. My boys spent so many long nights in the emergency room at random times for crazy reasons.  I was afraid of what it would look like to not protect my kids from themselves, and show up drunk in an emergency room full of mandated reporters.  I had to be the designated driver because one of us had to be sober in case of emergencies and it was always me.  I can't tell my kids to never drink and drive, and then be the drunk driver strapping them into car seats.

Yesterday was busy.  I had my brunch around 11, and went to meet friends for a show and a drink.  Literally, one drink.  I know better, but decided I could do it because I didn't have a curfew. I was nicely sauced and everything was insanely funny.  It was great.  The thing that was different was I wasn't alone.  I was there with several of my tribe.  I had a first. It was the first time I was mothered while drunk by other women.  Again, I rarely drink and hardly ever get drunk in public.  It's usually a drink with a meal, and never on an empty stomach.  These women walked with me.  We talked and ate and visited for a while.  When it was time to go, they wanted to be certain I'd be okay.  It was a unique experience and it hit me that this is what happens when you are a grown up drinking with people that care about you.  My best friend in my youth absolutely loves me and loved me then, but we were both immature about our choices.

It's made me want to stretch my isolated parts.  I never have company at my home. I have excuses about why I never have people over.  I live on a tiny one way street with no parking.  I have a messy house that my boys treat as their personal natural disaster.  I have repair jobs I haven't gotten around to because I plan to fix them all myself when I'm nome, which is when the boys are home and I'm busy running around catching up on laundry.  I never have people over.  Tonight I will.  A friend needs a crash pad to save on a late night commute into a different county, and I've offered up an empty kid bed.  All year, I've had one girlfriend and that cute Italian boy over.  For him, that was the night I realized I couldn't keep seeing him because I finally broke through the sexy accent and I could understand what he was saying.  Who knows? Maybe I'll consider having a small gathering or soiree or shindig.  I doubt it though.  Parking still sucks, and that means I'll have to be home on a kid free day.

Shadow Boxing

The class I took about a two weeks ago was intense.  Think of it as 5 years of therapy in a span of 5 days. It was 5 days of screaming and crying.  It was 5 days of seeing who I am and appreciating who I show up as to others.  It was recognizing the areas in which I get to grow. It was digging deep to pull up every horrific situation I have faced.  It was a purge that first ripped off the bandaid, scrubbed the infection out and included a battle cry like I never had permission to release before.  It echoed deep inside of me and frightened me with intensity. I left the class feeling so raw and freshly healing from being broken, yet unencumbered by the weight of my own design. We wear layers of mortar and bricks in walls of protection because that is what we create as safety. We don't worry about the weight until it's lifted and there's freedom.  Aside from feeling like I put my body through more than it could handle, I felt freedom.  I was flying.

My lessons are I get to ask for support.  I get to let others in.  I get to offer transparency because I don't need to carry my burdens alone. I don't need to be fake or plastic.  I don't need to be timid and afraid. I don't need to be a martyr in the name of love.

It's been about two weeks and life keeps happening.  I've had a few issues come up.  I'm flexible enough to call an audible and shift into where I need to be instead of landing on the sidelines, out of breath, dazed with fresh turf stains on my lucky jersey and dogpiled under too much sweat and weight.

Shifting analogies, yesterday and this morning handed me a cross, uppercut, and roundhouse kick combo.  As I was bobbing and weaving, juking and jiving, I realized I can handle this.  I've been shadow boxing for years and this scenario is my normal.  I flow around what I'm facing with ease in a way that doesn't disrupt a whole lot.

I changed my mind and met opposition, but got to stand in the empowerment of my own choice. I didn't have to get nasty about it and I felt stronger for that.  When I was looking for work, I was selective in my job hunt.  I didn't want to drive far and I didn't want to give up my mornings or dinners with my boys.  This was what was important for work that I would get paid for.  When looking at what I was planning to do and the distance and time away from my kids, I decided now is not the time for that commitment and I get to stand in my authority over my life, and it feels good.

I got a call that says I'm a bad mother that neglects her kids and I get to face that accusation.  I'm still standing and have no problem functioning through it.

I read a text that says my family needs me and yet I'm helpless. I get to rise in unexpected ways with an open heart. I get to do what is requested in the humility of knowing what is in my heart is right for me, but not necessarily right for the situation.  I get to accept that I don't know all of the answers.

My morning greeted me with an anonymous text that asks for more than I will ever offer, and I didn't lose my calm while at work.  I didn't snap at the stranger that has no business in my affairs and was presumptuous enough to engage in a conversation without announcing who they were.  I extended this person the pity I have for my ex. Not everyone can walk in the audacity I catwalk in.

I got to dress up for role play in my class almost two weeks ago and at the end of the month I get to do it for Halloween at work.  I mean, matching bra and panty sets make me happy, but I never even got into dressing up for sex. And we're talking sex.  I'm not excited, but this won't break me.

I realized with all the hits to my ribs that make me want to cringe and protect my vital parts, I'm used to this.  This is my normal.  I can function.  I can fake until I'm ready to hide away and lick my wounds, but how much stronger is it to rely on friendships and let others hold me up.  I had that last night.  Under a full moon as planes flew high above the hills in Los Feliz, I sipped a margarita surrounded by my tribe and told them my latest drama.  We joked and laughed and just enjoyed each other's company. The weight of my day was heavy but by the time I left, I was so uplifted in the love that surrounded me.  There was silliness and I eased into being surrounded by people when I'm usually most comfortable alone.  We talked about the nice Jewish boy or Ginger I want to meet.  We talked about needing to be supported and ways I'm still growing.  I held a sweet baby that reminded me that I'm doing well enough with my kids, that an infant would trust me and laugh in my arms.

Last night reminded me that I don't need to shadow box and prepare for an onslaught.  All I need to do is stand in who I am and accept that there's a tribe ready to welcome and carry my burdens with me, if I'm willing to share what they are.  If I'm willing to share the load (in a not creepy or sad Samwise Gamgee kind of way) I don't have to do it on my own.

And my friend's margaritas are mixed with love and magic.  I learned that too.

First Impressions

It’s that moment when communication is established in a glance.  You take those first steps toward me and our hands reach out for a handshake.  Your hand is warm and heavy and it holds me firmly but delicately.  I'm surprised by the shock of electricity that thrills me and wonder if you feel it too. It’s unflinching eye contact that takes in your smile and the slight tilt of your head that tells me there’s something you can’t ignore about the way I’m smiling at you.  I lose my confidence just enough that my predatory gaze is more silly and lost and I feel it but it’s okay because I see my trust in this moment reflected in your eyes. It’s a conversation about everything and nothing and it hovers just out of reach at times, but both of us are stubborn in our refusal to let it end.  Both of us have things we need to know and share and it looks meaningless because we get the meaning in how we respond to each other rather than what we’ve barely said. A meaningless conversation is marked by your profound observation. You unleash the intensity of my gaze and I look away because I’m not ready to let you know how deeply I’m affected.

There’s a moment when an invitation is accepted and you’re sitting next to me, our legs barely touching but I’m burned by the heat of your leg against mine in places you aren't actually touching.  I bask in the warmth of your smile and love the way the butterflies flurry at the sound of your voice. It’s a deep caress in hidden places.

It’s the way my words reach out through my hand on your hand or arm and the way my actions are mirrored by your body and we turn toward each other, cutting off outer invitations because in this moment you are all I want to know and I’m encouraged by the power of my smile that is forcing one on your face. You brush errant strands of my misbehaving hair out of my face and your touch is tender and I have to stop myself from leaning in to you.

We’re sitting close enough that the gentle fall breeze makes me wrap my sweater around me tighter but it also carries your scent and it’s masculine and sexy and unique to you with cologne that can’t hide the divine glory of the heaven you smell like to me.  It’s the smell of fresh sweat, a response to the nerves I make you feel and that feels like power.  It’s heady and exciting. It's your scent memory becoming an amazing sensation that silly descriptions could never carry.

It’s time to part ways and we stand.  We look at each other with an edge of longing and you wrap your arms around me in a hug, and I’m dwarfed in who you are and it’s safe and warm.  Too quickly, we part and I leave, wondering if I I'll see you again.

Online Pick Up Artistry

Can I just say that you are very beautiful? Yes.  You did.  You asked and answered your own question and left me room to not reply.  Unless your profile is incredibly compelling, you’ve offered an out so I can ignore you with a clear conscience.

You’re awesome . . . blah, blah, blah . . . I’m looking for a serious woman that is trustworthy, honest, faithful . . . I believe in a long term relationship that leads to marriage . . .

Um, can we start with coffee? I’m not trustworthy.  You poured your heart out to a random stranger and hoped I would be happy to jump into the trust issues you just outlined for me.  My honesty would break you.  I believe in long term relationships.  I’m open to remarriage.  I just won’t walk into your expectations and try to jump at the chance to appease you when you approached me based on one of my vapid selfie moments.  You realize smiling at the camera means I’m looking at me, loving what I see, and it has nothing to do with you, right?

You’re a beautiful woman, I’m willing to get to know you.

Thank you. That’s great for you.  It’s not mutual. I do commend the confidence. It's usually very sexy. Just not in this situation. 

You are a true beauty, and I read your profile, it was a nice post.  You are beautiful just as you are and you are surely God’s gift to man.

I’m on the site to meet someone willing to hang out.  Lines like these make me feel really uncomfortable.  Just no.  It’s like going to the mall for a bra and the sales associate is hard selling their panty sale and spritzing you with their latest perfume so she can nail down that sale as well.

Has anyone told you how amazing your smile looks?

No.  Never.  Your profound observation is complete news to me.

Love your eyes, and lips.  Wow.  I’m not on here often and I don’t often message people . . .

Thanks.  I don’t need to know what you normally do.  I want to know what makes me different, and I’d prefer it if it was about something I wrote, rather than what my looks did for you.

After talking back and forth a bit throughout the day: I just finished a run.

Awesome!  I used restraint.  There was no mention of how much I love watching men run.  I said nothing about his CrossFit body being God’s gift to me or that a man on a run is actual poetry in motion because I’m at midlife and that looks like a horny teenage boy when you’re a woman. It read more like, “that’s great.  I bet it felt amazing.” Followed by his picture in his boxers and nothing else.  Is there some unspoken language about post workout selfies being the moment to pimp out your body? He’s not the first to pull this move.  I’m missing something, right?

Me: Hi.  Thank you for such a kind compliment.  I really don’t date men that are 20 years younger than me.  (Because that sounds nicer than you aren’t my type.) But I have a 10-inch cock.  Good for you.  A really long descriptive version of his idea of what kind of sex I want, even though all I gave him was a Hi and a thank you . . . And that’s how he got blocked.

These are the 5 Languages of Love.  What is yours?

Yeah, like I’m not going to get to know you first.  It’s like asking me to tell you what my turns me on so you don’t have to take the time to get to know me.

Hi.  Do you want more kids? I think ours would be beautiful.

No. Just no.

Hi.  I’m sure you get this all the time, but you’re gorgeous.

I do.  It doesn’t get old.  Thank you.  Buh bye. Or you know, offer more than what your visual interpretation of me is.

Hi.  I hope you’re great in bed. 

I am!  I am great at stealing blankets and I snuggle to the point where you will feel pushed out of bed until I get sweaty.  Then I want space. I don’t snore anymore because weight loss will do that, but I can pretend to sleep and we can have a snore off.  I don’t eat crackers in bed, because wheat has a vendetta against me.  And cutting wheat out of my diet means I can’t Dutch Oven you and win in a competition, but I won’t stab you in your sleep if you have a playful moment and want to share that kind of laughter.  I have a great sense of humor that way. Oh, you mean the other way? You’ll never know because you started the conversation by treating me like a discount hooker.

I can relocate to meet the woman of my life if this goes well with us on here.

Thank you so much for that “Under Pressure” earworm.  I need to know that your independence means you won’t be relying on me to fix your broken pieces.  I’ve gotten really good at standing on my own two feet but I have no interest in carrying someone and your love quest feels like need.

There was an interesting (read scary ass shit) moment that was Facebook based.  There was a comment I made on a friend’s post.  Her friend then put in a friend request I started ignoring.  He then started liking my public profile pictures and commenting on them.  I started to email him to find out what this creeptackular moment was about.  He said he was reaching out in friendship and I’m friendly. I okayed his request. Then he suggested he could help me raise my kids.  He could help me financially and see if love grows.  Yeah, he got blocked after that.  Just no.

How to impress a girl?

At least one picture with your full face featured.  Not you and friends where I get to guess whose hotness I’m talking to . . .  Not hiding behind sunglasses where I get to wonder what your eyes look like.  I want to see if I can trust your gaze. Dress up.  I want to see if I can bring you to the next wedding I plan to go to.  Jeans and a t-shirt that fit are a must.  Trust me when I say a well-fitting t-shirt is enough to let me know if you care about your body as much as you want me to. And leave the half-naked pictures for when we get there in the conversation.  Some surprises are worth the wait. I want to try really hard to believe that your decision to wait for me might mean you aren’t actually the man whore you are trying to be in your misguided transparency.

This time with online dating hasn't been as horrible as the last two times.  I mean, yes, there's already one boy I'm sure has plans to catfish me.  There are the few really bad examples of humanity above. But there have also been really nice men with absolutely no chemistry for me to feel.  Besides, I prefer to meet people in person.  But you knew that.

I think the best part of online dating is seeing what works and what doesn't.  Oh, it's not like that's new here.  I had fun with this before, right here and here.  There are dates lined up but they're nothing I'm over the moon excited about, but I'm open to being impressed which is totally new.  I'm also willing to cancel for time with a friend, which I already have. 

Searching for a Muse

I am an intense person with a million things running through my mind at all times.  This is my 255th post since I started blogging February 23rd of this year and I run out of ideas sometimes. Shocked? Me too! I mean, yes there are posts that brew and mature for a few days before I hammer them out.  I post from my phone.  I've started posts on napkins in restaurants when I take myself out and show myself a good time. It's a thing. A lot of ideas come from the people around me. I'm kinda between muses right now. There's a cost to the life I get to live.  I want to be picky and that means there is more chaff than wheat on any dating Sunday. I milked that first crush in February for all he was worth.  There's nothing left.  The second one . . . he brought out a compassion in me that still wants to protect him.  It feels unfair to pick him apart for you when I know it made him uncomfortable.  I write about conversations with friends, but a muse is more about the romantic feels that run through me.  It's about the excitement and wonder that make me feel like I'm a 12 year old.

In boredom, I signed up for a dating site again last night. No, I don't think I'll find my soul mate hiding behind a keyboard.  It's just a numbers game.  In person, because I'm an open person with a friendly smile, I meet people.  I might have 3 to 4 men introduce themselves to me on a weekly basis, and I might actually exchange contact info with one or two a week.  Or none, if I'm in a mood.  But when online, those numbers jump.  The last time I was online was only a week.  The time before that was about two months.  As of right now, I have 72 likes and have had 18 email conversations since signing up less than 12 hours ago.  It's just about the numbers and last night I was avoiding housework.

It's also a matter of what types of men will approach me and that is a subtraction equation.  I'm thinking of a conversation at the Mondrian with a man that told me the farthest distance for a man to travel is the one to lean in to kiss a woman. He told me it doesn't take much to discourage a man. I've been thinking of that.  There are so many men that reach out to me, but I tend to give them a hard pass.  I suppose if your net is wide, you have no real fear of rejection.  Someone will eventually want to jump into your nets.  These are the creepy ones that end up getting blocked. The special ones have been the ones that started as a conversation and not as an approach.  Online dating builds in a barrier to hide behind.  There's safety to be a jerk and there are many of them.  I get to weed through that! Yes!  It reminds me what to avoid in a way that I can see special when it lands at my feet and looks at me intently.

I'm not looking for a planned relationship online or anywhere else.  I feel it's about making a connection that you are willing to contribute to.  It means things develop organically and with mutual contributions toward the same goal.  I can't go in and say what I want because if I'm going into anything, it's with the goal of finding that path together.

Online dating is about the fun of flirting and there's a bit of shade because I let my snark demon run wild.

Him: Do you like to dance?

Me: Not at all. I'm a total wall flower. (Because I saw his pictures and I'm really not interested but I keep the conversation going because I can. Yes.  I love dancing.  Just not with you.)

Him: Do you want more kids?

Me: Nope. (The reality is for the right person, I might consider it. The reality is I'm not talking to the right person.)

Him: You're so beautiful.

Me: I know right !? . .  I mean, thank you.  (But wait, you didn't mention how smart I am! --> And then there's silent pouting.)

Being online is also to remind myself of the bad.

Of course, my first night back would include another picture of a penis.  It was a surprisingly large endowment.  Like, if I were to keep a picture to send in response to the unsolicited many that come from online dating, his would've been it. He said he was tired of starting relationships with women that were later afraid of his package.  I believe him but he tried to set the hook before I was committed to the bait he was dangling.

There was a boy.  We chatted.  I even said I'd be willing to meet him this week.  I also said it would be in a public place and I'm taking it super slow.  He kept insisting he is open to me staying the night and I should bring a change of clothes for the morning.  It's not my speed and he didn't hear the direct and suggested ways I tried to tell him.

I can say, "you're beautiful, but beauty isn't enough."

I can think, "sure, I'd love to see where you keep the bodies."

I was even blatantly honest.  "I have had no problem handing out the great "O" in the past. It seems to be a gift that doesn't even require much effort on my part.  Receiving it is another story all together and a very sad one.  If I'm going to go there with anyone, I want to know that he's so amazing, I wouldn't be let down if my gift isn't returned."

He kept trying to circle the conversation back to my spending the night when I never committed to going to his house. That was when it was clear he really wasn't looking past my smile and the direction I was intentionally walking our conversation in and that's how he lost his first date.  Sucks for him because I love taking myself out and I'm always guaranteed a good time.

Being online is about my reality check.

I hear that I'm gorgeous and a goddess.  I hear they want to spend time with me and get to know me.  A short while in when they think I've heard what I needed to hear, their true intent comes in.  I had a conversation with a friend a few weeks ago that went like this:

Me: Boys are always nicer when they want my attention and affection.  They don't turn into douche bags until I get bored or my intensity scares them.

Him: Boys are nicer when they want female attention in general and it's not when you get bored it's when they get comfortable.

Me: Profound observation.  I accept it.  It's truth.

There's always a really hot military man stationed somewhere looking for love.  He wants earth shattering romance so when he's discharged, he can move wherever he finds her and start a life based on communication established through emails.  He's fit and dutiful.  He's amazing.  I'm not looking for a pen pal, even if they are really great at starting a blazing romance with their words.  Yes, it's hot.  But it's also a hard pass.  I thank them for their service and admit that the idea of him moving to be close to me is too much pressure.  . . Even if he is my age . . . Even if I am the most beautiful woman he's seen while travelling the world in service.  I grew up with my Dad's PTSD, thank you US Army, and I refuse to learn to navigate that if it's a choice.

Reality check: I may be able to finally see a future with a person that can get past the first date, but he has to be beautiful.  He has to be amazing.  And I need to see him in person because that's where my intuition can sniff him out. I live from the gut.

Being online is about stretching for me.

I've always been into men my age or slightly older.  I'm at an age where I'm too old for the men my age.  They're in their midlife crisis and I don't look like a bad decision waiting to happen.  Or he just isn't beautiful to me. I'm shallow, but you know this. I'm intense and not afraid to call you out when you're living in your fear.  I won't call a man names unless he's trying to hurt me and I'm losing my cool.  Okay, I've only called one person out like that and there's history there with enough knowledge to know what buttons he could push and not the wisdom to keep from doing it. Only a few men in my life have brought out my softer side and it's always curiosity for me until I've swallowed his bait so deeply that when he yanks on his rod to set the hook, he's pulled my guts up through my mouth.  It's not pretty but it's great fun to blog about.

When I'm not the fish being baited I'm more on the prowl and I imagine being a playful kitty.  My cat that claws me also has moments when she is a straight up murderer.  Small lizards, birds and rodents are never safe around her. Her kills look like play time until she eviscerates her kill and devours them completely.  Then she innocently licks her paws clean. Would you trust a cat? Would you trust me as a cat?

The actual stretch for me is in dating younger men.  I married a man a little younger than me.  My last crush was a few years younger than me and it was a stretch.  When you aren't really contemporaries, the shared pop culture references can seem like a huge gap.  I'm determined to teach my boys pager code for when they hit that age and they need to connect with a cougar. (So very kidding.)

I'm online to get comfortable with being a cougar.  Seriously.  Younger men can be beautiful and passionate about life.  They're likely to really try to impress me with the verbiage in their texts.  They assume I'm much more high maintenance than I am.  It's cute when I don't feel like I'm being rapey.  I love the look of younger men, but I start doing the mental math.  How old was he when I first started having sex? How old was he when I had my first child? How do I not feel creeped out or afraid of the day I might one day meet his friends, family, and gah! His mother!!!

Last night the youngest man was 25.  In May, I was shocked by an 18 year old that wanted to play show and tell with me.  Last week I got a kiss on the cheek from a younger man.  A beautiful man.  I didn't lean away, but I didn't lean in either and I should have.  Last week I couldn't but I choose this stretch because I refuse to keep living in regret.

I handle what I need to.  I put my boys first.  I'm no longer afraid of goodbye because I'm not leaving me. I'm a single mom.  We're made of powerful stuff.

At the same time I'm really great at mothering until it's a bit smothering.  Especially for the guys I like.  They're all beautiful but they tend to be unaware of their amazing, a little bit geeky and insecure.  I kinda like building that up. The ones that are confident and beautiful are fun to look at but I never want to keep them. What does that say about me?

I'm online dating again.  I assure you, it'll only be for a few days because I'm sure I'll meet someone that catches and keeps my attention in person soon enough and he'll remind me that I don't really need the abuse landing in my phone because boys don't like it when you turn them down. Some even have full blown temper tantrums because that will totally change my mind about not being interested. This new person will walk into my life and shift my perspective and I'll see his amazing. He'll be beautiful and even hypnotized by my intensity as well as unafraid of my words.  I won't say he'll have the ability to handle me. That implies a wild nature when I'm only a woman open to meeting the right man.

Transition and Waiting

I rushed through traffic to see my boys and I'm greeted with both the heater and air conditioner running.  Dishes are on display in half eaten array next to the places they've plopped to game.  I'm greeted with hugs where I get to hold them and they stand as if being hugged is all they need to offer and really it is. I offer up dinner that I schelp through after an 8 hour shift and they get to scarf it down with a request for something that takes more time and more love.  They don't complain where I know I could have done better but they know what to ask for. They ask me to jump and halfway up I get to ask how high, because I actually miss whipping up amazing food joy for someone else sometimes.

Sometime in the middle of the night Kid2 wanted to play with my contact lenses.  He likes to touch and hold them and I need to not freak out because a contact lens means far less to me than he does.  I get to keep calm and let him know I'm not to be feared because I want my kids to respect and love me, not fear and be dominated by me.  I get to teach him empathy because he lost something important to me.  I get to point out that I wear them all of the time and they make me feel beautiful but more than that, when it rains, I don't get raindrops on my glasses. I get to point out it's gross that those suckers sit on my eyeballs all day and now they were in his hands.  I get to let it go.

I wake up and the child that superman flies his arms underneath me, waking me at 3 this morning with little feet marks walking the wall along the bed needed to get up and onto the computer but exhaustion won, so I find him on the floor where he just wanted to rest his head.

"How do you feel about testing out your bed in your brother's room tonight? I'm not kicking you out, but you know, it's there for you." I ask, knowing it'll be a celebration to have my bed completely to myself all of the time.  I ask, hoping he doesn't see my excitement because I want him to finally feel that the security he needed when our world fell apart is no longer necessary.  I want him to know he's safe when he's here.

"Sure mom.  I'll try it out one night and let you know how it feels.  But I can come back to our bed, right?"

Right.  Baby steps.  Being patient.  Story of my life.  But I'm used to waiting for things that I see value in.  My son's sense of security is high on that list. Why would I ever want to give up these precious years that are all mine?  One day they'll move out, or they won't, but this liminal space in their identity is all mine.  I get to be present before I am pushed away by the natural force of growth that is at the heart of parenting.

I was primed and ready to take the next class in the MITT series.  I was enrolled.  I conjured  my deposit.  I stood in the power of being LP 139. Things happened and I was ready to go.  But I had to really look at what I was doing and my motives.

I've always been a strong person.  It's my birthright.  I am learning to find my voice again.  I spent too many years in a marriage where it wasn't okay to be who I am.   I'm standing on who I am, in a way that is brave through fear and courageous through discomfort and always considering the greater good. It's not okay to be last but it's also not okay to be selfish.

Taking the next step when I wasn't financially ready means I was going to step on the toes of my Mom, who is my landlord as well as my Angel and friend who's belief in me put down my Advanced course deposit.  She may have withheld a deadline on repayment but my obligation to her is important to me.

Taking the next step placed a burden on my children.  There's a cost to the life I get to live, but that cost was one my children would have had to pay.  Most of the dates set aside for the conferences and training happened during the 50% of the time I have my kids.  There was only one meeting weekend when I was kid free.  It's not about a babysitter.  I can get one of those.  I have an amazing support system that has shown me repeatedly that they will walk through fire for me.

My older two sons are autistic.  Interrupting our schedule is difficult on them.  My little one was willing to sacrifice his time with me on his 10th birthday and at the end of the day, he only gets one 10th birthday.  He reaches his first decade and I've been present for every single one of their birthdays.  I won't give up this one, even with his blessing.

When my family was falling apart and before we fell into place, I promised my kids that they will always come first.  I won't find a sitter so I can go on dates.  That's what their time with Dad is for.  I won't take on a responsibility that takes me out of their lives farther than I already don't want to be.  I have nights where I want to show up for friends.  I use a sitter for that, but I make sure I'm home for snuggles before bed.  That's not something I want to give up.

I'm postponing the Legacy Program, both with and without blessings from those inclined to offer them.  I'm doing it because I am a woman of integrity with enough sense to know this is not right for me right now but one day soon, things will shift in a way that will be perfect.  I'm keeping my Go Fund Me going because I will take the course in the first half of 2017.  I'm willing to ask for and accept help, but it's not about desperation for a timeline I'm not choosing.  I'm going to set my goal and start saving toward it.  It may be the class with a kickoff date of December 6. It might be later.  But the timing will be perfect.  It always is.

Right now, there are Kid3 snuggles as I type and he shows me videos.  Right now I get random texts that bring a smile to my face because the people in my life are amazing and even the boys that amuse me know how to make a girl smile even though I don't want to give up my alone time for them.  Right now there is coffee.  Right now I'm bracing for a day of picking up around the house because having the kids home means I'm going to be home, and scrubbing walls. Later I will jump into crafts with my boys, assuming they'll join me.

Filling Out Forms

I'm doing it.  I've started this before.  There were many befores, but I'm doing it. The first before was because I was angry and I had no options.  I excused that away because I decided I wouldn't finish what he started and I never wanted.  I stopped.

Another before was started and then stopped when I decided I wouldn't be the person he wanted to make me into. I would be the wife I wanted to be, no matter what kind of husband he was being.  That lasted 11 months.  I tried. I won't say I failed.  I allowed another dream to replace the one that no longer served me.

There were plenty befores when I felt rage or pain or loss and I didn't know what else to do.  The action I took was no action.  I wouldn't allow a feeling to force my hand. Feelings come and go, but a choice I make is one I get to live with.

This moment right now will not become a before.

I'm not angry.  There's no pain. Last night I learned something that was shocking and could have been painful but it was more irritating.  How dare a husband of mine disrespect me on such a visceral level?  It wasn't even about him, but the label I gave him when I gave him my hand and the disgust I felt.  At the end of the day, I chose to make that boy my husband.

This is not about the person I'm dating. I'm not actually dating anyone special. There hasn't been anyone on a date with me that was blog worthy for a while. It's not that serious. Only one man has made it to a third actual date and he didn't get number four because by then, his really sexy Italian accent wasn't as hard to comprehend.  I started to actually understand what he was saying and I couldn't continue dating him. Just no and ewwww.   No one else has made it past a first date, and my crushes were just crushes and wonderful for what they were. Would I have ever introduced either one of those boys to my kids? No.  It was never even considered.

Six days ago I imagined a perfect day. For the first time, I was able to imagine being at a river with someone else.  I thought about the shimmer of the sun reflected on flowing water and radiating painfully in my eyes.  I could smell the sunblock and feel the warmth of the sun.  I could hear laughter and imagined being in a place I've never been, surrounded by people and not on my own.  I imagined waking up with someone, and bumping around a kitchen to make breakfast together.  I pictured a hike with someone and sharing an afternoon and sunset on the pier with someone, followed by walking along the sand in deep conversation under a bright and full moon.  I could hear the crackle and smell the burning wood while cuddled under a blanket around a beach fire pit.  In all of this, I wasn't imagining being on my own, but with someone special.  It's time.  I'm ready for my divorce now.

I won't lie, I've been putting it off all week.  Every time I sat to fill out the forms, it didn't feel right.  I had things on my mind at work, and couldn't get it done on my lunch.  I had homework to help with and things I needed to do that became more important throughout the week.  I'm doing it now.  I'm filling out forms.  I have two more to bang out before I start drafting that motion.  What makes it right in this moment is I have my boys with me.  My older two are happy and gaming, and I can hear the music from their games and the occasional geek out.  My little one is playing and running to me to share whatever new thought crosses his mind.  A house full of my babies, and the sounds of who we have become are what have been missing.

I'm excited about the next phase in my life.  I have been sitting in this moment and fully appreciating what it means.  I want more intention in this moment than there was on my wedding day when I thought, "shit, am I really doing this?  What the hell, let's do it." There may one day be another wedding.  If there is, it will include my family and not just three people, with one of them objecting.  I chose to marry him, and even though it wasn't my desire, I took his name.  I am the only woman to marry into his family that has his name.  I may  be the only woman in his family with his name.  I'm not sure what his sister and cousin did when they married their husbands, but I don't really care either.  I get to reclaim my birth name.  I am the only person on this planet with the power and ability to divorce him.  I get to divorce my husband and as his wife, it is the last mess of his I will ever have to clean up.  Whatever children he decides to have won't fall under the shame of my broken marriage.  He always wanted a daughter and I never wanted to give him another child. I don't have to live with what he felt for the surrogate daughters I carried for another family. I can be at peace with what I did with my body. When I'm asked about my marital status, I will no longer be in marriage purgatory and separated without a legal separation.  I will be divorced and I will be single and I'll only be connected by our boys.

I feel peace.  I feel empowered.  I feel joy.  I feel alive.  I feel hopeful.

It's a great night to be me.  I'm going to finish filling these forms out before bed and I anticipate pleasant dreams.