Sometimes I forget the reason I started blogging. Some days I forget about that moment, a little over three years ago (!), when I sat down, logged onto Blogspot and created The Happy Hausfrau. My goal wasn't to become popular, it wasn't to seek revenge. My goal was simple:
I wanted other women going through a very particular kind of hell, the shitstorm of having your husband leave you, to know they weren't alone.
I wanted to tell my story, because I still remembered what it was like, those first few weeks and months after he left. How utterly alone I felt. I knew what it was like to sit down at the end of a long day, weary and sad and feeling the weight of the world and all of its unknowns settling down on my broken shoulders.
I knew what it was like to trudge, in a zombie-ish fashion, throughout the day wearing all sorts of masks:
The "Strong Lady" mask
The "Tough Chick" mask
The "Super Mom" mask
The "EVERYTHING IS FINE!" mask
And I remember, oh-so-clearly, what I saw in the mirror when I took off those masks. I saw a woman who had been crushed. A woman who was surrounded by people all the live long day but had never felt so isolated. A woman who so desperately needed to know that she was going to be okay. That her kids were going to be okay. That everything was most certainly going to be okay.
I wrote a post called "What To Do When Your Husband Leaves You". And then a follow up to that post. As of today, the original one has had almost 100,000 views. With dozens more coming every day. Sometimes I look at the little application that tells me what search terms people have used to find this blog of mine. Sometimes they're amusing: "fat naked housefraw" "what does a pound of fat look like" and my personal all time favorite, "hairy hausfrau".
The ones that are always there, though, are the not so funny ones. "What do I do when husband leaves" "my daughter's husband left her with two little ones" "husband leaves after 25 years". And the one I read this morning that touched me so much:
"Husband leaving, need hope and strength"
I wanted to reach out to the woman who typed that one. I want to find out who she is, I want to sit down with her and hold out a box of tissues for her while she tells me her story. I want to hold her close and comfort her and tell her that everything is going to be okay.
I'm not a liar. I don't like to give false hope. I think the harsh reality of this life is, sometimes it sucks. Things happen that we aren't prepared for. Things happen that scare the crap out of us, threaten to ruin us. Things happen that leave us feeling depleted. Defeated.
The other reality of this life, the one that isn't so harsh? It's that life goes on. These things happen and they hurt and they almost kill us. But we get up, we assess the damage. Some of us look around, furtively, to make sure nobody saw us fall. And then we do something that amazes us.
We carry on. We get out of bed, sometimes we shower. We make lunches and balance checkbooks and answer emails. Some of us go to work, some of us stay home. We visit therapists and college admission offices and food shelves. We go on field trips with our kids, we take walks by ourselves just to hear the sound of our feet making contact with the road.
We go to church or synagogue or mosque or Macy's. We gather our friends around us, we find out which ones are in it for the long haul and which ones we need to set free. We comfort our babies. We get dogs.
We do what we need to do. What our kids need us to do. What the world expects us to do.
And then, one day...something miraculous happens. Yes, we shower, but something even better than that. One day we wake up and we realize that the hurt doesn't hurt so bad anymore. We look at our kids and realize that they are growing up and doing the things normal kids do. We realize that over the past few months, we've been the ones helping our friends out, instead of the other way around.
We realize that we are indeed okay.
Look at me, ladies. Look at this hot mess I am. I lost everything that was mine just a few short years ago: my husband. My house. My comfortable, predictable life.
My life now? It's not all wine and roses, people. I don't have a 401k or even a savings account. I don't own, I rent. I drive a used car that has a fair amount of duct tape holding one of the side mirrors together. I gain and lose the same 25 pounds every year. I have one kid who grapples with mental demons every day, one kid who has a slight anger management problem, one kid who will deal with daddy issues the rest of her life and a kid who is wrestling with puberty. I've dated a bunch but have yet to fall in love, and I'm beginning to think that it's my destiny to be the eccentric single lady for the rest of my days. I have a vibrator somewhere but due to panic over the kids finding it I have hidden it so well that the freaks on "Storage Wars" will unearth it before I do.
I work 3 part time jobs, pieced together like a patchwork quilt in order to make ends meet. Hell, I don't even have a guaranteed job for next fall. I'm worried about this summer and about the rest of my life.
But...I'm here. I'm alive. I'm relatively happy. I shower at least 4 times a week. I have made so many good friends, and hung onto so many of the old ones that I can't venture out my front door without running into one of them. A couple of weeks ago, I stood up in front of 500-plus people and read out loud. Read a story I wrote about a stupid pasta bowl that made me cry.
I have made huge progress since that day my husband left me. Am I success story? I don't know about that. But I do know I am an "okay story". And I want those ladies, those sweet and sad and lost ladies out there, to know that they will be okay stories too. They already are.
I don't ever ask you guys to share anything I've written. I loathe the thought of pimping out my blog, of begging for comments or likes or whatever. But I want you to do something for me, and more importantly, for the women who are just now asking for hope and strength:
Share this. And add YOUR story to it. Comment here with your own advice. Tell me, and our new sisters, what gave YOU hope and strength when you needed it the most. Here's your chance to chime in and describe how you felt then, and how you feel NOW. Tell us about the day YOU knew you were going to be okay.
I'm still tweaking my never-ending manuscript that will hopefully become a book. One thing that has been stumping me is the epilogue, the "happily ever after" ending.
I think a chapter written by ALL of us would be kind of kick ass. Don't you?
A chapter called, tentatively, "Okay Ever After: Stories of Hope and Strength".
Get to typin', girls. We all want to hear your story.
5/18/13
Stuff I Think of on a Thunderstormy Saturday
I'm sitting on the Golden Girls Porch of Love, drinking some of my special homemade iced coffee (no, there isn't booze in, that's NOT what makes it special) and listening to a spectacular thunderstorm/downpour. This is the best spot to be on a stormy Saturday morning. I thought I'd share some of my musings with you while it rains.
1. Today is my William's birthday. I wrote a little birthday essay for him earlier this year in order to have a complete set for my manuscript. As of this moment, I have four teenagers. I didn't really think about that back in my breeding days, did I? They were all so cute and chubby and funny. I've been going through a little stress with William lately, the brain knows it's just hormone/teenager/puberty developmental stuff but the heart hurts more than a little. Like I told my friend in the teacher's lounge over lunch the other day, "Parenting is hard!". Understatement of the year. P.S. Thanks for listening to me, Joyce.
2. Do you watch The Voice? I'll say I don't, but I really do. Rather, I eavesdrop on it when Molly has it on. Is it just me or does Blake Shelton always look like he smells something icky? And how awesome is it when one of the contestants speaks Spanish and Shakira starts gabbing with them in Espanol? I wish I knew another language. And Adam Levine. Is he hot, or is he not? I can't decide. He reminds me of every cool popular boy I ever had a crush on, who wouldn't give me the time of day. Unless they wanted some intel on one of my hot friends. Screw you, Adam. She may have great hair but she doesn't GET how funny Bill Murray is, like I do. Oops. Sorry. Got lost in thought there for a minute.
3. Yesterday, as I was walking into school, a friend of mine stopped me and said, "There's a whole bunch of porn downloaded on my laptop." At first I was like, "Okay!" thinking she was telling me where to find it if I needed it. And then it dawned on me that she was telling me one of her kids had done it. Refer to my understatement of the year above. Parenting really is hard. Also, my friend has no idea how to delete the files now. I told her I'd ask around. Meaning, I'll ask Charlie.
4. File this one under my oddball crushes: there is a State Farm commercial that depicts a married man whispering into the phone in the middle of the night. The wife busts him, and demands to speak to "Jake from State Farm" (complete with air quotes). I love that commercial, and I have a sick wanting of the husband in it. Imagine my delight when I saw that same couple in a new commercial for something else. I actually gasped and poor Henry, who happened to be in the room with me, had to listen to me joyfully recap how great I think it is that my boyfriend from the State Farm commercial is branching out. Henry left the room, but not before saying: "I think you may watch too much t.v., mom."
Henry may be right.
5. You know I'm always on the lookout for a great hand lotion. Whenever I have a little extra cash, I like to try a new brand. Oh yeah..I know some women buy new purses or jewelry when they have some change jingling in their pockets. I buy hand lotion. Because that's how my broke ass rolls, ladies. Anyhoo...I bought a bottle of this stuff:
Because, don't you think corn huskers would totally have chapped, dry hands? And if there's a lotion made just for them, surely it will rock.
But, it doesn't. In fact, putting it on my poor dry hands was a painful experience. It felt like hand sanitizer (which I can't stand, by the way). I checked the label and the third ingredient is: alcohol. Apparently corn huskers want their hands to be red and sting. So then my homie Danielle turned me on to this:
I could go on a tangent about udders and my years of breastfeeding, but I won't. I will say that I love this stuff. It smells a little like baby lotion, too, which every peri-menopausal mother of four teenagers loves. When I'm feeling stressed I smell my hands and it brings me back to the days of soft baby butts and shiny pink gummy smiles that melted my heart. Of course, then someone will yell "MOM! We're out of toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom!" and reality crashes back in but you know what? My hands are soft. It's all good.
6. Did I tell you guys about my recent windfall? I got $3,000.00 as part of a nationwide settlement against some of the banks that were behind the spate of foreclosures over the past few years. Including mine. Of course, since the universe has a twisted sense of humor, the check went to Big Daddy. One night I was downstairs, doing laundry, when William came prancing down and announced, "Our dad is at the front door. He wants to see you." I thought he was kidding at first, but lo and behold..there he was, goatee on his face and a damp check in his hand (it was drizzling out). "Hey!" he said, like we were old friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. "Hey! I don't know if you've heard about this settlement thing, for people who lost their homes?". I looked at him. I wanted to say, "Oh you mean PEOPLE LIKE ME? Like your KIDS? YEAH I'VE HEARD A LITTLE BIT ABOUT THAT". But instead I just said, "Yeah, I have." He held the check up and said, "For some reason this came to my house, and it's made out to both of us." I squinted in the dim light of the front steps. Yep. There we were. The both of us. "I will sign it, but first I need you to sign this little note I drew up." He passed over a handwritten document that said something about how me, the undersigned, absolved he, the other guy, of any taxes or other fees that would come of this financial bounty. "You're going to have to pay taxes on this next year," he explained to me, slowly and carefully as if explaining to a feeble old lady how she's going to be placed in a nursing home but not to worry.
So of course I signed it, knowing that this was all I was ever going to see as far as losing my house was concerned. Knowing full well that this $3,000.00 was going to cost me about $1,500.00 on my taxes next year, which left me with $1,500.00 of hush money to spend as I saw fit. Because I have a bunch of kids and money is money, you know? I guess in the end it means that in exchange for losing my home, going bankrupt and having my credit ruined I got $1,500.00. Sounds like a deal to me!
I hated him at that moment. I hated the fact that he was holding this money over my head, like you hold a treat over a dog in order to get her to sit or roll over. I hated seeing his handwriting, hated seeing the "X" he drew, pointing out where I was supposed to sign. Hated myself because at that moment, one of the things I was thinking about was, "I look so fat".
So I took that cash money and put it in the bank. I spent $250 of it on a Samsung Chromebook. Because my laptop was dying. I hate spending money, have I mentioned that? It kills me to do it. The whole time the guy at Best Buy was ringing me up (isn't that a quaint term now, 'ringing me up'?) I kept thinking "Oooh jeeze I shouldn't spend this. I shouldn't spend this." Going broke does a number on your mind. Makes you kind of kooky as far as money is concerned.
Now I have the Chromebook, and while it's lightyears better than my old dying Dell, it leaves a lot to be desired. But it's tiny and I can now sit in bed, watch old episodes of Psych on Netflix and get all writery. To quote the farmer in Babe:
That'll do, pig. That'll do. It will do for now.
And that WILL do it for me. It's stopped raining, and I have a birthday boy to love up..hormones and all.
Have a wonderful weekend, my friends.
1. Today is my William's birthday. I wrote a little birthday essay for him earlier this year in order to have a complete set for my manuscript. As of this moment, I have four teenagers. I didn't really think about that back in my breeding days, did I? They were all so cute and chubby and funny. I've been going through a little stress with William lately, the brain knows it's just hormone/teenager/puberty developmental stuff but the heart hurts more than a little. Like I told my friend in the teacher's lounge over lunch the other day, "Parenting is hard!". Understatement of the year. P.S. Thanks for listening to me, Joyce.
2. Do you watch The Voice? I'll say I don't, but I really do. Rather, I eavesdrop on it when Molly has it on. Is it just me or does Blake Shelton always look like he smells something icky? And how awesome is it when one of the contestants speaks Spanish and Shakira starts gabbing with them in Espanol? I wish I knew another language. And Adam Levine. Is he hot, or is he not? I can't decide. He reminds me of every cool popular boy I ever had a crush on, who wouldn't give me the time of day. Unless they wanted some intel on one of my hot friends. Screw you, Adam. She may have great hair but she doesn't GET how funny Bill Murray is, like I do. Oops. Sorry. Got lost in thought there for a minute.
3. Yesterday, as I was walking into school, a friend of mine stopped me and said, "There's a whole bunch of porn downloaded on my laptop." At first I was like, "Okay!" thinking she was telling me where to find it if I needed it. And then it dawned on me that she was telling me one of her kids had done it. Refer to my understatement of the year above. Parenting really is hard. Also, my friend has no idea how to delete the files now. I told her I'd ask around. Meaning, I'll ask Charlie.
4. File this one under my oddball crushes: there is a State Farm commercial that depicts a married man whispering into the phone in the middle of the night. The wife busts him, and demands to speak to "Jake from State Farm" (complete with air quotes). I love that commercial, and I have a sick wanting of the husband in it. Imagine my delight when I saw that same couple in a new commercial for something else. I actually gasped and poor Henry, who happened to be in the room with me, had to listen to me joyfully recap how great I think it is that my boyfriend from the State Farm commercial is branching out. Henry left the room, but not before saying: "I think you may watch too much t.v., mom."
Henry may be right.
5. You know I'm always on the lookout for a great hand lotion. Whenever I have a little extra cash, I like to try a new brand. Oh yeah..I know some women buy new purses or jewelry when they have some change jingling in their pockets. I buy hand lotion. Because that's how my broke ass rolls, ladies. Anyhoo...I bought a bottle of this stuff:
Because, don't you think corn huskers would totally have chapped, dry hands? And if there's a lotion made just for them, surely it will rock.
But, it doesn't. In fact, putting it on my poor dry hands was a painful experience. It felt like hand sanitizer (which I can't stand, by the way). I checked the label and the third ingredient is: alcohol. Apparently corn huskers want their hands to be red and sting. So then my homie Danielle turned me on to this:
6. Did I tell you guys about my recent windfall? I got $3,000.00 as part of a nationwide settlement against some of the banks that were behind the spate of foreclosures over the past few years. Including mine. Of course, since the universe has a twisted sense of humor, the check went to Big Daddy. One night I was downstairs, doing laundry, when William came prancing down and announced, "Our dad is at the front door. He wants to see you." I thought he was kidding at first, but lo and behold..there he was, goatee on his face and a damp check in his hand (it was drizzling out). "Hey!" he said, like we were old friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. "Hey! I don't know if you've heard about this settlement thing, for people who lost their homes?". I looked at him. I wanted to say, "Oh you mean PEOPLE LIKE ME? Like your KIDS? YEAH I'VE HEARD A LITTLE BIT ABOUT THAT". But instead I just said, "Yeah, I have." He held the check up and said, "For some reason this came to my house, and it's made out to both of us." I squinted in the dim light of the front steps. Yep. There we were. The both of us. "I will sign it, but first I need you to sign this little note I drew up." He passed over a handwritten document that said something about how me, the undersigned, absolved he, the other guy, of any taxes or other fees that would come of this financial bounty. "You're going to have to pay taxes on this next year," he explained to me, slowly and carefully as if explaining to a feeble old lady how she's going to be placed in a nursing home but not to worry.
So of course I signed it, knowing that this was all I was ever going to see as far as losing my house was concerned. Knowing full well that this $3,000.00 was going to cost me about $1,500.00 on my taxes next year, which left me with $1,500.00 of hush money to spend as I saw fit. Because I have a bunch of kids and money is money, you know? I guess in the end it means that in exchange for losing my home, going bankrupt and having my credit ruined I got $1,500.00. Sounds like a deal to me!
I hated him at that moment. I hated the fact that he was holding this money over my head, like you hold a treat over a dog in order to get her to sit or roll over. I hated seeing his handwriting, hated seeing the "X" he drew, pointing out where I was supposed to sign. Hated myself because at that moment, one of the things I was thinking about was, "I look so fat".
So I took that cash money and put it in the bank. I spent $250 of it on a Samsung Chromebook. Because my laptop was dying. I hate spending money, have I mentioned that? It kills me to do it. The whole time the guy at Best Buy was ringing me up (isn't that a quaint term now, 'ringing me up'?) I kept thinking "Oooh jeeze I shouldn't spend this. I shouldn't spend this." Going broke does a number on your mind. Makes you kind of kooky as far as money is concerned.
Now I have the Chromebook, and while it's lightyears better than my old dying Dell, it leaves a lot to be desired. But it's tiny and I can now sit in bed, watch old episodes of Psych on Netflix and get all writery. To quote the farmer in Babe:
That'll do, pig. That'll do. It will do for now.
And that WILL do it for me. It's stopped raining, and I have a birthday boy to love up..hormones and all.
Have a wonderful weekend, my friends.
5/15/13
Encyclopedia Brown and The Case of The Mysteriously Disappearing Dad Weekends
There are times I wish I was a bit more fastidious about record-keeping. Actually, at all fastidious would be nice. Time was, I used to keep track of when the kids were with their father. I was, in all truthfulness, a wee bit fanatical about it. If he was 10 minutes early to pick them up, I'd jot it down. Late dropping them off by more than 10 minutes? That would be duly noted as well. Why? Well, why not? I was told by my attorney back then, to "keep records". And so records were kept.
For about a year or so, he was pretty good about taking the kids for "his" times. The kids went without a fuss, at first. They'd hug me goodbye and I'd wave to them as they sped down the street and tried my hardest to not cry as the backs of their heads grew smaller and smaller and then, disappeared around the corner.
At first, those weekends were awful. As moms, we are so conditioned to chaos and noise and sheer BUSYNESS that to be faced with a silent house, and 48 hours of alone time is shocking, to say the least. But I am nothing if not adaptable, and soon I actually started looking forward to these little breaks twice a month.
I think things started disintegrating around the time Charlie had his troubles. He didn't go to his dad's house for a full year after that. And once he did start going again, it was sporadic. Molly followed suit, and over the past year or so, the two younger boys have been seeing less and less of their father.
I haven't had one of those chaos-free, kid-free weekends in so long. I can't remember the last time they were all over there, with their father, for more than a couple of hours. It's been at least three years.
Do I miss those quiet, peaceful weekends? Those four days a month when I didn't have to schlep people around, didn't have to feed armies of children or fight for the remote?
Yes. And, no.
Yes, because who wouldn't want just a few blessed hours of QUIET each week? I'm not a big enough martyr that I want to starve my soul that way. I need silence once in a while. Not long stretches of it, of course, because that's when I start talking to myself and my dog, but a few hours here and there are absolutely RECHARGING. I remember those Me Weekends fondly. Catching up on my Netflix queue, sleeping alone (or sometimes, sleeping with someone other than two or three flailing kids). Ordering take-out and actually taking my time to eat it. Cleaning a bathroom and having it stay clean for HOURS. And the parties..oh I loved those first few hen parties.
But...when the kids are here, I am whole. I may be crabby some of the time, may be harried, but I am complete when they are near. When they're gone, I miss them. I miss laughing with Molly, debating with Charlie (because he's at that age where I am so utterly stupid-how I manage to breathe on my own, let alone get through a day without assistance is beyond him)...I miss hearing Henry and his friends and their ever-deepening voices as they whoop it up down in the mancave. I miss the Sunday morning donut-runs for the kids and whoever has slept over. I miss taking walks with William and Walter and discussing what he wants for his birthday this year (it's a toss up between a red eared slider turtle and a couple of XBOX games...I'm leaning towards the turtle).
When they're gone, I miss being a mom.
For the past year, I haven't missed them much. They almost never go to their dad's house, not for the Tuesday/Thursday dinner nights, not for the every-other weekends. And it leaves me feeling uneasy. Confused.
I want them to see their dad. They NEED to see him, spend time with him. It's essential for them, and dare I say it's pretty darn essential for him, too. I encourage them to go. On Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, when I'm at work and the Dad Pick Up Time draws near, I'll start to feel my phone vibrating with texts from them. They don't want to go to dad's house. They start coming up with excuses.
"I have too much homework"
"I'm hanging out with friends"
"I don't feel good" and lately:
"I don't want to see him"
That last one always gets me. Hits me right in my gut. I'll admit here, that there is still some tiny shrewish part of me that gets a sick bolt of self-righteousness from this. Some vindictive bitchy Jenny who cackles "SEE, ASSHOLE? THIS IS WHAT I WARNED YOU ABOUT WHEN YOU FIRST LEFT!". But she is quickly silenced by the New And Improved Me. The Nice Me. The me who still remembers this man as the good dad he was, and maybe, still could be: I see him mowing the front yard with a toddler several paces behind him pushing the Fisher Price Bubble Mower. I see him playing games with Charlie on the second-hand Nintendo GameCube. I see the kids running out to greet him as he pulled into the driveway after a day at work.
I see these things and I start to hurt for him. Yes, I hurt for the man who hurt me so much. I cannot fathom what it must feel like to be him, to have these four kids out there in the universe and not have relationships with them. How awkward it must be when people find out he's the father to four older children, other kids besides his new one, and they start to ask him questions. Questions that he might not know how to answer. Names of teachers they've had, what his daughter got on her ACT, what days William has hockey this summer. What they like to do, what books they're reading. Who they hang out with. Can you imagine not knowing these things about your kids?
There are other, less-generous reasons that I hurt, too. It hurts me, to my core, when I find myself handling crisis moments alone. When I check William's grades online and see that he's failing a class. When Charlie confesses to me that he's not feeling "right" and I'm so scared all over again. That's when I wish they would spend more time with their father. Not so I wouldn't have to handle these and other issues that arise, but so I wouldn't have to handle them by myself. I'm not fantasizing here, either. I don't picture Big Daddy and me, huddled together, working out a plan to help our kids get through life's labyrinth. No. That's not going to happen in this lifetime.
But it would be nice if just once, or twice, or every other weekend, he was the one they went to when they needed to unload or confess or gripe.
I think he owes that to them. And to some degree, he owes that to me. We made these babies together, I was under the assumption that we'd both be in it for the long haul. To leave your wife, your marriage...that's one thing. To leave your kids? That's something entirely different.
This is when the confusion sets in, when I'm hurting for both of us, for ALL of us, and the hurt turns to anger and resentment. Do I remind him? Do I nudge him to take his kids, the way you nudge a slacker friend to take her turn in Words With Friends (yeah I KNOW...I'm in Ruzzle land though...I'm sorry!)...or do I just let him be, let this grown man make his own parenting choices while I trudge behind him with a broom and clean up whatever messes those choices make? Part of me wants to demand that he take them, all of them. I want him to man up and get authoritative with these children. I want him to raise his voice with them, I want him to grow a set of big old brass balls and get with his kids. I want him to act like a dad.
But the other part of me sees that my kids don't want to go. They have their reasons, some of these have been shared with me, others are kept closer to their collective vests. The protective momma bear thinks, "They shouldn't have to go where they don't feel wanted, welcomed. Loved." That's when I suck it up, I put more gas in the car and get out my old-school giant paper calendar from OfficeMax to see who has to be where at what time.
I guess there really isn't a mystery here, is there? Children know more than we give them credit for knowing. Their feelings are just as big and just as real as ours. They know where they want to be, they know where home is.
And as badly as I need or want that elusive, seductive tramp called "Alone Time", I know my kids need to feel at home even more.
There are other, less-generous reasons that I hurt, too. It hurts me, to my core, when I find myself handling crisis moments alone. When I check William's grades online and see that he's failing a class. When Charlie confesses to me that he's not feeling "right" and I'm so scared all over again. That's when I wish they would spend more time with their father. Not so I wouldn't have to handle these and other issues that arise, but so I wouldn't have to handle them by myself. I'm not fantasizing here, either. I don't picture Big Daddy and me, huddled together, working out a plan to help our kids get through life's labyrinth. No. That's not going to happen in this lifetime.
But it would be nice if just once, or twice, or every other weekend, he was the one they went to when they needed to unload or confess or gripe.
I think he owes that to them. And to some degree, he owes that to me. We made these babies together, I was under the assumption that we'd both be in it for the long haul. To leave your wife, your marriage...that's one thing. To leave your kids? That's something entirely different.
This is when the confusion sets in, when I'm hurting for both of us, for ALL of us, and the hurt turns to anger and resentment. Do I remind him? Do I nudge him to take his kids, the way you nudge a slacker friend to take her turn in Words With Friends (yeah I KNOW...I'm in Ruzzle land though...I'm sorry!)...or do I just let him be, let this grown man make his own parenting choices while I trudge behind him with a broom and clean up whatever messes those choices make? Part of me wants to demand that he take them, all of them. I want him to man up and get authoritative with these children. I want him to raise his voice with them, I want him to grow a set of big old brass balls and get with his kids. I want him to act like a dad.
But the other part of me sees that my kids don't want to go. They have their reasons, some of these have been shared with me, others are kept closer to their collective vests. The protective momma bear thinks, "They shouldn't have to go where they don't feel wanted, welcomed. Loved." That's when I suck it up, I put more gas in the car and get out my old-school giant paper calendar from OfficeMax to see who has to be where at what time.
I guess there really isn't a mystery here, is there? Children know more than we give them credit for knowing. Their feelings are just as big and just as real as ours. They know where they want to be, they know where home is.
And as badly as I need or want that elusive, seductive tramp called "Alone Time", I know my kids need to feel at home even more.
5/12/13
A Mother's Day Thank You Note to Ann Imig
Dear Ann,
You don't know me, but I feel as though I owe you a thank you note. My real life friends are probably chuckling right now, because thank you notes from me are something of an enigma. "Many are written, few are sent" you might say. But today, on this chilly Minneapolis Mother's Day, I am sitting down and I am writing this very public thank you note, to you.
I'll admit it: prior to January of this year, I didn't know who you were. I didn't know a thing about Listen To Your Mother. I'm not a big blogger. I don't have a bajillion followers, I don't get a hundred comments per post and I am what some would call "twitter-phobic". BlogHer has never, ever even sniffed in my general direction, despite a few spastic attempts by yours truly to get their attention.
I'm small potatoes.
But somehow, I did hear about you, and about LTYM, in January. I read about you, and your mission, and about LTYM. I read blog posts about it, watched the videos and then, I took a breath and submitted a piece I had written. In true Jenny style, I then second-guessed myself and submitted another one.
Guess which one they chose?
From that moment on, I became someone new. And it was about damn time.
You see, Ms. Imig, my life has been kind of hard for the past few years. Oh, don't get me wrong...it hasn't been as hard as it could have been. My kids and I are healthy. There haven't been any natural disasters. The only disaster we faced has been the oh-so-unnatural one called Divorce.
My husband walked out on us. Not once, but twice (long story). I've been raising my four children solo for the past 6 years. Without much help from the former love of my life...financial or otherwise. We've struggled, a lot. Lost our home. Dealt with emotional wounds, and then the scars those wounds left. We went from living a pretty good, comfortable life, a life of new shoes when we needed them and kick ass health insurance to a life of food shelves and free lunches at school.
The mom my kids have known for this period of time hasn't always been the ideal: They've seen me at my worst, at my most despondent. My most desperate. I've tried so hard to keep things normal and happy and warm for them, tried with all of my might to make sure I deflected the blows, shielded them from the harsh realities of this new world we found ourselves residing in.
This is where you come in. You, and your wonderful creation, Listen To Your Mother.
Being chosen to speak at LTYM gave me a little boost. A boost I didn't know I needed. For the past few years I've been sitting here, on the sweet porch of our rented home, or in my living room sitting on dilapidated Ikea furniture, or in bed late at night, typing out my thoughts and musings. I was content knowing that my wonderful, loyal, small group of readers were out there, nodding their heads and sometimes weeping along with me. It was all I needed. Or so I thought.
The first time I sat at that big table with the other writers in the Twin Cities Listen To Your Mother cast, I felt something big and bright and amazing. I listened to their stories, I told mine and I wanted MORE. I wanted to hear more from them and I wanted to tell more of my own stories. I wanted to get on a plane or in my car or on a train and go to each and every LTYM show and hear MORE.
I thought these feelings were big and awesome.
And then we took the stage.
This past Thursday, my posse of new best friends and I put on some lipstick, brushed our hair, cleared our throats and then got up on a stage and poured our hearts out for approximately 650 people. And those people? They loved it. They clapped. They cried. They roared with laughter. We got a standing ovation, me and my friends. We clasped hands and we took bows (or rather, we attempted to take a bow..damn that stage was tiny!).
There were three members of the audience that night who needed to be there more than anyone else. Three people who deserved to hear their mom talk, to see her gussied up and standing tall.
Those three people were my kids (the fourth, my eldest, had a hot date and couldn't be there. I will go all Daniel Day Lewis on his butt later.."There Will Be Guilt"). One of my best friends did the best friend thing and gathered them up, bought them treats and sat with them in the audience that night. I saw their faces, waved hello and waited for my turn at the mic.
My heart felt as though it had somehow climbed into my throat. I could feel the sweat threatening my upper lip, my hands, my lower back. When our producer Tracy announced my name, my feet went on auto-pilot and directed me onstage. For the first few lines of my essay, my voice sounded strained, almost choked (no doubt due to my giant fluttering heart that was still wedged up where it shouldn't have been).
And then...and then.
Then I looked up. I squinted a tiny bit and I saw the faces of my children. My babies. My neck relaxed, my hands released their death-grip on the podium. I let my words, the words I wrote as an ode to my sweet family...I let them flow. Flow out as they were meant to do.
As quickly as it happened, it was over. I will admit, I was sort of anticipating that magical moment you speak of, that time in the lobby after the show when audience members seek out members of the cast to touch them, to say "Me too!". And that did happen. A friend I hadn't seen in forever came up and we hugged. A young, very hip woman in her twenties touched my arm and thanked me for my story. A woman in her 70's, a tall and lovely woman, stopped me and put her hands on my shoulders and had tears on her cheeks as she told me that my words made her cry (but in a good way, she assured me).
My kids, and a throng of my beautiful friends, were waiting for me, too. There were flowers and hugs and a couple bottles of wine (my friends, they know me). We posed for pictures, laughed and soaked up the ambiance for a bit.
My daughter, Molly, sidled up to me. She is 17, and quiet. She's my only girl, and I love her so hard it hurts some days. She whispered to me, "Henry was crying when you told your story. He was crying pretty hard." I looked over at Henry, my strapping 15 year old. He is 6'2" and he still calls me "Mama" and he says "Thank you" to every single cashier and waiter he encounters. I gave him a hug and asked him how he liked the show.
"I loved it, Mom." he said. I asked him if he liked what I had read. He paused for a minute, and then he said:
"I've never heard one of your stories, Mom. I never read any of them. When you talked about us tonight, about Dad...it made me think about everything. It made me cry a little." His eyes were clear and bright, there were no tears as he spoke. He, like his mama, does his mourning in the dark. In private. He hugged me, and as our faces touched he whispered to me:
"Thank you, Mom."
And this is why I am offering up my thanks to you, Ms. Imig. It's long and wordy but it's heartfelt and it's genuine.
Thank you. Thank you for your passion, for your love of all things Mom and for giving Mothers a place to tell our stories. Because of YOU, I was able to give my kids a gift. The gift of seeing me as I want them to see me, as I want them to remember me: polished up a bit, hair de-frizzed...standing proudly in the spotlight for a moment, telling my story. Our story.
My kids listened to their mother. And it's all thanks to YOU.
Love,
Jenny
You don't know me, but I feel as though I owe you a thank you note. My real life friends are probably chuckling right now, because thank you notes from me are something of an enigma. "Many are written, few are sent" you might say. But today, on this chilly Minneapolis Mother's Day, I am sitting down and I am writing this very public thank you note, to you.
I'll admit it: prior to January of this year, I didn't know who you were. I didn't know a thing about Listen To Your Mother. I'm not a big blogger. I don't have a bajillion followers, I don't get a hundred comments per post and I am what some would call "twitter-phobic". BlogHer has never, ever even sniffed in my general direction, despite a few spastic attempts by yours truly to get their attention.
I'm small potatoes.
But somehow, I did hear about you, and about LTYM, in January. I read about you, and your mission, and about LTYM. I read blog posts about it, watched the videos and then, I took a breath and submitted a piece I had written. In true Jenny style, I then second-guessed myself and submitted another one.
Guess which one they chose?
From that moment on, I became someone new. And it was about damn time.
You see, Ms. Imig, my life has been kind of hard for the past few years. Oh, don't get me wrong...it hasn't been as hard as it could have been. My kids and I are healthy. There haven't been any natural disasters. The only disaster we faced has been the oh-so-unnatural one called Divorce.
My husband walked out on us. Not once, but twice (long story). I've been raising my four children solo for the past 6 years. Without much help from the former love of my life...financial or otherwise. We've struggled, a lot. Lost our home. Dealt with emotional wounds, and then the scars those wounds left. We went from living a pretty good, comfortable life, a life of new shoes when we needed them and kick ass health insurance to a life of food shelves and free lunches at school.
The mom my kids have known for this period of time hasn't always been the ideal: They've seen me at my worst, at my most despondent. My most desperate. I've tried so hard to keep things normal and happy and warm for them, tried with all of my might to make sure I deflected the blows, shielded them from the harsh realities of this new world we found ourselves residing in.
This is where you come in. You, and your wonderful creation, Listen To Your Mother.
Being chosen to speak at LTYM gave me a little boost. A boost I didn't know I needed. For the past few years I've been sitting here, on the sweet porch of our rented home, or in my living room sitting on dilapidated Ikea furniture, or in bed late at night, typing out my thoughts and musings. I was content knowing that my wonderful, loyal, small group of readers were out there, nodding their heads and sometimes weeping along with me. It was all I needed. Or so I thought.
The first time I sat at that big table with the other writers in the Twin Cities Listen To Your Mother cast, I felt something big and bright and amazing. I listened to their stories, I told mine and I wanted MORE. I wanted to hear more from them and I wanted to tell more of my own stories. I wanted to get on a plane or in my car or on a train and go to each and every LTYM show and hear MORE.
I thought these feelings were big and awesome.
And then we took the stage.
This past Thursday, my posse of new best friends and I put on some lipstick, brushed our hair, cleared our throats and then got up on a stage and poured our hearts out for approximately 650 people. And those people? They loved it. They clapped. They cried. They roared with laughter. We got a standing ovation, me and my friends. We clasped hands and we took bows (or rather, we attempted to take a bow..damn that stage was tiny!).
There were three members of the audience that night who needed to be there more than anyone else. Three people who deserved to hear their mom talk, to see her gussied up and standing tall.
Those three people were my kids (the fourth, my eldest, had a hot date and couldn't be there. I will go all Daniel Day Lewis on his butt later.."There Will Be Guilt"). One of my best friends did the best friend thing and gathered them up, bought them treats and sat with them in the audience that night. I saw their faces, waved hello and waited for my turn at the mic.
My heart felt as though it had somehow climbed into my throat. I could feel the sweat threatening my upper lip, my hands, my lower back. When our producer Tracy announced my name, my feet went on auto-pilot and directed me onstage. For the first few lines of my essay, my voice sounded strained, almost choked (no doubt due to my giant fluttering heart that was still wedged up where it shouldn't have been).
And then...and then.
Then I looked up. I squinted a tiny bit and I saw the faces of my children. My babies. My neck relaxed, my hands released their death-grip on the podium. I let my words, the words I wrote as an ode to my sweet family...I let them flow. Flow out as they were meant to do.
As quickly as it happened, it was over. I will admit, I was sort of anticipating that magical moment you speak of, that time in the lobby after the show when audience members seek out members of the cast to touch them, to say "Me too!". And that did happen. A friend I hadn't seen in forever came up and we hugged. A young, very hip woman in her twenties touched my arm and thanked me for my story. A woman in her 70's, a tall and lovely woman, stopped me and put her hands on my shoulders and had tears on her cheeks as she told me that my words made her cry (but in a good way, she assured me).
My kids, and a throng of my beautiful friends, were waiting for me, too. There were flowers and hugs and a couple bottles of wine (my friends, they know me). We posed for pictures, laughed and soaked up the ambiance for a bit.
My daughter, Molly, sidled up to me. She is 17, and quiet. She's my only girl, and I love her so hard it hurts some days. She whispered to me, "Henry was crying when you told your story. He was crying pretty hard." I looked over at Henry, my strapping 15 year old. He is 6'2" and he still calls me "Mama" and he says "Thank you" to every single cashier and waiter he encounters. I gave him a hug and asked him how he liked the show.
"I loved it, Mom." he said. I asked him if he liked what I had read. He paused for a minute, and then he said:
"I've never heard one of your stories, Mom. I never read any of them. When you talked about us tonight, about Dad...it made me think about everything. It made me cry a little." His eyes were clear and bright, there were no tears as he spoke. He, like his mama, does his mourning in the dark. In private. He hugged me, and as our faces touched he whispered to me:
"Thank you, Mom."
And this is why I am offering up my thanks to you, Ms. Imig. It's long and wordy but it's heartfelt and it's genuine.
Thank you. Thank you for your passion, for your love of all things Mom and for giving Mothers a place to tell our stories. Because of YOU, I was able to give my kids a gift. The gift of seeing me as I want them to see me, as I want them to remember me: polished up a bit, hair de-frizzed...standing proudly in the spotlight for a moment, telling my story. Our story.
My kids listened to their mother. And it's all thanks to YOU.
Love,
Jenny
5/8/13
The Day Before Listen To Your Mother
I can still feel my legs shaking, still feel the horde of butterflies in my belly. I got a tiny bit lost on my way there, even though I had the directions clutched in my sweaty hand, written in kelly green colored pencil on the back of a MinnesotaCare payment envelope.
When I finally found the warehouse, I pushed aside that tiny spark of hysteria that whispered in my head: "Maybe this isn't an audition at all! Maybe the whole thing was a ruse set up by a band of sadistic serial killers who have a taste for middle aged women who write!!". I sat there, in my car, for just a moment and collected myself. Gathered all my crazy around me and just breathed for a few seconds. Breathe in. Breathe out. "You can do this, Jenny" I said to myself. Made eye contact with the terrified woman in my rear view mirror. That sweet, tired woman who had been through so much. She started to protest: "But I look like hell. What if they hate me? What if I screw this up?"
I said it again, "You can do this"and then I stepped out of my car and into a new journey.
I followed the signs that said in bright red and sharp black: LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER AUDITIONS THIS WAY! and found myself at a nondescript, battered metal door. The sign on the door said WAIT HERE: WE'LL COME FOR YOU or something like that. I used this waiting time to check in on the facebook. "I'm nervous" I typed. Nervous. Ha. Understatement of the year.
A tiny woman with a halo of gorgeous white hair appeared at the door. "Is this one of them?" I wondered. "One of the producers?" I tried to appear...what? More writery? More mothery? She smiled at me and then said, "I forgot something in my car, it's almost my turn to audition. Would you hold the door for me?"
Ahhh...this was one of my fellow auditioners. I'll admit it here: for a brief second I considered letting her out, but not holding the door. In fact, I considered barring the door and tearing down the signs. "If no one else shows up, they'd HAVE to choose me, wouldn't they?" Sanity and decency prevailed, thankfully, and I held the door for her.
We gathered in the hallway outside of the audition room. There were four of us: my new friend from the door, a slight, younger woman who had just finished her audition and was filling out some paperwork, and a feisty redhead. We tittered and gabbed and made small talk. Asked each other where we wrote, what we wrote and "are you nervous?".
The younger woman, the one who had already done it, told us: "They have chocolate."
My door friend was next. The feisty redhead and I sat there, shuffling papers, trying to prepare for something we were both unsure exactly how to prepare for. She told me her name was Kelly and that she was a feminist blogger. Or something along those lines. I remember thinking, "She has a nice voice...I bet they'll love her." I was starting to sweat a little, under my grey burka/poncho sweater.
My door friend, who in real life is named Carol, came out. She is a poet, who has published a book. She was worried that her piece wasn't what they were looking for. "It's short" she said. I tried to reassure her, saying, "Well, maybe that's just what they need...in between the longer stories. Like a sorbet..a palate cleanser." She laughed and we wished each other good luck. "Hope I see you again" she said.
The feisty redhead, Kelly, was next and instead of going over my essay, I sat there and listened. I heard the producers introducing themselves and then I heard Kelly read. I felt like a Peeping Tom (Listening Tom?) and was a little surprised to find myself crying as she got to the end of her tale. The producers burst into applause and my feisty redheaded friend emerged from the room. In my awkward, Hagrid-like manner, I asked if I could hug her. She complied, we hugged, and that was that. "Good luck!" she said to me as she collected her things and made her way down the hall.
Good luck.
I had lots of things that day. I had fear. I had hope. I had second and third and fourth doubts. I had the sniffles. Turns out, I did have some luck. Because I made it.
My door friend, Carol, the one with the short and sweet literary sorbet? She made it too. So did the recipient of my odd affection, Kelly. We didn't see the younger girl again, the one who told us of the chocolate. For some reason, her face was the first thing that popped into my mind when I got the email telling me I had been chosen. She had been waiting, I know, just as I had been waiting. Waiting and wishing and hoping, just like me.
Our show happens tomorrow night. Me and my 13 new friends (16 new friends if you count our amazing producers). I've been trying to find the words to describe how this experience has felt. Tried, several times, to write down exactly how it's made me feel, how it's already left such a deep impression on the surface of my life. I'm finding that instead of being at a loss for words, there are too many. Humbled. Honored. Empowered. Accepted. Loved. Worthy.
Worthy. For someone like me, the opportunity to take part in something like this is almost life-affirming. I hate to go back to the Divorce thing, but I do find myself there now and again. Being left by your husband is such a huge blow. So devastating to your self-esteem. There is no other rejection like it. Even though years have passed, the pain still comes. Still peeks out from corners to startle me with a quiet little "Boo!".
I don't want to give my ex-husband any credit for this, but in a way, he's the reason I'm in Listen To Your Mother. In some weird, roundabout manner, he has been my strongest inspiration. Who knows where I'd be now, if he hadn't left? Would I have started writing? Maybe. But something tells me that a blog about golf lessons and my part time job at Chico's wouldn't be as compelling as the stories I share now. The stories about loss and despair and sadness. The stories about survival and strength and rebirth.
The stories like the one I'll be telling tomorrow night.
Local friends, if you have the chance, I cannot encourage you strongly enough to get your butt down to the Riverview Theater tomorrow night. The words that these women have prepared for you will make you howl with laughter, they will make you sob from your soul, they will make you nod like a damn bobblehead thinking, "Oh my GOD I know what she means!!!".
I could not be more proud to be a part of this amazing adventure. Listen, my period showed up three days early. I guess even that wench didn't want to miss it.
Here is the link to buy tickets (CLICK HERE, PEOPLE)...buy them today (Wednesday May 8th) and 20% of the sales will go to the Jeremiah Program. A place that helps single moms succeed.
5/7/13
Blogging With Friends
I learned an important lesson yesterday.
Yesterday I wrote a post, a post I really liked. It stemmed from a conversation I'd had with a friend, a really close and good friend. What the conversation was about is not important anymore. But what is important is the fact that it made me think about a lot of things, things that weren't even remotely related to what we had discussed.
I pulled the post just a few hours after I published it. This is only the second time in three (3?? really??) years of blogging that I pulled something I wrote. I hesitated because there was already some really interesting, and varied, feedback on it. But I did it, for one reason, and one reason only: to protect a friend.
If you, like me, fancy yourself to be a writer, you see the world differently than most. We tend to see life in paragraphs. Every conversation, every drive to Target, hell...every shower is narrated by that little observer in our brains. My mind is constantly writing, even if my hands are nowhere near a laptop or pen and paper.
It's only natural for us to want to write about everything we see or do or touch or feel. That's just how we're wired. And usually, that works out okay for everyone. I'm sure my ex-husband would like to insert an "AHEM" right here, but since this is my blog I have the right to tell him to stick that ahem where the sun don't shine. My real life friends, and those I've had the pleasure to meet virtually through this page and other places I've written, have been really good about being part of this bizarre online world of mine. They've been generous with themselves, allowing me to describe them and things we've done and gone through together.
Yesterday I felt as if I had crossed a line. My feelings had been hurt, and I did what is the writer's equivalent to curling up in the fetal postion and licking your wounds: I wrote about it. I told my friend about the post, and assured her that it was written in good fatih, not in a vindictive or passive-aggressive manner. Nobody knows who I had the conversation with, all I divulged was the fact that it was one of my friends who has a child. The list of "who could it be" is looooooong and dare I say, rife with some pretty kick-ass women. But a few hours after I posted it...I felt icky. I felt that unsettled, all-is-not-right feeling. And while in the bathroom stall at work, I went on my phone and reverted my post to draft form. After that, I apologized to my friend and the bad feelings went away. All was right again.
Here's the deal: I cherish my friendships. The bond I have with my friends is incredibly strong, yet at the same time, it's vulnerable and fragile. I don't want to put a single one of my friendships at risk. I don't want my beautiful group of hens to ever feel as though they are being recorded when we gab, that every single thing they say is fair game for one of my random blog posts.
I don't want my friends to be wary around me. One of the things I love most about the women in my life is their ability to talk about anything and everything. We can begin a conversation discussing politics and end up crying on each other's shoulders because someone called us a bad name in kindergarten. From my friends I have learned things that will stick with me forever (for instance, fold the damn clothes as you take them out of the dryer...takes just a few minutes longer and BAM they're folded. Thank you, Leslie!) and I have felt a kinship and a love that actually takes my breath away at times.
I'm going to take another look at the post I wrote, and see if I can rework it so that nobody I love will feel exposed. Because I think it's a topic that pretty much everyone has an opinion about, and it's yet another one of my shout outs to that ever-expanding club, Single Mamas.
It may end up never seeing the light of internet again, and that's okay too. Because I don't ever want my friends to wonder:
Where does the friend end, and the blogger begin?
P.S. Don't ever play the game Ruzzle. Do you hear me? NEVER. But if you do, start a game with me. My name on there is happyhaus. I only play late at night during the week, though, so be patient.
Yesterday I wrote a post, a post I really liked. It stemmed from a conversation I'd had with a friend, a really close and good friend. What the conversation was about is not important anymore. But what is important is the fact that it made me think about a lot of things, things that weren't even remotely related to what we had discussed.
I pulled the post just a few hours after I published it. This is only the second time in three (3?? really??) years of blogging that I pulled something I wrote. I hesitated because there was already some really interesting, and varied, feedback on it. But I did it, for one reason, and one reason only: to protect a friend.
If you, like me, fancy yourself to be a writer, you see the world differently than most. We tend to see life in paragraphs. Every conversation, every drive to Target, hell...every shower is narrated by that little observer in our brains. My mind is constantly writing, even if my hands are nowhere near a laptop or pen and paper.
It's only natural for us to want to write about everything we see or do or touch or feel. That's just how we're wired. And usually, that works out okay for everyone. I'm sure my ex-husband would like to insert an "AHEM" right here, but since this is my blog I have the right to tell him to stick that ahem where the sun don't shine. My real life friends, and those I've had the pleasure to meet virtually through this page and other places I've written, have been really good about being part of this bizarre online world of mine. They've been generous with themselves, allowing me to describe them and things we've done and gone through together.
Yesterday I felt as if I had crossed a line. My feelings had been hurt, and I did what is the writer's equivalent to curling up in the fetal postion and licking your wounds: I wrote about it. I told my friend about the post, and assured her that it was written in good fatih, not in a vindictive or passive-aggressive manner. Nobody knows who I had the conversation with, all I divulged was the fact that it was one of my friends who has a child. The list of "who could it be" is looooooong and dare I say, rife with some pretty kick-ass women. But a few hours after I posted it...I felt icky. I felt that unsettled, all-is-not-right feeling. And while in the bathroom stall at work, I went on my phone and reverted my post to draft form. After that, I apologized to my friend and the bad feelings went away. All was right again.
Here's the deal: I cherish my friendships. The bond I have with my friends is incredibly strong, yet at the same time, it's vulnerable and fragile. I don't want to put a single one of my friendships at risk. I don't want my beautiful group of hens to ever feel as though they are being recorded when we gab, that every single thing they say is fair game for one of my random blog posts.
I don't want my friends to be wary around me. One of the things I love most about the women in my life is their ability to talk about anything and everything. We can begin a conversation discussing politics and end up crying on each other's shoulders because someone called us a bad name in kindergarten. From my friends I have learned things that will stick with me forever (for instance, fold the damn clothes as you take them out of the dryer...takes just a few minutes longer and BAM they're folded. Thank you, Leslie!) and I have felt a kinship and a love that actually takes my breath away at times.
I'm going to take another look at the post I wrote, and see if I can rework it so that nobody I love will feel exposed. Because I think it's a topic that pretty much everyone has an opinion about, and it's yet another one of my shout outs to that ever-expanding club, Single Mamas.
It may end up never seeing the light of internet again, and that's okay too. Because I don't ever want my friends to wonder:
Where does the friend end, and the blogger begin?
P.S. Don't ever play the game Ruzzle. Do you hear me? NEVER. But if you do, start a game with me. My name on there is happyhaus. I only play late at night during the week, though, so be patient.
4/29/13
Forgiving Your Ex-Husband is Hard...what about The Other Woman?
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One comment, though, has been stuck in my mind, playing over and over like a stupid Ke$ha song (DJ turn it up up up up...sorry). It was from an anonymous reader, and it went like this:
And another follow up question, Jenny. What about Secretary? Do you find forgiveness for her? I have nothing but anger and outrage for my ex's OW. Even more anger fueled by the fact that she herself was divorced from her cheating first husband. So, I am not anywhere near forgiveness, or even pity for her. Do you think the need for forgiveness extends beyond the person you thought you built your life with? Thanks again for you and your writing!
To be honest, I hadn't given my very own personal Other Woman, known here as Secretary, much thought. Oh, don't get me wrong: I feel some hatred for her. I don't toss the "hate" word around very much, but there's no question about it this time. I hate what she did to my family, I hate the fact that she's in my children's lives, I hate how she nabbed my husband right out from under my nose. I hate that she gets to call my former in-laws "family" and I have to call them "former". I hate that she sleeps soundly, and most likely doesn't wake up at 3 in the morning fraught with worry over her future or the future of her child. I hate that my heart hitches in my chest, still, when I see a car like hers in the parking lot of the grocery store, or when I say her name (unfortunately Secretary has a very common name, and it took me a couple of years before I could say it out loud...students at my school who have that name were addressed as "Sweetie" or "Hey girl!" for a looong time).
So yeah. I guess when discussing forgiveness, it's only natural that The Other Woman comes up.
The first issue I'll address is this question posed by Anonymous:
"Do you think the need for forgiveness extends beyond the person you thought you built your life with?"
Short and simple answer: Nope. The only person I think you truly NEED to forgive is your ex. You need to forgive him for one simple reason, and that is for YOU. Your mental health, your physical health, your very life depends upon that one. You need to forgive him, no matter how huge of an asshole he is, no matter how many ways and in how many different positions he screwed you over. And as I've said before, when you do finally forgive Mr. Wonderful, it's not for him. Honestly, he most likely doesn't care, because that's the kind of guy he is. He's moved on, emotionally, so long ago and so far away that even the best CSI team couldn't find traces of him anymore. No, my dears, you forgive him because it helps you. That's why you NEED to forgive him.
Her? The Other Woman? That homewrecking trollop? She doesn't need your forgiveness any more than she needs a conscience. She's achieved so much already without either one of those things. Does she want your forgiveness? I don't know that either, but I'm guessing not. She, like your ex, has moved on. Any pangs of guilt or shame have obviously been stifled. She took what she needed from you, and most likely didn't even send a thank you note.
So, NO. You don't need to forgive her. I told Anonymous that in my case, I don't think enough of Secretary to care. I believe I used the words "She is beneath my contempt." Obviously, given the paragraph I just wrote about hating, that's not entirely true. But the hatred I feel for her is so different from what I felt for Big Daddy. It's not a painful hatred, intertwined with messy memories and goopy sentiment. It's cold and impersonal.
In fact, now that I'm thinking on this one, I would like to replace the word "hate" with "disdain". To hate someone implies that there was, at one time, love. Love, or some other form of familiarity... there was once a connection of some kind. For this woman, this stranger who happened into my life, there was never any love. We had one thing in common, and that happened to be that we both liked my husband.
However, underneath that disdain I feel, there is something else. I don't know that I can call it pity, or sympathy...but it kind of feels like both of those.
To quote Mr. T, "I pity the fool." I feel badly for her sometimes. Only because since my divorce, I've seen the seamy underbelly of marriage. Not only my diseased marriage, but others as well. I've been on the receiving end of tipsy texts from married men, listened to them complain about their sexless lives and their child-centered wives. Heard about how they "aren't getting what they need" and that they're only staying married for the kids.
I can see just how easy it would be to slip into the role of The Other Woman. I'm not defending the women who do go on and become her, I'm just saying: I kind of get it. I understand how it would be so simple, you are a young (or not so young), gullible woman, most likely with some issues of your own, and here is this guy in front of you, this great guy. He's so sad about his life, and golly, he says just talking to you helps him feel better. I mean, really- you're actually helping someone in need when you decide to sleep with this poor fella. Because the picture he paints of his marriage, of his wife and his home life, it ain't pretty.
So yeah. I have a tiny inkling of how a woman can become The Other. Married men who stray can talk a good game, a fun game, an exciting game. That nameless, faceless wife of his, and his anonymous gaggle of children...they actually kind of deserve to feel a little pain. After all, they've been taking this wonderful husband and father for granted.
What I don't understand, and hope to God that I'll never understand, is how The Other Woman can stick around after the wife and kids aren't so anonymous. I'll never forget the first time a married guy put the moves on me (you can read all about Handsy here). Yes, there was a momentary tingle, a little bit of "OMG, someone thinks of me in that way again!". But man...after that feeling came the images of his wife and child. That sick, guilty feeling (even though I had done nothing wrong) washed over me and common sense kicked in.
That's where my understanding, and my empathizing, ends. And that's also why I don't think forgiving The Other Woman is necessary. Some of you may do it eventually, some of you probably already have.
Me? Forgiving my ex-husband took almost 7 years. I figure this one can wait.
To quote Mr. T, "I pity the fool." I feel badly for her sometimes. Only because since my divorce, I've seen the seamy underbelly of marriage. Not only my diseased marriage, but others as well. I've been on the receiving end of tipsy texts from married men, listened to them complain about their sexless lives and their child-centered wives. Heard about how they "aren't getting what they need" and that they're only staying married for the kids.
I can see just how easy it would be to slip into the role of The Other Woman. I'm not defending the women who do go on and become her, I'm just saying: I kind of get it. I understand how it would be so simple, you are a young (or not so young), gullible woman, most likely with some issues of your own, and here is this guy in front of you, this great guy. He's so sad about his life, and golly, he says just talking to you helps him feel better. I mean, really- you're actually helping someone in need when you decide to sleep with this poor fella. Because the picture he paints of his marriage, of his wife and his home life, it ain't pretty.
So yeah. I have a tiny inkling of how a woman can become The Other. Married men who stray can talk a good game, a fun game, an exciting game. That nameless, faceless wife of his, and his anonymous gaggle of children...they actually kind of deserve to feel a little pain. After all, they've been taking this wonderful husband and father for granted.
What I don't understand, and hope to God that I'll never understand, is how The Other Woman can stick around after the wife and kids aren't so anonymous. I'll never forget the first time a married guy put the moves on me (you can read all about Handsy here). Yes, there was a momentary tingle, a little bit of "OMG, someone thinks of me in that way again!". But man...after that feeling came the images of his wife and child. That sick, guilty feeling (even though I had done nothing wrong) washed over me and common sense kicked in.
That's where my understanding, and my empathizing, ends. And that's also why I don't think forgiving The Other Woman is necessary. Some of you may do it eventually, some of you probably already have.
Me? Forgiving my ex-husband took almost 7 years. I figure this one can wait.
4/18/13
The Hash-tagging of Tragedy
What happened in Boston was horrible. There really are no words, are there? I was at work on Monday when I got a text from a friend..."OMG turn on the news" she said. Which, of course, is impossible to do when wrangling 19 preschoolers in the large motor room. Instead, my co-worker and I took turns peeking at our phones, getting updates and spelling things out over the heads of the oblivious, happy kids: "They say it was B-O-M-B-S" and "Two D-E-A-D, so far." That sick feeling you get when you know there is something awful unfolding and you are, like everyone else on the planet, helpless to do anything more than think on it. Pray on it.
My kids were all home when I walked in the back door. They were their usual cheery selves (if you're the parent of a herd of teens like I am, you know that comment is only a wee bit facetious), and before I could set my purse down, the WHAT'S FOR DINNER questions bombarded me. I made a couple sandwiches, got out some cauliflower and dill dip, and then changed into my running shoes. "I'll make dinner when I get back" I told the kids. Grabbed the dog's leash, some poop bags and I walked out the front door.
Walter and I walked. And walked, and walked. It was about 6:15 when we started. When I escorted my panting, muddy dog up the front walk it was closing in on 8:15. I couldn't tell you for sure what I thought about for those two hours, or really even where we walked. I just knew I needed to be moving, to be far away from phones or televisions or laptops.
I had to run away for a little bit. Run away from the hashtags and the facebook candles and the instagram pictures of varying creative ways people were telling me to "Pray For Boston".
I started a pot of penne and began chopping. I chopped peppers and mushrooms and onions and sun-dried tomatoes. Took some chicken sausage out of the freezer, thawed it out and chopped that up, too. And as it so often happens, as I cooked..my kids talked.
I told them to turn off the t.v. To come into the kitchen and gab with mom. So they did. The two younger boys at first, then my Molly came out of her room.."Wait..are you guys talking about Boston?" she asked, as she sidled up next to me in front of the stove. As the warm delicious smells of sauteed goodness filled the kitchen, so did their words, their questions.
We talked about what kind of person would do this. "Do you think it was terrorists, mom?" asked Henry. I asked him what he meant by terrorists. "You know, like Osama Bin Laden guys." I told him what I really thought: that I think this was done by "our" guys. Homegrown lunatics. I also told him we'll know soon enough. "Will they catch him, mom?" asked my baby, my almost-teenager William. As I drained the pasta, I assured him that the bad guy will get caught. There's no way he won't, honey, I said.
After we ate, we turned on the news and we watched some of the video taken earlier that day. Watched as people went from cheering and smiling to screaming and grimacing. Watched dozens and dozens of heroes clad in fluorescent yellow (and dozens more wearing running clothes and spectator clothes) flew into unknown dangers to help the fallen. Interviews with people who were there, people who had been unknowingly standing in the wrong place at the wrong time (or, given the fact that they were standing there being interviewed, it seems as though maybe they were in the right place). We watched as our own local newscasters assured us that the Mall of America was safe and that we shouldn't worry about our own little marathon that's held in October. Watched as the screen flashed with Tweets from reporters and facebook updates from celebrities.
And then they started talking about Matt Damon's wedding.
"Time for bed, guys." After they went to bed I decided to check in online. Just for a minute, you know. Took a peek at facebook and after seeing the hundredth candle and several pictures of random, anonymous little kids running in marathons with the words "LIKE AND SHARE OUT OF RESPECT FOR THIS CHILD" (people, really??) decided to shut it down for the night. But..
I made a mistake then. I looked at some pictures. I saw a girl, a young woman, lying on the ground, eyes open wide, jaw slack. She was lifeless, obviously. A rescue worker had a blue-gloved hand at the young woman's neck, feeling for a pulse.
Then, a picture of a young man being pushed, a running, frantic push, in a wheelchair. He was awake and pale and obviously, in shock. He was clutching what was left of his legs, and a man running next to him was holding what appeared to be an artery. Pinching it, as he ran next to the injured fellow.
Why? Why is this okay? I know that this is what our world is now: a world with no privacy, no shelter from any storm. But who decided it was okay to run a picture of a dead woman? Did someone ask the man who was gone from the knees down if it was okay to take his picture? Not only take it, but splash it everywhere online?
What happened in Boston yesterday was brutal and wrong. But what happened online afterwards? That was wrong too. Our social-media driven world is cheapening everything, it's robbing moments like the one in Boston of its intimacy, of its solemnity. We have become a world of rubberneckers, a society of clucking pigeons. Hashtagging and instagramming what we should be thinking and doing. Putting somebody in the spotlight at the worst possible moment in their lives. In the lives of their family members.
I know how curmudgeonly this makes me sound. I know some of you are saying, "Suck it up, Grumpy Old Lady. It's the way things are now." Yes, it's the way things are now. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
There is, literally, nothing I can do to help those hurt in Boston. Aside from pray, and donate whatever bit I have to their recovery funds. I wish I could hop on a plane and go to their hospital rooms and hold their hands. Get them a glass of cold water. Offer to take care of their kids, walk their dogs or feed their cats.
I can't do that. None of us can. But what we can do, is try to make a difference in our own neighborhoods. Put down our phones for a bit. Shut off the laptop. Smile at strangers, give out compliments. Hold doors open, let someone merge in front of us. Be a big tipper.
Let us never lose sight of the humanity around us. The world may be changing, but we are who we have always been. Fellow people. Neighbors. Co-workers. Friends. Let's not lose sight of that, okay?
Here are some other ways to help:
The One Fund Boston: Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick and Boston Mayor Tom Menino have announced the formation of The One Fund Boston, Inc. to help the people most affected by the tragic events that occurred in Boston on April 15, 2013.
The New England Patriots Charitable Foundation. The Kraft family has promised to match the first $100k in donations. Good on ya, Kraft...
The Richard Family Fund They went to watch Dad run the Boston Marathon. There are no words.
There are countless other places to donate, these are the first three I came across.
My kids were all home when I walked in the back door. They were their usual cheery selves (if you're the parent of a herd of teens like I am, you know that comment is only a wee bit facetious), and before I could set my purse down, the WHAT'S FOR DINNER questions bombarded me. I made a couple sandwiches, got out some cauliflower and dill dip, and then changed into my running shoes. "I'll make dinner when I get back" I told the kids. Grabbed the dog's leash, some poop bags and I walked out the front door.
Walter and I walked. And walked, and walked. It was about 6:15 when we started. When I escorted my panting, muddy dog up the front walk it was closing in on 8:15. I couldn't tell you for sure what I thought about for those two hours, or really even where we walked. I just knew I needed to be moving, to be far away from phones or televisions or laptops.
I had to run away for a little bit. Run away from the hashtags and the facebook candles and the instagram pictures of varying creative ways people were telling me to "Pray For Boston".
I started a pot of penne and began chopping. I chopped peppers and mushrooms and onions and sun-dried tomatoes. Took some chicken sausage out of the freezer, thawed it out and chopped that up, too. And as it so often happens, as I cooked..my kids talked.
I told them to turn off the t.v. To come into the kitchen and gab with mom. So they did. The two younger boys at first, then my Molly came out of her room.."Wait..are you guys talking about Boston?" she asked, as she sidled up next to me in front of the stove. As the warm delicious smells of sauteed goodness filled the kitchen, so did their words, their questions.
We talked about what kind of person would do this. "Do you think it was terrorists, mom?" asked Henry. I asked him what he meant by terrorists. "You know, like Osama Bin Laden guys." I told him what I really thought: that I think this was done by "our" guys. Homegrown lunatics. I also told him we'll know soon enough. "Will they catch him, mom?" asked my baby, my almost-teenager William. As I drained the pasta, I assured him that the bad guy will get caught. There's no way he won't, honey, I said.
After we ate, we turned on the news and we watched some of the video taken earlier that day. Watched as people went from cheering and smiling to screaming and grimacing. Watched dozens and dozens of heroes clad in fluorescent yellow (and dozens more wearing running clothes and spectator clothes) flew into unknown dangers to help the fallen. Interviews with people who were there, people who had been unknowingly standing in the wrong place at the wrong time (or, given the fact that they were standing there being interviewed, it seems as though maybe they were in the right place). We watched as our own local newscasters assured us that the Mall of America was safe and that we shouldn't worry about our own little marathon that's held in October. Watched as the screen flashed with Tweets from reporters and facebook updates from celebrities.
And then they started talking about Matt Damon's wedding.
"Time for bed, guys." After they went to bed I decided to check in online. Just for a minute, you know. Took a peek at facebook and after seeing the hundredth candle and several pictures of random, anonymous little kids running in marathons with the words "LIKE AND SHARE OUT OF RESPECT FOR THIS CHILD" (people, really??) decided to shut it down for the night. But..
I made a mistake then. I looked at some pictures. I saw a girl, a young woman, lying on the ground, eyes open wide, jaw slack. She was lifeless, obviously. A rescue worker had a blue-gloved hand at the young woman's neck, feeling for a pulse.
Then, a picture of a young man being pushed, a running, frantic push, in a wheelchair. He was awake and pale and obviously, in shock. He was clutching what was left of his legs, and a man running next to him was holding what appeared to be an artery. Pinching it, as he ran next to the injured fellow.
Why? Why is this okay? I know that this is what our world is now: a world with no privacy, no shelter from any storm. But who decided it was okay to run a picture of a dead woman? Did someone ask the man who was gone from the knees down if it was okay to take his picture? Not only take it, but splash it everywhere online?
What happened in Boston yesterday was brutal and wrong. But what happened online afterwards? That was wrong too. Our social-media driven world is cheapening everything, it's robbing moments like the one in Boston of its intimacy, of its solemnity. We have become a world of rubberneckers, a society of clucking pigeons. Hashtagging and instagramming what we should be thinking and doing. Putting somebody in the spotlight at the worst possible moment in their lives. In the lives of their family members.
I know how curmudgeonly this makes me sound. I know some of you are saying, "Suck it up, Grumpy Old Lady. It's the way things are now." Yes, it's the way things are now. But that doesn't mean I have to like it.
There is, literally, nothing I can do to help those hurt in Boston. Aside from pray, and donate whatever bit I have to their recovery funds. I wish I could hop on a plane and go to their hospital rooms and hold their hands. Get them a glass of cold water. Offer to take care of their kids, walk their dogs or feed their cats.
I can't do that. None of us can. But what we can do, is try to make a difference in our own neighborhoods. Put down our phones for a bit. Shut off the laptop. Smile at strangers, give out compliments. Hold doors open, let someone merge in front of us. Be a big tipper.
Let us never lose sight of the humanity around us. The world may be changing, but we are who we have always been. Fellow people. Neighbors. Co-workers. Friends. Let's not lose sight of that, okay?
Here are some other ways to help:
The One Fund Boston: Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick and Boston Mayor Tom Menino have announced the formation of The One Fund Boston, Inc. to help the people most affected by the tragic events that occurred in Boston on April 15, 2013.
The New England Patriots Charitable Foundation. The Kraft family has promised to match the first $100k in donations. Good on ya, Kraft...
The Richard Family Fund They went to watch Dad run the Boston Marathon. There are no words.
There are countless other places to donate, these are the first three I came across.
4/15/13
Growing Pains
You know how, when you were little and you'd approach your mom or dad with some sort of mystery ailment? "Mommy, my legs hurt!" you'd exclaim, offering up your little shins for their inspection.
"Sweetheart...those are growing pains" they sometimes said, giving you a comforting touch or kiss.
I wonder, if I were to go to doctor today with these odd maladies I'm experiencing, what they would say. When I presented them with my symptoms: a twinge in my heart now and then, an odd pulled feeling in my soul...would they, too, offer me the same prognosis?
"Oh, Jenny. No worries. Those are growing pains, my dear."
Because I think I'm growing.
I felt the first symptoms not too long ago. The kids would mention something about their dad, or something about the Secretary or their little half-brother. And instead of snarling or feeling sick or thinking something awful about it, I felt....nothing. Okay, maybe that's exaggerating. I still felt a little bit of the old hurt, the scar from the knife wound in my back would throb just the tiniest bit, but still. It was becoming almost imperceptible. The conversation would come and go and we'd be onto the next dozen subjects before it would occur me: "It doesn't feel so bad anymore."
I started a rage-y and ranting post about the subject of forgiveness, and why I hate that word and all that it implies. How offended I am whenever I am told that it's my job to forgive, how my life will change oh-so-much when I finally, finally forgive my ex-husband for all the wrongs, for all of the grievous injuries he has inflicted upon me and our kids.
I was about a third of the way through that post when it dawned on me:
I have forgiven.
I forgave him, and I didn't even realize it.
Oh how I fought it. Tooth and nail, I did. I looked like a dog being dragged into the veterinarian's office, probably. Claws dug into the floor, neck straining against the pull of the leash.
"Forgive him? Seriously? Look what he's done, look at this mess he's left behind. How am I supposed to forgive him?"
In my mind, forgiving him was akin to presenting him with a "Get Out of Jail Free" card. It was offering him absolution.
Today, just this morning, I finally realized that the card isn't for him.
It's for me.
That anger, that hurt, that grief...it was necessary, I believe. Necessary and natural. Who wouldn't wail and moan after being hurt so deep? It got me through the darkest of days and it fueled me when I ran out of resources to just.keep.going. It motivated me and spurred me along and kept shooting imaginary bullets at my feet just to keep them moving. To keep me dancing this waltz of recovery.
I would read other tales of forgiveness and feel shame because I didn't have that capacity,nor did I have the desire, to forgive. I didn't want to let go of the red blanket of rage that I had snuggled with for so long. It's heat kept me warm. Made me feel safe.
Until I didn't need it anymore. I am marching forward now, taller and stronger than ever before. I know that what I've been through has sucked and at times, almost killed me. But I wouldn't be where I am today without it. For every tear shed, there has been a giggle or a guffaw or a hug or a smile. For every time I cursed the man who left me, there has been a sweet, shadowy memory of the man he once was, the best friend I once had. And for that, I'm grateful. Grateful that the hate and anger didn't wipe out those old images of him, nor did they squelch my ability to love and be loved in return.
I'll never forget what has happened. I don't think I could, even if I wanted to. I still drive past my old street and feel tiny tears spring forth when I catch a glimpse of our old, lost house. I still get mad when I'm dealing with a petulant, angry teenager and I picture my ex-husband looking at his toddler and singing "The Wheels on The Mother-Effing Bus". I still feel all of that, and so much more. But the feelings come, they flit around behind my eyes for just a bit. And then they go.
I don't have any secret recipes for forgiveness, no chants or how-to instructions. Maybe I had to wait until we had our last meeting in court. Maybe it had to grow at its own slow-as-molasses pace.
But I do know this: once you've forgiven, you will know. You will feel it, like a growing pain...in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.
And only then can you get on with your life.
I'm taking my Get Out of Jail free card now, folks. I'm busting out. And it feels good.
4/10/13
What's Sex Got to Do With It? Part Two (finally)
I'm sorry this has been so long coming, but have we met? I've written this post about 100 times, in my head. While showering, while driving the kids around, while chopping veggies for my fabulous Leftover Fried Rice Dinner. The only place I haven't written it, is here.
(Don't remember the first one? You can catch up here)
This is the day. The day I sit down, collect all of those flotsam and jetsam thoughts and give you Part Two of the Sex Post.
I closed the first post with these words:
And that, folks, is why I think sex killed my marriage. But what sex did to me, after my marriage died? That may be even worse.
It wasn't until about a year after my husband left me that it dawned on me: I no longer had a sex partner. Prior to that, I was essentially a zombie, shuffling through the days, making sure the kids stayed alive and the electricity stayed on and the refrigerator stayed full. My libido went into hibernation.
And then one day, it woke up. It hit me, like a ton of horny bricks: my on-call lover was gone. I'd been faithful to one man, and one man only, for the past 13 years. Before this sudden change of life, having sex had been as easy as reaching under the covers in the wee hours of the morning and giving my man a squeeze.
As I have said before, our sex life hadn't been earth shaking or mind blowing or time consuming. But before he started humping someone else, it had been nice. It was comfortable and warm and sometimes sweet. And then it was gone.
This is when the trouble started. I wish, oh how badly I wish, someone had pulled me aside back then, and told me to wait. Told me to focus on rebuilding my heart, and rebuilding my family, before casting that big ol' net out into the rough seas of Dating.
Of course, I didn't wait. I took the well-meant advice from friends (get on Match.com NOW) and family (if you don't get remarried right away it'll NEVER happen) and decided to get out there. I had several post-divorce dates, and lots of post-divorce sex.
What I didn't have, is post-divorce love.
Maybe it was the adultery. Being dumped for someone younger than you leads to all sorts of self-esteem damage. Was I not pretty enough? Not limber enough? Did having four babies and then nursing four babies turn my body into something more like a household appliance versus something sexy and wantable (not that a Viking cooktop doesn't get me all sorts of tingly, but that's another story for another time). Bottom line was, I ventured out into post-divorce dating thinking this:
It's all about the sex. In my confused, hurting brain, I had equated sex with love. The more you have of the first, the better chance you'll get the second. I had come to the conclusion that sex, or the lack of it, had killed my marriage. So I went out there determined to never let sex ruin another relationship of mine again.
I'll be completely honest: the first few times, it felt good. It felt so nice, just to feel the weight of a man again, to hear that breath in my ear and to feel the heat from another human being radiating onto, into me. Our bodies are wired to have sex, and I was relieved to discover that everything of mine still worked.
But after a while, the shine wore off. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't dead...my body still responded to the stimuli, and it still felt good. Sometimes great. It was how I felt after the deed had been done that left me wanting.
I felt empty. There was no afterglow, no warm fuzzies. None of those butterflies nor that feeling of being held; both in someone's arms and in their heart, that feeling you get when you have just bonded with someone on a level that transcends physicality.
There was no love.
I remember way back in the summer of 2006. My first summer as an almost-divorcee...I was at the home one of my dear friends shares with her husband. We were sitting around one of their legendary backyard fires, drinking some beer and gabbing about life while the kids ran amok, their shrieks of laughter piercing the hot bubble that is a July evening in Minnesota.
I was, as I was wont to do back then, discussing my life and all of the changes that had happened in it. This time, I was talking about the time Big Daddy and I had gone to the pastor for last-ditch marriage counseling and all I got out of my husband was that our sex life wasn't exciting for him anymore. I remember my friend's husband sitting there, a look of bewilderment and disgust on his face. He looked at his wife, and then back at me, and he said:
"It's not about the sex!"
I remember, at the time, thinking he was wrong. Thinking that this was coming from someone who had been lulled into a marriage-coma and had no idea what he was talking about. Of course it was all about sex...if it wasn't, why was I alone? For Pete's sake, my husband had admitted to a Man of God that he left because he wasn't excited by me anymore. What else could it be about?
It's taken me almost 6 years, and many glow-less mornings to finally get it. I think back upon my list of suitors and how I jokingly called them my "victims" and gave them ironic (and I still think, pretty funny) monikers:
Professor Plumb
Curiously Cheap George
Ben, the Mullet Man
Craig the Segway Guy
Cabin Boy
and of course, John McCain
I entered into each of these "relationships" with the mindset that sex=love. In order to have the latter, I'd need to provide the former. I'm ashamed to admit that sex happened early on in each of these relationships, oftentimes on the first or second date. And even more ashamed to admit that a couple of those "first dates" were the two of us drunkenly rolling around on the floor like fraternity brothers having a wrasslin' match.
After things with McCain came to an abrupt halt a few months ago, I felt something shift..like you can sometimes feel the barometric pressure change just before a big storm. I knew that I was done doing things the old way, the way I'd been told was the right way. The way that our society tells us is not only normal, it's AWESOME and FANTASTIC and EVERYBODY'S doing it.
It was the words of my "friend" Becky..I put friend in parenthesis because Becky and I don't know each other outside of this blog..but I feel a kinship with her, and I hope that rustling sound I hear isn't her filing a restraining order against me. Where was I? Oh yes. It was in her words that I finally started understanding what I'd been feeling. She wrote about how she and her now-husband waited until they were married before jumping in the sack. About how they'd both been hurt in their previous marriages and that together, they decided that they'd get to know each other...really get to know each other before sleeping together.
Now, with all due respect to Becky, I'm not sure about the "until marriage" part of this. Only because at this point, I really don't know if I want to get married again. Like, ever. But the waiting? Yep. I agree with her there. However, I do know what it's like to get emotionally attached to someone, to fall for what's between their ears and then be really sad when I found out that what's between their legs didn't work. Because no matter how much I connect with someone mentally, it's still going to be important to connect physically. So that's the only misgiving I have with the "wait until marriage" thing. Sometimes it takes a test drive to find out how the car runs, if you know what I mean. Yes, I just said that. I'm sorry.
And really, nothing is ever carved in stone. I mean, if Jon Hamm showed up in my bedroom, wearing a dirty martini and nothing else, I'd probably do a little back-pedaling (and I'd probably slip him a roofie*, but that's beside the point). I have friends who did take the sexy leap very early on in their post-divorce relationships and things are going just fine and dandy for them, which is so awesome. I'm over-the-moon happy for them.
Sex is fun and exciting and it's a beautiful thing. I love it, and that's not just my pre-PMS hormones and the fresh image of Don Draper and vodka talking.
But I love myself even more. I love myself despite the fact that I've made some bad choices, and done some stupid things over the past few years. I love myself enough to overlook those things and to start fresh.
..what sex did to me, after my marriage died? That may be even worse.
I think I phrased that wrong..it should have read, what I did to sex. I put sex on a pedestal, I made it my white whale. It became the elusive snake-oil that I was sure would be the cure to what ailed me. A decent therapist would probably tell me that I used every man I slept with as a stand-in for my long-gone husband...as an imaginary "do over". Or maybe they'd tell me that I was doing what millions of people have done forever: looking for love in all the wrong places.
So there you have it. What's sex got to do with it? Apparently, nothing. And everything.
I'll leave you with what should be the theme song for this post:
If you need me, I'll be wookin' pa nub...hopefully in all the right places this time.
*chill, people. It's a joke. Unlike date rape, which is definitely not a joke. But really, Jon Hamm? No judging.
(Don't remember the first one? You can catch up here)
This is the day. The day I sit down, collect all of those flotsam and jetsam thoughts and give you Part Two of the Sex Post.
I closed the first post with these words:
And that, folks, is why I think sex killed my marriage. But what sex did to me, after my marriage died? That may be even worse.
It wasn't until about a year after my husband left me that it dawned on me: I no longer had a sex partner. Prior to that, I was essentially a zombie, shuffling through the days, making sure the kids stayed alive and the electricity stayed on and the refrigerator stayed full. My libido went into hibernation.
And then one day, it woke up. It hit me, like a ton of horny bricks: my on-call lover was gone. I'd been faithful to one man, and one man only, for the past 13 years. Before this sudden change of life, having sex had been as easy as reaching under the covers in the wee hours of the morning and giving my man a squeeze.
As I have said before, our sex life hadn't been earth shaking or mind blowing or time consuming. But before he started humping someone else, it had been nice. It was comfortable and warm and sometimes sweet. And then it was gone.
This is when the trouble started. I wish, oh how badly I wish, someone had pulled me aside back then, and told me to wait. Told me to focus on rebuilding my heart, and rebuilding my family, before casting that big ol' net out into the rough seas of Dating.
Of course, I didn't wait. I took the well-meant advice from friends (get on Match.com NOW) and family (if you don't get remarried right away it'll NEVER happen) and decided to get out there. I had several post-divorce dates, and lots of post-divorce sex.
What I didn't have, is post-divorce love.
Maybe it was the adultery. Being dumped for someone younger than you leads to all sorts of self-esteem damage. Was I not pretty enough? Not limber enough? Did having four babies and then nursing four babies turn my body into something more like a household appliance versus something sexy and wantable (not that a Viking cooktop doesn't get me all sorts of tingly, but that's another story for another time). Bottom line was, I ventured out into post-divorce dating thinking this:
It's all about the sex. In my confused, hurting brain, I had equated sex with love. The more you have of the first, the better chance you'll get the second. I had come to the conclusion that sex, or the lack of it, had killed my marriage. So I went out there determined to never let sex ruin another relationship of mine again.
I'll be completely honest: the first few times, it felt good. It felt so nice, just to feel the weight of a man again, to hear that breath in my ear and to feel the heat from another human being radiating onto, into me. Our bodies are wired to have sex, and I was relieved to discover that everything of mine still worked.
But after a while, the shine wore off. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't dead...my body still responded to the stimuli, and it still felt good. Sometimes great. It was how I felt after the deed had been done that left me wanting.
I felt empty. There was no afterglow, no warm fuzzies. None of those butterflies nor that feeling of being held; both in someone's arms and in their heart, that feeling you get when you have just bonded with someone on a level that transcends physicality.
There was no love.
I remember way back in the summer of 2006. My first summer as an almost-divorcee...I was at the home one of my dear friends shares with her husband. We were sitting around one of their legendary backyard fires, drinking some beer and gabbing about life while the kids ran amok, their shrieks of laughter piercing the hot bubble that is a July evening in Minnesota.
I was, as I was wont to do back then, discussing my life and all of the changes that had happened in it. This time, I was talking about the time Big Daddy and I had gone to the pastor for last-ditch marriage counseling and all I got out of my husband was that our sex life wasn't exciting for him anymore. I remember my friend's husband sitting there, a look of bewilderment and disgust on his face. He looked at his wife, and then back at me, and he said:
"It's not about the sex!"
I remember, at the time, thinking he was wrong. Thinking that this was coming from someone who had been lulled into a marriage-coma and had no idea what he was talking about. Of course it was all about sex...if it wasn't, why was I alone? For Pete's sake, my husband had admitted to a Man of God that he left because he wasn't excited by me anymore. What else could it be about?
It's taken me almost 6 years, and many glow-less mornings to finally get it. I think back upon my list of suitors and how I jokingly called them my "victims" and gave them ironic (and I still think, pretty funny) monikers:
Professor Plumb
Curiously Cheap George
Ben, the Mullet Man
Craig the Segway Guy
Cabin Boy
and of course, John McCain
I entered into each of these "relationships" with the mindset that sex=love. In order to have the latter, I'd need to provide the former. I'm ashamed to admit that sex happened early on in each of these relationships, oftentimes on the first or second date. And even more ashamed to admit that a couple of those "first dates" were the two of us drunkenly rolling around on the floor like fraternity brothers having a wrasslin' match.
After things with McCain came to an abrupt halt a few months ago, I felt something shift..like you can sometimes feel the barometric pressure change just before a big storm. I knew that I was done doing things the old way, the way I'd been told was the right way. The way that our society tells us is not only normal, it's AWESOME and FANTASTIC and EVERYBODY'S doing it.
It was the words of my "friend" Becky..I put friend in parenthesis because Becky and I don't know each other outside of this blog..but I feel a kinship with her, and I hope that rustling sound I hear isn't her filing a restraining order against me. Where was I? Oh yes. It was in her words that I finally started understanding what I'd been feeling. She wrote about how she and her now-husband waited until they were married before jumping in the sack. About how they'd both been hurt in their previous marriages and that together, they decided that they'd get to know each other...really get to know each other before sleeping together.
Now, with all due respect to Becky, I'm not sure about the "until marriage" part of this. Only because at this point, I really don't know if I want to get married again. Like, ever. But the waiting? Yep. I agree with her there. However, I do know what it's like to get emotionally attached to someone, to fall for what's between their ears and then be really sad when I found out that what's between their legs didn't work. Because no matter how much I connect with someone mentally, it's still going to be important to connect physically. So that's the only misgiving I have with the "wait until marriage" thing. Sometimes it takes a test drive to find out how the car runs, if you know what I mean. Yes, I just said that. I'm sorry.
And really, nothing is ever carved in stone. I mean, if Jon Hamm showed up in my bedroom, wearing a dirty martini and nothing else, I'd probably do a little back-pedaling (and I'd probably slip him a roofie*, but that's beside the point). I have friends who did take the sexy leap very early on in their post-divorce relationships and things are going just fine and dandy for them, which is so awesome. I'm over-the-moon happy for them.
Sex is fun and exciting and it's a beautiful thing. I love it, and that's not just my pre-PMS hormones and the fresh image of Don Draper and vodka talking.
But I love myself even more. I love myself despite the fact that I've made some bad choices, and done some stupid things over the past few years. I love myself enough to overlook those things and to start fresh.
..what sex did to me, after my marriage died? That may be even worse.
I think I phrased that wrong..it should have read, what I did to sex. I put sex on a pedestal, I made it my white whale. It became the elusive snake-oil that I was sure would be the cure to what ailed me. A decent therapist would probably tell me that I used every man I slept with as a stand-in for my long-gone husband...as an imaginary "do over". Or maybe they'd tell me that I was doing what millions of people have done forever: looking for love in all the wrong places.
So there you have it. What's sex got to do with it? Apparently, nothing. And everything.
I'll leave you with what should be the theme song for this post:
If you need me, I'll be wookin' pa nub...hopefully in all the right places this time.
*chill, people. It's a joke. Unlike date rape, which is definitely not a joke. But really, Jon Hamm? No judging.
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