On My Mind

Go ahead and wonder what the hell is wrong with me when I make this statement: “I don’t really like animals.” There, I said it. Hit delete or read on. I come by this honestly. My mother doesn’t like animals, either, as she reminded me over and over growing up. Seeing her pet a dog is one of the most unnatural scenes I’ve ever witnessed. It’s like oil and water—doesn’t mix.

            By not liking animals, I don’t mean I advocate their abuse and I don’t drive 30 miles out of the way to avoid catching a glimpse of the zoo. I like them, just not in my house. I don’t like paying for their various needs, as I have two children that consume every dollar for their various needs. And I happen to like my children, so if I have X dollars the X goes to them, not to the cat. I want what’s left of X to go to a new pair of shoes for myself.

            I wasn’t always like this. Like any other American child, I begged for a dog. Our blended family, I thought, needed a pet to make it complete. I vaguely remembered the responsibility speech as the four of us chanted “pleeeaaaaseee” to our parents. And then Hershey came along. To honor our family’s two last names, we called Hershey (girls’ idea) Boy (Chris’s idea as he was the only boy in the family) SanDob (a mixture of Sander and Dobbins.) We played with him all the time for maybe a weekend or two. And then there was Lucky. I’m not sure how we got either one, but I know we loved them a lot for a very short amount of time before we got distracted by other things. I remember watching them outside our window as they jumped up begging for attention. I wanted to watch Brady Bunch so I’d just turn the other way trying to ignore their sad faces. Left to come up with their own entertainment, they became fairly wild dogs and would jump on us with such force, they’d usually knock us over. They knew where they weren’t wanted and dug under the fence again and again trying to escape their lonely lives, only to be caught and thrown in the pound. I’m surprised my parents kept bailing them out. I think after that we  had a bird dog, Lady, but she wasn’t really “our’s” as much as she was for my brother and step-dad for hunting. I can’t remember which combo wound up with puppies – Lady and Lucky or Lady and Hershey – but at one point, we had puppies. Not sure where they went, either. As you can tell, I was very involved in the lives of these creatures. And the last thing I remember is noticing one day that the dogs were no longer in our back yard. They went to that proverbial farm, and that was that. I felt relief that I no longer had to get attacked every time I fed and watered them. I also felt a sense of relief that I didn’t have to feel guilty every time they stared at me, begging to play outside with them while I stayed inside with my Barbies or whatever it was I was interested in at the time.

            And then I got the critter fever. My best friend Renee had a hamster. And that hamster was just tons of fun, I thought, except when it peed on me. I had to have one, too. Somehow I convinced my mom to get me one. I already had a parakeet, Pretzel. I suckered my grandparents in that on my seventh birthday. He had an affinity for Michael Jackson music, and I actually took really good care of him. But when he escaped, it was my mom who coaxed him onto a pencil and back into the cage, cursing under her breath the whole time. Back to the hamster…. For some reason, it would only sleep under the water bottle, which dripped and it wasn’t long before (was it Cinammon? Ginger? I don’t remember) started looking sickly. During a weekend away, I let my best friend and fellow hamster fan take care of my hamster for me. Seems Ginger took a turn for the worse one day and they actually took it to a vet. The hamster was diagnosed with pneumonia and died a few days later. My step-dad made a tomb stone for it and we buried it in a shoebox in the alley. I got another one soon after. Renee and I wondered what would happen if we let our hamsters “play” one day. Well, 13 baby hamsters later, we found out. Since I had the girl hamster, I became a grandmother to the babies. My mom wanted them gone—fast. I gave a few away to neighbor friends and sold the rest for $2 apiece at a local pet shop. That’s when I saw a gerbil. Why I wanted a gerbil, I don’t know – rat-looking thing. As most critters do, the gerbil escaped. We never found it. But we could hear it – in our walls. The gerbil, who I named Fonzie, spent his evenings chewing through the inside of our home. Every time mom could hear him, she would give me “the look.” The “I’m so disgusted right now” look. But I ignored her. I wanted Fonzie to come home to his cage and join me and my little critter family of hamsters and parakeets. And one morning while getting ready for school, there he was on my bedroom closet floor. He died about a week later. He joined the other critter in the alley with his own tomb stone.

            This brings me to the present. I’ve managed to go the rest of my life without a pet. I haven’t had a dog since I was a child. I’m allergic to cats. I’m over the critter phase. However, there I now have an eight-year-old girl who is a self-admitted “tree hugger.” She is a lover of all things “living,” particularly animals. She reads about them, writes about them, researches them, and pets and loves on them every chance she gets. About two years ago, when she met her Aunt Deborah’s Yorkie-Poo’s, Tiny and Louis, she fell in love with the idea of a small lap dog. That also was the time her parents were divorcing. I felt the perfect band aid for her pain would be to get her a dog like that. So we drove to a breeder, and I plunked down a few hundred bucks for a Yorkie. He was cute for about five minutes. “Pepper” pooped and peed everywhere and at all times. I couldn’t train him. He could jump on the counters, like a cat, and would eat the dinner on the cabinet in a heartbeat. He yapped. All the time. Barked. All the time. Pooped. All the time. He was too little to be an outside dog, and we were gone all day which made him a “laundry room” dog. And he was pissed. Doggie school didn’t work. It was a failed experiment. When I learned we would be living in hotels most of last summer, I knew Pepper had to find a new home. He stayed with my best friend for awhile who loves dogs, and even she couldn’t handle him. He went to a good home, an older lady who has bred Yorkies most of her life. Adios Pepper.

            My oldest daughter still cries about Pepper today. What was supposed to help, wound up hurting her worse. Before the dog, we went through various fish and hermit crabs who all eventually met their maker as well, mostly because we didn’t care for them the right way. And now and then, she’ll shed a tear for them too. She still misses “Pishy,” her Beta from when she was a year and a half year old. Yes, in fact I DO have the most sensitive and dramatic child on the planet, thankyouverymuch. But what comes to mind is the funeral I wanted in our alley for the hamsters and gerbils. I cried, too. So I can’t blame the kid. Much, anyway.

            So last year, about this time, we’re finally settled into our new home. The talk of a dog to complete this new life comes around again. I think of the potty training, the vet bills, and the fact that we’re never home. I just can’t go through with it again. So she asks for a cat. Yes, I’m allergic but only if I touch them then touch my face. I somehow find myself on Hwy 380 meeting a girl who has one runt kitten left from a litter of “mistakes.” She breeds Siamese cats and mom cat got out one night and messed up the plan. Fine with me. The kitten is cute and doesn’t cause any problems. The care is rather easy and the maintenance is low. So is the cost.

            Then the cat turns into a she-devil…pouncing, knocking everything over, shedding…. ACHOOO!!!!!!!!!!!! She claws the kids, claws my furniture….and did I mention she has turned my laundry room into a toilet? She loves to chew up toilet paper and string it through the house…. She pees in the shower…and she likes to chew up pictures for some reason……She knows who loves her – Kate. And she is nice to Kate but that’s it. I want to get her de-clawed but when I think of where to spend $300, it’s not on a cat right now. But we have her. And whenever I talk about finding her a new home, out come the tears.

            And this brings us to Layla, the lizard. “Mom can I have a lizard?” I hear this about six months ago, and it continues. Every answer is no. No. No. No. No. Finally I tell her that if she researches lizards and learns about them, then we’ll talk. She basically writes me a college thesis on lizards. She catches one at her dad’s and it gets away. She catches another, and her little sister “accidentally” kills it. She has done everything possible to convince me that she “haaaaaaaas to haaaaaaaaave a lizard.” I ask her why she wants a pet that won’t love her back. “But it will, mom. You just don’t like pets and don’t know when they’re loving you back.” OK. I ask her if she’ll take care of it like she (doesn’t) take care of the cat. Like all kids I get the “I promise.” I don’t believe her, of course. And on it goes.

            Finally, I cave. I think….how hard can a lizard be to care for? Find a lizard, throw it in a cage, and toss in some lettuce, right? Wrong! Your basic lizard grows to be really, really big. Big as in gross big. Those are the cheap ones. I don’t want a big lizard in a big cage in my house. Ever. And they’re not “cute” says Kate. But what IS cute is a leopard-spotted lizard for the bargain price of $27. They grow to be about six to 10 inches, which is manageable but they need a 10 gallon tank. Not aesthetically pleasing in my home, I think. Oh, and they also need sand, a place to hide, a heat lamp so your $27 purchase doesn’t die the same day you bring it home, a water dish, and vitamin dusting powder for their food.

            The “lizard sales guy” is a lizard expert, I gather. He reveals he owns about a dozen or so himself, including an iguana which he walks daily on a leash. It looks like he takes time out of his day from gaming to work a few hours at the pet store, get his discount on lizard supplies, and goes back home to game some more. I am basically his worst nightmare – suburban mom, grossed out by reptiles who at first glance was probably a cheerleader in high school and chewed gum a lot and said “like” like every other word. Yeah, he hated me. But he bonded with Kate. As rattled off various lizard facts, his face lit up….ahhhh, a kindred spirit. They both spoke reptile. As Kate’s little sister Liv bounced through the aisles, dancing to Miley’s “Party in the USA” I realized that I’m in trouble here. Kate has the critter disease I had at her same age—a fascination with something…ANYTHING….to love and care for. And it came about the same time for her as it did for me…a few years post-divorce and at a time when I realized I’m a little different than other girls in my class. While they talked about boys, clothes, who is friends with who and who isn’t, and getting their ears pierced….. I wanted to dive into a new book, write stories, and still play pretend. So does Kate. I don’t know if it’s a part of our personalities or if it’s a product of divorce…maybe both.

            As I totaled the price in my mind of what this lizard experience was going to cost, I felt a little faint. This comes at the same time the kids are needing fall clothes. The timing couldn’t be worse. But we had been to the pet store before to look and research. I didn’t let her get the first time out. I made her think about it until finally she just wore me down. She held up her end of the deal with research and putting in $25 of her own money she had saved for it. I needed to hold up my end of the deal.

            Then I ask… “Oh yeah, where is the food for the lizard?” I am looking through various cans and don’t see “Lizard Food” anywhere. That’s because there isn’t “Lizard Food.” But there is, however, live crickets. And that’s what we will feed the lizard, twice a week. In addition to commuting two hours a day, getting kids to school, piano lessons, dance lessons, and everything else, I now have to add a trip to the pet store twice a week for live crickets. In my mind, I said the longest string of cuss words imaginable. The lizard sales guy looked pleased with himself….He had defeated the cheerleader.

            He might have kicked me but it was paying the bill for these lizard treasures that truly defeated me. We get home, too late on a school night, and start to set up the lizard’s home. The heat lamp scares me. I’m sure that will be what sets the house on fire. The crickets gross me out. And I can already smell that “smell” that only comes with having a living creature in a small room. And then there’s Layla, the lizard. She’s OK I guess. We don’t really hold or touch her, and most of the time she stays in the $9 shade hut I bought for her. She sure makes Kate happy though, at least for the next few days until she gets bored of the novelty of owning a lizard that her mother takes care of for her.

            And then I get a lot of “what the hell were you thinking?” “Your daughter has so manipulated you.” “She plays on your guilt.” “You have got to learn to say no to her.” I can respect and agree with all of this. But if you know Kate, then you just know…she’s a sweet, tender-hearted girl who is in a stage of childhood where she just loves pets and wants to care for them. She doesn’t ask for every toy on the shelf, and she certainly doesn’t get them either. She barely knows what an I-pod is and doesn’t really want one. She’s not that into fashion and doesn’t give me fits about clothes or what’s in style. She’d rather have her nose in a book or work on the book that she is writing. She’s starting to collect more journals than I have. She takes dance lessons but only because I make her. She loves her piano lessons, which thrills me. She might want to get back into theatre someday, but not right now she says. She’s counting the days til summer just so she can see the horse she rode during horse camp. She just doesn’t really ask for much. She made straight A’s the last two years in school, and has never been in trouble at school or even at home, really. She’s a good kid. A good daughter. A good sister. A sweet friend.

            What does bother Kate and causes her to act out, although mildly, is the fact that her parents are divorced. She hates it. She wants it all pasted back up the way it’s supposed to be. Unless you’ve been through it yourself, you will never know true self-loathing until you are on your closet floor, holding your sobbing daughter as she begs you to reunite with her father. The absolute heartbreak of wiping her tears as she hears the news that her father is getting married and that there is no chance her parents will ever get back together is something that words can’t describe. Moving your daughter out of the only home she really remembers – the place where she felt safe – into a home where she clings to you at night because she’s too scared to sleep alone….it will make you feel like the worst parent on the planet. Yes, she will come to understand why. Yes, she will come to accept. Yes, she will heal. And yes, she will be stronger for all of it. But today, at age 8, she is heartbroken. She is sad. She misses life as she knew it, and I don’t blame her one little bit. The one thing we give children as parents, or at least try to give them, is stability. And I was selfish enough to rip it right out from under her.

            So Kate wants a lizard? OK. After all that, it seems like the absolute least I can do, even to see a smile on her face for awhile. If it, even for a few moments, erases the memories like those that occurred on the closet floor, I’ll keep feeding it live crickets and spraying her room down with Febreeze. In the grand scheme of things, it’s just a lizard. But she’s more than just a kid. She’s my daughter. And if she continues falling into my footsteps, it won’t be too long before she’ll stop liking animals so much too. And then I’ll be stuck caring for a forgotten crazy cat, creepy lizard, and whatever else she talks me into. To be continued, I’m sure….

In trying to figure out the exact date of a friend’s birthday, I had to go through some old (should be deleted but aren’t) emails to keep from making a total ass out of myself by saying “happy birthday” when I’m not even close. The point isn’t whether I got the birthday right or not (I did, sort of), it’s that I was reminded of where I was this time last year. So much has happened I can’t believe I almost forgot. I was still living in a hotel last year, dutifully taking my laptop out into the hallway every evening to work, while my kids peacefully slept in their uncomfortable hotel bed covered with a delightful mauve and baby blue flowered comforter….the smells of curry drifting through the hallways. Ahhh……

            I was horrified with myself for moving my daughters from their home into a new one, not yet built and into a new school, sight unseen. Fast-forward, clearly we survived. But man, what a year! I swore I’d never go on another date. I did and lived to tell about it. (Dating around in your almost-40’s as a single mom…..not highly recommended, yet possible.) The girls did great in school, have friends, and are for the most part adjusting well. Oh, and we moved out of the hotel and into the house which I still don’t like but am grateful for. And in a year of hard knocks for a lot of employees out there, I managed to keep my job (ThankYouJesus) and am still typing for dollars. Wow. We did all that?

            So here we are in the final countdown to the school year starting and it occurs to me that I’ve got to get my shit together. School clothes have been purchased…backpacks (but now the oldest wants a different one)….school shoes (just waiting for, “I liked them in the store, but now they hurt”)….supplies, blah blah. I’ve written a check to just about every spirit organization, piano teacher, daycare, you name it……. It’s like an automatic reflex, check writing. And we’ve added an orthodontist to my payroll this year, so that’s extra amusing. Like everything else, I’m still (always) just trying to keep up. I’m on top of things at work, but not really ahead. The house is straight, but not clean. I know my daughter’s DS games are in the house, just not sure where. The cat is alive, but not because I want her to be. I lost weight, but I gained some back. The kids eat, but it’s nothing gourmet and barely registers as healthy. I sleep, but often still in my work clothes. We go to bed, but not on time. You get the picture.

            In the middle of all this, I tend to stop now and then and think about myself as well. I’ve become best friends with alone this year. Granted, as of late, I haven’t had to be alone as much but there are still very still and quiet moments. Not too long ago, at church, I couldn’t quit looking at this older lady, sitting all alone in her pew. Now chances are, she is a widow and alone because she lost her husband….not because she chose to be alone at age 36. Yes, I see the difference. I kept thinking that could really be me some day – kids grown and off at their own churches with their own families and me – wherever I’ll be – getting up, dressed, and driving myself to church in hopes of seeing a few friendly faces, driving back home, and doing some more sitting…alone, of course, while eating my Lean Cuisine. My daughter recently revealed that one of her biggest worries is about me being alone when she is with her dad. She pictures me by myself, missing them and she feels sorry for me. My heart broke for her to hear that! I’m fine, and I plan on letting her know I’m OK. But I see why she thinks that…. My life, for the most part, revolves around them and when they’re not in my presence, it’s like I’m missing my co-captains. We’re a team. Thank goodness they’re still young enough to really need me almost all of the time, because it keeps me going and gives me a reason to keep pushing forward. I hope I’m not alone on the church bench but the key to not being afraid of it, is to accept that it’s a possibility. What is it, expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t happen? Yeah….I’ll go with that gem of wisdom.

            Now we have added drama of getting braces, a new school year with “OMG so much homework,” TAKS, last year of preschool (the bastards that yank $800 a month out of my account), fighting about shorts vs. undies under school uniform dress each day, commuting further to work, getting to piano on time, car always breaking down, Saturday dance class, visitation struggles, figuring out how to split escalating expenses for two growing kids who have a need a minute and a want every second, the oldest not getting into the same class as her friends (Her: This will be the WORST YEAR EVER! Me: No baby, that was last year), staying afloat in this craptacular economy, figuring out how in the world I’ll ever be able to afford all of the fall boots I want (read: not), and really wanting to move again when I know I shouldn’t. That’s just a start.

 At least I have the new Hoarders series and another season of Desperate Housewives to look forward to. And let’s not forget Glee. (Pathetic much?). I didn’t cancel my membership to the Y, even though I never stepped foot inside it last year except to sign up. I’ll consider it a banner year if I actually walk in and get my ass on at least one machine. That and getting the cat declawed. The life of a single mom….nothing but pure unadulterated glam.

            Basically every day is like hitting the road to a different and usually not-so-entertaining adventure without a map. (Wait, we don’t use maps anymore right? Navigation system?) I have no idea what I’m doing or where I’m headed. Based on previous results, chances are I’m going to screw up big time. Thank God for the family and friends in my life who keep me on course. Thank God I continue to hear “I love you” even when I can’t imagine why. Thank God my kids love me despite how I’ve muddied up their sweet little lives. Thank God I can still manage to get my work done and someone still approve of it, after almost 11 years. I don’t know if I could have made it without all of that. So maybe I have a map after all, but don’t really need it because I know we’re going to end up OK.

So, it’s been a year since the divorce was final--just over a year to be exact. It would be nice to apply the cliché phrase “my how time flies” to my life, but I can’t do that because it’s simply not true. To be fair, time hasn’t stood still either, but the year has been full of so many challenges, ups, downs, and new experiences (good and bad) that I find myself feeling and (sadly) looking older than I should because I’m so tired of swinging from emotion to emotion and climbing up a few notches on life’s ladder just to get kicked back down again. It’s exhausting. But I’m not broken. At least not yet. Let’s go with bruised.

            So here’s the scorecard. After a summer of living in various hotels, the home I had built was completed in early fall. I assumed the house would be the solution to all of our squabbles, emotional breakdowns, and bad habits like eating out, kids getting used to sleeping with me, overspending, and lack of routine. We move in, and the oldest goes to a brand new school—the very thing I was sure would put her in therapy for life. Turns out, no therapy or even a box of tissues were needed. She thrived. She made great friends, made honor roll every session, won the school spirit award, and really fell in love with her teachers and the school. The youngest daughter’s education wasn’t disrupted, as she stayed in the same pre-school. I was safe there. So, education worries? Resolved.

            I made sure to create perfect bedrooms for each child in our new house so they would finally have their own space and re-discover all of their toys and belongings that lived in storage for four months. The excitement of being re-united with long, lost Barbies and falling into their old beds lasted for about five minutes. Every night, for almost a year, I have found them either at the side of my bed or in it, saying they are scared in their own rooms afraid of our new house. My guilt over moving them from the house they’ve always known overcomes me every time, and I let them crawl in, as they snuggle up to me on each side, giving me just enough room each night to turn my head slightly to the left or right. None of us get adequate sleep, but I’m so tired at the end of the day, I just can’t fight the bedtime wars. Sleep issues? Unresolved.

            I promised myself that once we were settled in the new house, we would create new rituals, such as eating dinner together every night, making sure the kids had their own responsibilities and chores each week, a firm bed time, a ban on junk food, an extreme reduction in eating out… the list goes on. Let’s see. We probably eat together around the table, at home, once a week. We most likely eat out three or more times a week. There is a chore chart on the refrigerator, but even I’m too busy to make sure it’s always enforced. Because the kids won’t step foot in their rooms or upstairs playroom without me, they usually go to bed when I do which is too late for their ages. This leaves them tired and me without “me time” during the evenings. In other words, we’re a functioning mess. I spend about two hours a day in my car commuting back and forth to work and back and taking the kids to their various activities. Evenings during the school year are filled with homework and other school projects. Spare time is usually spent at a dance school, a horse camp, a piano teacher’s house, and on and on and on. Between work, school, barking orders at the kids, and getting in and out of the car 20 times a day, it’s really no surprise the three of us go from feeling like we never see each other to seeing each other way too much—depending on our mood. Routine established? Not so much.

            Overspending. Ah, this is a fun one. It’s no secret divorce is filled with immense sadness. It’s also filled immense debt. The first hit comes with the lawyer bill. Someone has to pay it, and that someone was me. On top of that I had to pay, for a short time, the expenses of living in a large, insanely expensive house I couldn’t afford. Then I had to pay for a big move into storage, three months of hotel living expenses, a move out of storage and into a new house, and the costs of getting settled into a house. Then there’s the trick of learning how to live on an entirely different, and drastically reduced, income and budget. I am just now figuring it out, but let’s just say it’s been a long year filled with tearful nights in front of my laptop with my bank page up, trying to figure out how to get everything paid with money I don’t, and won’t, have. It’s a problem I was lucky enough to never face, until now. In my old life, I never really had to say ‘no’ to my kids when they wanted something. Now I say ‘no’ every time we are in a store. I hoard gift cards and Christmas and birthday money for times when I really want to go shopping for myself because otherwise, I just don’t feel right about spending money on myself when I know it can go toward something the kids need or debt. I am starting to climb out of it and learn to manage with what I have, but it’s been a year-long lesson in reality for sure. I say a prayer of thanks every day for my job. I am beyond blessed to have it because it’s something I love and am passionate about, but it’s also what enables me and my girls to live in a nice house and have “enough.” The good news here is that I’m able to teach my kids about what truly is “enough.” The way we lived before wasn’t an example on the most fiscally responsible way to live. We’re going to make it, for sure. But it’s not going to be without struggles. Then again, such is life for a single mother. So financial health? Poor, but on the mend.

            And then we’re back to me. All of the stress and unhealthy living took its toll on me physically. In one year, I gained 15 pounds. I just ignored it for the longest time and decided that I didn’t care, anyway, because who was I trying to impress? I quit working out, which is something I really started to enjoy right before I moved. We got in the habit of eating out all the time, which certainly didn’t help matters. My anti-depressants were affecting my weight, too. I just felt tired and sluggish all the time. A few months ago, a friend put me in touch with a great alternative medicine doctor who ran a series of blood tests. He found the reasons for my issues and got me on the right track. I’m off of anti-depressants and on my way to losing 10 pounds in about a month already. I have more energy, and I just feel good in general. I’m eating better and have more energy for my kids. It’s kind of like a jump-start to getting back on track. Personal progress? Much, much better.

            Ah, and then there’s the single life. I don’t really consider myself single because I have kids. You can’t really live a “single” life when you’re carpooling, helping with homework each night, vacuuming goldfish out of booster seats, and signing up to be “mom for whatever they ask you to be mom for because you have severe divorce guilt.”  However, now and then, the girls are with their father, and I have something that has been very foreign to me since 2001—free time. I’m the first to admit that a lot of that free time is spent working, getting stuff done around the house, or just simply NAPPING. But, on occasion, I’ve dated. These are some of the highlights – wait, low lights -- of dating in the life of a single mom. Get ready to laugh, cry, or both. I surely have.

Back to the Well. You know the saying, “You can’t go home again?” Well, in my case, I found this to be true on several occasions. The easiest thing to do post-divorce/early dating life is to look up the old boyfriends. Social media has made this easier than ever before with Facebook and MySpace. Calling information for every number for your junior/senior banquet date in the greater metro area is no longer necessary—just facebook them. The best part is seeing “single” on his status because that means opportunity. It all starts innocently enough with the exchange of “hi, how are you, how have you been for 20 years, how are your kids, your dog, your job, your mistress, your geraniums, etc.” You do that for about a week, and then the “remember when’s” start to fly. Then you exchange numbers. Phone calls and texts lead to the first meeting, and then you have to marvel at how you ever lost touch.

            Well, there’s probably a reason you lost touch. You just had a lot happen in the past 20 years to help you forget. Eventually, you figure it out. I did. One old flame was single, but in love with someone he couldn’t have. Still is. It became clear I was just his entertainment until he could have her. Pass. Another wound up joining match.com during our courtship. When I discovered his new attempt at dating while dating me, I noticed that one of his profile pictures was of us on a date. Yep. True story. Couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

The Nutty Professor. So after realizing that I’m going to come up with a dry bucket after going back to the well twice, I decide to join the zombie divorced masses looking for a date and try e-harmony. I mean, hell, it worked for the guy I was last dating, right? I make it through the questions that mimic a really bad job interview to wind up with a professor who “loves sports and all athletic endeavors.” I should’ve known right then and there that e-harmony is really bad at what it claims to do – match interests – because nowhere do I mention “athletic” in my answers. Maybe it missed the word “avoid” in front of it. So I meet him at a local Mexican food restaurant for our first “date.” He orders us both waters. It’s dinner time, and I’m really hungry. I can’t help but eye all of the dinners at the table around me. Chips! Finally! We get chips! And then I start to realize mid-conversation that we are drinking water and eating free chips and salsa because he’s trying to decide if I’m worthy to spend money on. I guess I pass the first phase of the test because I get to order a blue margarita. He makes fun of me for ordering a blue margarita, asking if it will turn my tongue blue. Dork Clue No. 1. The conversation lags, and I do my best to make jokes and keep things light. He slams his beer and asks for the check. I guess I didn’t make it to round 2—dinner. He looks at the check and says, “Ok, so you’re margarita was $7 so I guess I can get the tip since I just had a beer.” I drop a $20 and tell him not to worry about it. He doesn’t argue. We head out to the parking lot where he says, “thanks” and walks to his car, leaving me to walk to my car alone. I laugh the whole way back. The next day, my inbox contains an email with a nicely formatted bulleted list of why he needs to close the match. It’s a list of the things he found wrong with the evening and with me. The top of the list is a comment, “You’re too lighthearted and make too many jokes. I want to be in a serious relationship with someone who can get into serious discussions with me and not be afraid of her feelings.”

            The only feeling I had that night was that I could have used another blue margarita. But the email was a nice re-cap of why I suck, very nicely detailed and spaced out with a jolly choice of zapf dingbats. And that was The Nutty Professor.

The Nutty Divorced Dad. The Nutty Divorced Professor should have been my first clue that e-harmony is a dangerous, dangerous place worthy of extreme caution and fear. But for whatever reason, during this stage post-divorce, I felt like I should go on dates with new people. Maybe it was fear of having to go back to the well again. I was determined to meet someone new. So I went back to my pool of matches and clicked on a guy who seemed like a great father to two daughters with you’re all around boy-next-door, aw shucks look who just got handed a bum deal in a divorce he didn’t really want from an ex-wife who some suspected was actually a lesbian. (Say it with me….awwww….) In the very short time I “dated” NDD I noticed red flags at every turn. This is a guy who wanted a girlfriend—bad. Correction, he wanted a wife. He wanted a do-over. He wanted to go back to “everything is normal-see we have a house-we go to church-we eat at Chili’s after church-look at my yard.” Everything was overboard, too much, too soon. At times, I was truly fearful. But on paper, he is probably what I should have wanted. But see, there’s something about being married twice and the term “should.” You know better than to make another mistake and you know better than to be with someone when you have to use the word “should.” So I started backing out, ever so slowly. When he began booking my own, personal babysitter for dates before I even knew we had one and started giving me gifts that were far beyond where we were in the progression of our short period of dating, I knew I had to get out of this gig. When I mentioned to him in a text rant (he loved the text rant) that I, in fact, was NOT his girlfriend I was met promptly with “like it or not, you ARE my girlfriend.” Ok…put the knife down….back away slowly…and no one will get hurt here….. I admit, I was a little scared. I quickly learned that when a divorced dad who doesn’t want to be divorced and really, really, really wants you to be his girlfriend doesn’t get his way, he attacks in emails, and rather viciously I might add. A sampling:

“I don't do things for attention. News Flash bulletin - if that was the case I would have never gone out with you. Your blog screams "look at me".” 

“You are a shallow, self-absorbed, bitter woman who hates men. I find it funny that you accuse me of gossip yet you have made a career out of it.”

“You should filter out all people - all you need is your collection of shoes and your self-hating blog.”

“You were always dramatic by pulling the "mommy" card which you did quite a lot”

“My neighbors are always trying to hook me up.  I dated several women prior to you who make more and have lots of time than you do”

…and my favorite….. ““And don't worry - I will get a different bike route.” (C’mon, ya gotta laugh).

But before you think it’s all been a loss, it hasn’t….. There have been good moments, good memories, and good dates. And as of late, I can safely say better than good. I think the key to dating post-divorce is the key to dating in general….You gotta kiss a lot of frogs to get to the prince. And I still believe in happy endings, even after all I’ve been through. I still believe in the tried and true advice that you’ll find someone when you’re not looking, but when someone else is looking out for you. It works. J

I recently picked up perhaps the best of the many books I’ve read on divorce this year, “How to Sleep Alone in a King-Size Bed.” At times, I thought this was someone who was watching my life, journaling it, and then publishing it as her own because the similarities were stunning. As it turns out, we’re simply moms and writers who are divorced and have shared the same ups and downs. Worse, we are blamed for our divorces because we’re the ones who asked for them. We struggle with the unfair reality that, in the end, it doesn’t matter about all the things that led up to the divorce. It’s almost as if those actions and situations are erased once the papers are delivered. It’s all about who had them delivered. What matters is who cut the last shred of tape that was holding it all together. That’s the person to blame. That happened to be us. We’re the only ones who know what really happened pre-filing, but we’re also the ones who have to live with the day in, day out guilt and stress about the choice we ultimately had to make. Theo Pauline Nestor just happened to get her book out before I did. (Yes, that’s a hint.) These are some key passages from the amazing author who touched me so much, I had to share, because they tell my story, too. And to a degree, explain it better than I’ve been able to…yet.

“The final stage (of divorce) is acceptance and growth in which there is a releasing of the past. Life slows to a less chaotic pace, and there is a feeling of comfort and belonging in one’s new life. The person begins to trust again to take reasonable risks and make solid choices. There is a letting go of anger and an ability to be friendly with the ex. In all phases of her life, the divorcee’ has moved ahead.”

“I will never again be the person who married the father of my children. I will never again be a woman married to the man to whom I said “I do.” I might recover a great deal of the brightness of my life, but I’m not going to come out of this the same person who went into the marriage and then divorce. I’m not sure who she’s going to be –this person who’s going to rise like a phoenix above the smoldering embers of her old life. I just want to make sure I’m going to like her.”

“Take care of yourself. No one else is going to do that for you anymore.”

“Maybe it’s the small things that change who we are. It’s those deceptively small things – the act of watching TV alone is a basement suite, the phone call from a friend at just the right moment, the smell of wood burning on a cold night - that transform us at a cellular level. Maybe it’s always something small that takes us from hope to despair. Maybe it’s something small, too, that takes us all the way back.”

“It seems it’s taking forever for my ex to realize that I am no longer an extension of him and longer for me to believe it. I feel like a disobedient arm or foot.”

“We meet people and 15 minutes later we figure we know who they are, but then we can spend a lifetime with a person and realize we still don’t completely know them.”

“Maybe this is what love is, after all…knowing who the person is and reaching for them when you know they can’t reach for you, going to find them when they are locked up inside themselves, even if you might be hurting or afraid yourself. Maybe this is why couples are breaking up everywhere…because we can’t talk each other down from our towers.”

“I can’t expect to save my children from hurt or from the fact that the parents are divorced. I can’t always make them happy. The hand-offs are tense. Christmas will probably always be a series of tricky compromises—two trees, presents shuttled between houses. Someday, mom might slow-dance in the living room someone who is not their father. Even if all of this is true, I can still be an okay mom, or even a good mom. Maybe, just maybe, because all these things are true and I am no longer going to pretend they aren’t, I can finally be both a mother and myself.”

…And back to the year in review. It’s been a beautiful disaster in many ways. We still struggle, almost every day. Some days, my ex-spouse and I run this co-parenting gig like a successful business. Dare I say we communicate even better? There are moments we have it down, and the girls seem completely adjusted and fine with The New Life. Then other days, I am screaming at him louder and meaner than I ever did in marriage, and he thrives on reminding me at how I failed the children and how I have ruined his life. I look at his life, and by appearances, it doesn’t seem ruined at all. In fact, he seems and looks happier than I remember him since college. I get frustrated because for someone who continually claims his children were “torn” from him, it seems our biggest struggle is getting “balanced” parenting time. He will always get to wear the “victim” badge post divorce and get the “I need to find myself” break, and I need to make peace with this. The kids still want to be with him and maintain their huge crush on their daddy, and I choose to believe that he will continue to do the right things for them. I will never abandon my promise to make sure I facilitate their relationship the best I can and to never speak ill about their father in front of them, ever. And I say this in all honesty, I want the best for him. I hope he can fill in the voids I couldn't, and that his final destination is nothing but happiness where he can honestly say, "this is better."

 What I know to be true will have to be enough for me, and most days it is. But then there are days when I can barely tolerate looking at myself in the mirror for the choice I had to make…almost by force. I choose to believe it will get better in time, especially now that he has moved on and is making a new life for himself that will ultimately include a “second” family. Maybe that will help him forget how much he hates me. I hope so. Maybe I can, too, move past what made me unable to continue in the life we tried to build, but outside of the children, should probably have never attempted.

So the year in review…..Despite all of this…everything since the first divorce…I’m still not jaded. I’m still not bitter. I’m not even mad. Surprisingly, I’m still hopeful. And despite the rough patches with the kids, the gnawing guilt, the broken down car, the bills that pile up, the tears, the days I can’t even imagine getting out of bed, and the painful struggles of being a single mom, I’m happy. Yes, I typed the word. I’ve said it….happy. And I’m not just saying this in order to make myself believe it. And I got here on my own terms. I’ve tried it on, and it fits. Happy…I like it.

And yet another from last year....

The Next Chapter
Current mood: blessed
Category: Life

Today, I was offered – ok, tossed around  – the idea of becoming more management than writer. Big problem, right? (ha, ha.)

In a weird way, it is because I know that if I don’t write, I’ll always struggle with is the feeling I have right now.--a sense or urgency to write. Something. Anything. Now.

Writing. Inspiration can strike on a road trip—just zoning out, thinking. It can come in a dream. It can be something that happened to me that no one would believe unless I told the story in a relatable manner. It could be inspiration that strikes, right now, when I’ve had two glasses of wine and should be asleep….. but I can’t help it.

I write. Manage? Eh, maybe........ but let’s move on shall we?

I’ve been doing this writing gig for as long as I can remember. When my parents fought as a child, I would grab my diary…spiral notebook…whatever I had and just write it all down – the confusion, anger, and emotions. If I had a crush on a boy, I would write about it until my fingers almost fell off. Certainly, I couldn’t reveal my secret but I had to just let it out, at least, on paper. As I recall, he wore an ID bracelet, and it was my inner-most desire in seventh grade for him to ask me to "go with him" and let me wear that bracelet. It didn’t  happen, but he did ask me to dance at our junior high dance. Of course, I used a lot of exclamation points that night!!!!!! when I wrote about it.

So now I am writing on the floor of what is, sort of, my home office. You see, just days ago, it was a true home office complete with décor, a desk, and a pull-out couch. Today, there is a "his" side and a "her" side with boxes and possessions divided—a marriage of almost 10 years and two lives divided by just a few square feet of hardwood flooring. My laptop – no, wait – his laptop -- is on the floor. I sit on a pillow on the floor, my glass of wine beside me, work beside me too…… and I think…..

Think…. Haven’t I mentioned before about how I think way too much?

You see, it is 12:24 a.m. My alarm is set for 4:30 a.m. Why? Well, that is because I have to somehow squeeze more hours into my day. I woke up, fed my girls, got them ready for school, took them to school, came home to straighten my home for an appointment with my Realtor. (Oh, did I mention that when you get divorced and your spouse moves out, it looks as if you’ve been robbed?) Anyway, I rushed to put it together as much as possible so that she would be impressed enough to list it for a decent price….. Time slips away. I have therapy at 11. It is as essential as the "happy" pills they’ve prescribed me to get through this God-awful mess. I have just enough time to put on the bare minimum of make up and rush out the door, downtown to therapy. We laugh, we cry. I feel guilty. I feel relieved. I pay money I don’t have. I drive through Chick Fil A while talking to my supervisor about what has transpired in a week --- the decision, the moving out, the finality of it all. My job. A possible promotion. Her new baby. I can barely stomach half my meal. I go to work to meet with our CFO. We talk all about my department – the good and the bad. We toss out ideas. I don’t know what to think, really, about what is being said other than Please God Let Me Keep My Job Because I Have to Feed My Kids. He’s talking about the good I’m doing and how I can possibly manage now, and all I can think about is how to get all of my work done and still have time to make my Realtor appointment, take my kid to her book fair, and make it to theatre class on time. The Realtor appointment was reschedule. I made it to the book fair. Spent more money I don’t have out of guilt. Was late to theatre. Got home, got kids ready for bed. Worked for several hours. And here I sit.

I bought a plane ticket for my sister to come into town this weekend simply for the fact that I don’t know how to "just be." I don’t. I have had someone "there" in my life for as long as I can remember….. Just last weekend it was my parents. She agrees. We will press on with what I know is right. Did I mention there are huge gaps in my home? Well, of course there are. Furniture, gone. Photos, gone. Evidence of a marriage, gone. Evidence of hope, long gone. I should cry, but where are the tears? I did cry here and there when the finality really set in. But the one person who claimed he couldn’t live one second without me seems to always find a way to live thousands of seconds without me, happily as it appears. He is my daughters’ father now. Not my husband.

Did I have a husband? Records reflect two. My heart, well…..I think it’s at a deficit. Neither ex would agree, but then again, neither knew my heart on an intimate level.

I once wrote a blog about a letter I would write to my teen-age self. Again, I would say to her….make sure he knows you inside and out and loves you—despite your shortcomings. Make sure that there is not one other woman in the universe who could make him as crazy in love as you do. Make sure that he lets you know every single day, even in the smallest way, that you are his…you are the one. Maybe you don’t cook, have sex, entertain, or whatever the way his best friend’s wife does…..but the point is, no matter how you do whatever, he should adore every inch of it and never let you forget it. If he doesn’t tell  you "good night, I love you" every night…..notice. Because he either loves himself too much, or someone else. Don’t fool yourself another second.

My therapist keeps telling me that I have all of these "gifts" to give….that I have all of this love stored up inside, ready and waiting. I think of the relationships I have had. How is it stored up when I gave it all away? But worse, why do I look at my "love tank" and it’s well below empty? When will I learn? When will I be "that girl" – the one who just can’t even believe "this is happening to her?" You know that girl. She’s in your office….a friend….a cousin of a friend….the girl who has the guy who just simply LOVES her. No strings attached. No this for that. No agenda. He just simply loves her and makes sure she knows it, even if it means being up with the baby all night so she can get a full night’s sleep at least just once this week. Even if it means a quick one second call to say "good night, I love you"  if you’re apart. Even if it means a simple text in the day that makes her feel 16 again. I don’t know what I’m talking about….I can hardly relate….but I know it exists. I’ve given up on this for myself but I’m telling you….no, begging you….. this is it people. Grab your life. With both fists, TIGHT. Hold on. Love it. Live it. Embrace it. Tell your children to do the same. Don’t waste another second.

I think I’ve mentioned in my previous blogs the porch swing I wanted to restore. It was my dear, sweet Papa’s. Well, I did it! Pictures to come. Oh, how I love that swing. I ordered a little emblem for it last night – "Papa’s Swing" Erwin John Sander. God, I love that name. It brings me peace. I swing and the world is right. What should be, is. I will restore that swing forever if I have to so that my girls can have it and I can tell them the stories behind it so they understand life is about so much more that right now. It’s about forever and then some. Grab it. Don’t let go.

My journey in this divorce started one year ago….mid April. I will never reveal the details but something happened last April that painted the picture as to why, despite what I want and crave and can pretend to have and be, I can’t be here anymore. It took a year for it to dissolve. But more than that, it took six years. I’ve been here before, but I’ve masked my pain with new homes, vacations, even a brand new beautiful baby girl. That scrapbook I kept as a child – that dream book – I should be a model on the pages of that thing, wherever it is because I fulfilled those material dreams. But yet here I sit, in an empty office, a half-filled home as he has already moved his things out to his new apartment……and still, no tears. I just keep pressing on. Money is dwindling faster than I can down my merlot. My job is so busy that I can barely tread water --- and yet they still want to promote  me? How is the possible? My daughters will spend their first night away from me, with their father, tomorrow. I’m excited and relieved they are comfortable. Sad they are gone. Jealous they love his place so much, as it is similar to a five-star hotel.

I’m tired. I should have been I bed hours ago but I don’t sleep. I have probably logged 16 hours or less of sleep, total, in three days. I just keep organizing, cleaning, throwing things out, and convincing myself that surely I’m not going to hell for all of this Right? Or am I already in hell?

Months ago, I answered a calling of for a mission trip with my church to Mexico. I said yes, not really knowing what it meant. Turns out, I leave Thursday to minister and help women and children with whatever they need -- repairing things, painting, fixing, feeding, hugging, playing with kids. They’ll feel like they won a million bucks if you give them a piece of gum or candy, I hear. I will be working my ass off, literally ---building, painting, moving. But I don’t care. It’s a way to help, and it’s a way to keep me from feeling sorry for myself. I am a millionaire compared to these families. I should never complain again.

Did I mention perfect timing for this trip? I am so consumed with worry about money and homes.....and these people have neither.

And then there’s the Bon Jovi concert soon after. Also, not bad timing. A little fun can’t hurt.

And then I need to move. I need to make my life. I need to figure out my financial situation. I need to sleep. I need to pray. To do a good job at work. To kiss and hug my girls 10 times more than I would think possible because they need it. Ok, I need it too.

There are holes all over the house, evidence of where he left. But there is a bigger hole left in my heart because he, through my blog and through countless talks, had the road map straight to my heart but still didn’t take it. And I keep that road map out for public view….and it just stays there…..Will anyone ever pick it up, read it, and actually follow it? I used to think yes, but as  time wears on…… I realize that this may be it for me. I was once married. I have two beautiful daughters. I work as a writer. That’s my life.

The end.

Really? The end? I feel this urge inside me to get started on living – take a pole dancing class just for the hell of it. Yoga? Sure, go for it. Women’s retreat in May? Sign up. Girls night out when he has the kids? Say yes. Church and more church. Get involved the way I always wanted to. Be Jennifer Sander and love my two girls more than even humanly thought possible, which I do. They are my sole reason for being on this planet. If you knew them you would know why I say this. All mothers can relate. So now I have 3.5 hours of sleep left. I hate succumbing to sleep these days…..It means my mind has to turn off and I have so many things to think about and organize. I have so many shattered dreams to put to bed; so many hopeful thoughts to just erase because now I know better.

I have been blogging for more than two years…….. some of it as real as it gets. Some of it trying to convince myself that I’m "normal" when I’m told I’m not. It’s just real. It’s just me.

So here you have it. I’m 35. Divorced with two kids. A writer. Full of passion for all things good, pure, artistic, and real. I’m scared out of my mind. I remain hopeful, but nearly as hopeful as I’ve been in the past. I need a pedicure. I need to balance my checkbook. I’ve had nothing but a hard boiled egg and half a chick fil a sandwich to eat today. I drank 3 glasses of wine tonight. Did I mention I’m scared to death? I am going on a mission trip to Mexico next weekend and don’t know much about it, but that’s OK. I have a servant’s heart, and am ready. I have two beautiful daughters who love me and trust me…..I’ll do whatever I can to preserve it. I have absolutely zero experience with truly understanding "I love you" from a man. The words and actions, to this date, have never matched up. I fear they never will. I have to learn to be OK with the possibility of being alone and the pride of not settling just to avoid it.

I am finally sleepy enough to end this blog and to say that I’m officially back. Sure, I’ve been accused of writing only to my "legion of idiots" – their quote not mine – to fluff my ego, and I have been lightly "grounded" from my writing. But here I am again, doing what I know how to do……write. Write what’s real. What’s true. What’s On My Mind Right Now.

Care to join me in my next chapter? Buckle up……. I just have this feeling you’ll need to….