Sassafrass

Gearing up

As another holiday approaches, I've felt that familiar feeling crawl up and make me catch my breath. How in the world would I handle Halloween -- Halloween! -- without being with my child? Halloween is all about the child. The very idea of him trick-or-treating without his friends, without me, in some unfamiliar neighborhood was unbearable. For a moment.

As I have learned to do over these few years, I exhaled. It will be OK, I put out to the universe, I promised myself.

Our parenting agreement simply says we will share this day with our son. Over the past few years, this has required very little negotiation since Halloween landed on a day Lil E was at home with me and his dad was working late into the evening. This year, though, it falls right in the middle of a daddy weekend.

And so I slowed my breathing, put on my best calm voice, and called The Ex to explain all the reasons why I thought it we be best for our boy to dress up as Luke Skywalker and join his pack of costumed buddies to trick-or-treat in the neighborhood near his school. I offered to drive to the suburbs to pick Lil E up, I said I wanted to make it work out for all of us.

Surprisingly, he agreed. Although my time with the young Jedi will only come to two hours, it is still two hours of doorbells and candy and that kiddie glee that comes from being hopped up on too many Sweet-Tarts and mini Reese's Cups.

When the vision of tucking an exhausted Luke Skywalker into bed with chocolate still smeared across his face and a light saber still locked tight in his grasp, I calmed the reactionary voice that panicked, "What will I do if he's not here?"

Instead, I considered all of my options to make my own arrangements, put together my own costume (just like I did last year) have my own fun with friends, skipping around in the dark.

I'm not sure what I will do yet, but I feel better knowing there is a plan in place, and that it started -- and will end -- with it all being OK.

If this is how it is, then I will make it work.  And you can count on a fair amount of spandex, cleavage and candy of my own is going to help me out with that.

Will you do some trick-or-treating of your own? What is your plan for Halloween?

Thank God for the passing of time: Another October 12

And so another anniversary has arrived. Seven years ago today, I married the man who is now my ex-husband. It is more than just any other day, and yet, I can write and think and talk about it with a neutrality I never dreamed I'd have.

Last year, I struggled some and found a way to acknowledge the anniversary and then do something meaningful for myself. Even then, I wasn't sure I would be in the place with it I am now. What a blessing that is.

The only person I mentioned it to was my son. Over dinner last night, I told him that this would mark the day his daddy and I got married. He got the wide-eyed look he gets when I can see he desperately wants more information and is afraid to get more information.

"Oh," he nodded, taking the tiniest of bites from a baby carrot.

"I wanted you to know," I explained, "because even though Daddy and I aren't married anymore, it's important to remember that we were madly in love and very, very happy when we did get married. And for a long, long time, which is a big part of the reason we chose to have you. That changed. But it doesn't change that we made the decision to get married because we were in love way back then."

He nodded again, took another tiny bite.

"So I just wanted to honor that. We call this an anniversary. I wanted you to know about it."

Another nod, another bite.

"Mommy?"

"Yes, lovey?" A big question was coming. I could feel it. Or at least I know it from experience in having these kinds of conversations.

"Can we look at the pictures of your marriage tomorrow?"

"You mean the wedding?" I clarified. Then I nodded. ""And the video, too, if you'd like."

"No," he said certainly. "Just the pictures. But...Mommy? It's important to remember when people DID love each other. Even if they're separate now."

"That's right," I said. He got it.

"Mommy? I'm going to marry you one day."

I smiled. We'd been through this many times as well.

"Oh honey, boys can't marry their mommies. But it is a sweet thought and I thank you for saying it. But one day, you may fall madly in love yourself and I will be there to celebrate with you just like the people I love celebrated with me."

"Mommy?" More to process. "I'm not ever getting married. Well...maybe."

"We'll see," I said. He's been on a kick about never getting married, and it saddens me even though I understand where it comes from. "It is your choice. And you can always change your mind."

"Yeah, things change." He gets that, too.

On this October 12th, there will be no roses, no cards written to myself, no phone calls to The Ex, no awful, desperate dinners. I don't need any of that this year. 

I'm reminded that Pema Chodron says our hearts don't break, they break open. That hurts, she says, because it is new and raw. As painful as it once was that the vows I said on this day were severed, my life really did break open once the marriage ended. This day now marks the beginning of a moment of time, one that I don't regret having even though it is now long over.

I'm good. I am really good with it all. And what a relief to feel that. What a feeling of thankfulness to find what was there when it all opened up.

This is one of many stunning pictures snapped by the photographers on that day. They are all in a box of keepsakes I am saving for Lil E, but it does me good to see my family and grrrlfriends and loved ones all dolled up and happy together. I was pinning a corsage on my mom -- doesn't she look gorgeous? -- while my maid of honor, my brother Seth, was holding my veil for me to put on. It was a sweet moment, one that I will happily hold on to.

A time to tend

I came home one day about a month ago, and the chrysanthemums had wilted. It was my fault. I'd placed them out in the bright sun of my porch even though I'd read the card with care instructions that said they should be kept out of direct light. They'd started out this lovely lavender streaked with white and the petals seemed to beg for sunshine. Now, faded and sinking closer to the soil, they needed cool water and shelter.

They were guilt flowers, the mums, given to me by the man I was dating after a small argument that, at least to me, represented some much bigger issues. He didn't choose roses or lilies, and I liked that. He chose a basket of flowers that could be replanted into a pot, that might be rejuvenated season after season. I put it out on the porch, where that man I was dating stood smoking cigarettes when he was at my house.

Even after explanations and apologies and a plan to make things work better between us, I never did move those chrysanthemums inside. I watered it, shifted it around, surrounded the basket with the marigolds and wild rose plants. But I left it there, soaking up the sun.

Overheard at his first sleepover

I'm feeling a bit triumphant right now. Lil E's first sleepover with one of his favorite buddies, Lil F, went strangely, spookily well. There was playing, pizza, and the partially viewed "Hotel for Dogs." By 9 p.m., both boys were sound asleep. Lil E was stretched out on his bed, one leg propped up on the other like he was taking a siesta in an office chair, and his friend was sprawled out and snoring on a small air mattress wedged into the play space on my son's toy-crowded floor.

They -- and I am fully aware that admitting this will thrust the wrath of the preschool gods upon me at the next sleepover -- slept soundly for eleven glorious hours, ate a bit of breakfast, and were sad to say goodbye. Aside from the incessant questions about when he reciprocate by spending the night at his friend's house, it was a complete success for Lil E.

Even if it would have been an all-night gutteral scream-fest, it would have all been worth it to hear the boys innocently, earnestly debating whether the word "doo-doo" (thanks, Jew-fro kid in "Hotel for Dogs") means "dude" or "poop" (still apparently up for debate between the two after much deliberation on each side).

It would have also been worth to hear a moment that could have stopped at this sign that Lil E is processing some really big stuff but went on to be a sign that these boys are in it together. They were pulling on tiny undies and comfy pants in Lil E's room when I overheard them from the next room.

Lil E: Hey, Lil F! My parents aren't married anymore. A judge said they aren't and so they are not married.

Lil F: Oh. I don't think my parents are married anymore either.

Lil E: Ummm, but your parents live together in the same house.

Lil F: OH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

Thank goodness that was solved. Now back to counting our lucky little sleepover stars.

Goodbye, divorce hair

  About a year ago, I walked into my salon a little spiffier than I normally do to get swathed in aluminum strips and neurological disorder-inducing chemicals just to look pretty for a few weeks. I was wearing a red patent leather heels, red lipstick and had a bold red ring where a diamond was once perched. I was smiling -- and not just because I was on time for once. I was feeling good before I got there. It was a turning point in a divorce that felt like it had been going on since the 1960s. It wasn't easy but I was making progress, I was getting through.

Getting my hair done didn't feel like a salvation that day like it had for the months before. I wasn't walking in hoping that some miracle of highlights and razor cutting could make me look fabulous when I felt a mess.

Sylvia, the lovely and gorgeous stylist with violet-tinted black hair and a Polish accent that makes her words drip and stretch, grabbed my hands and smiled back at me.

"And now," she said, eyeing my shoes, lips and ring, "you are a redhead!"

That's how my natural hair, politely highlighted auburn for a few years, became blazing red. I loved being a redhead. I loved changing my Match.com profile to read "Hair color: Red/Auburn." I loved thinking of myself as falling into some the bottle-red subset of the category where Rita Hayworth in "Gilda"   and Brenda Starr, Star Reporter will reign eternally.

It was the beginning of me looking more like me, or at least the self I wanted to be. The woman outside of a marriage. The woman with a big new career. The woman who was pulling up and out of the chaos to (try to?) be more confident, centered, still, and on fire all at the same time.

The red, I thought, said it. That woman is here.

 Today, I said goodbye to the red and to Sylvia, went to a new salon and followed the guidance of a new stylist who said that maybe it was time to move on. 

[A pic of the new 'do after the jump.]

A date. With a man

We were riding in the car, singing Michael Jackson loudly, and Lil E was doing this head-shake move that reveals a compelling flexibility that I think is reserved only for preschoolers. There was a pause in between songs just as I pulled up to a red light. It was suddenly, momentarily quiet in the car. I seized it.

"Yesterday," I said, peering into the rear view mirror at him, "you asked me if I went to the awards show on a date with a man."

"Yes," he said, nodding. I could see his eyes widen, even behind his Darth Vader sunglasses.

"I didn't really answer that then." This was hard to get out. "I'm sorry for that."

He nodded again.

"Do you want to talk about that?"

Another nod.

Bodies and babies, choice and control

[You will note by the wedding ring that this is clearly not a recent picture. No surprises, kittens, just an image to make this post look pretty. You may resume your reading.]

I meant to write about how my computer went crazy and then I did after being completely offline for two days. I meant to write about perfect little quiet spaces to escape the BlogHer mania while you are in Chicago. I meant to go on too much about something Star Wars-related or why in the world I didn't know Elton John and Billy Joel were playing just three miles west of me at Wrigley Field tonight. There was a list of a million little things I intended to put up on this screen.

And then my heart got all clenched up.

Perhaps it started weeks ago when I started watching "16 and Pregnant" on MTV. I couldn't help myself. I am compelled for some reason by teen pregnancy, by the girls and choices and stories attached to the young bodies we so easily judge, by where we are in this country with Bristol Palin and Jamie-Lynn Spears somehow (how again?) standing for so many young women standing in bathrooms and staring at their own pregnancy tests.

I watched week after week, drawn in by the profiled couples and their vulnerability, desperation, immaturity, hope and fear. Every episode, my heart broke a little.

Of course, all women have this choice to carry on or terminate a pregnancy, no matter our age or environment or family situation or socioeconomic status or prospects for continuing our education or getting a job that will support all of our own and our babies' needs. I believe wholeheartedly in that choice.

And still, I also know how much it takes to be pregnant, all counted in energy, attention, love, money, self-care. I can only imagine how high school and ended college dreams and a lack of parental support factors into that time and experience. How in the world do these girls make it through? I wondered that every time I watched them try to fit into a prom dress or study with a colicky baby screaming on their laps.

They just do it because they feel they have to, I thought in response to myself. They just do.

It could be that my heart started clenching up last night when I had dinner with an old friend over sangria and conversation much deeper than either of us intended. We talked about having babies at this age -- both of us are 37 -- and how that might happen.

Our heart-to-heart spilled over as we shared experiences of our own and of our other women friends, from fertility questions to infertility aching, abortion to adoption, choosing to parent with a partner to opting to go it alone. All of it came back to a teary, almost-whispered understanding of what it is to feel out of control, not just of whether to have a child or not, but of your body.

My friend's experiences and mine are not the same. Still, we had this tie between us -- we'd both been there, feeling the choice to mother or not had at some point slipped from our grasp.

It was powerful, hard and sweetly connecting to put all of that on the table, to share how two feminist, pro-choice, activist women had felt the pain of not feeling in control of our bodies.

Perhaps the clenching goes even further back, to the week before my marriage crash-landed, when I was obliviously and hopefully mapping out my ovulation, making sure our plans to try to conceive the next week were on track. Of course, that pregnancy never happened and there was great relief and grief followed.

There were also many months where I tried tried tried to get OK with the idea I may never have more children, holding fast to the deep understanding that Lil E is far more than enough to fill my life.The question still whispered, Would I ever have another chance? Would divorce make the choice for me or would I be able to choose if I had another child?

Maybe the heart clenching has simply crept in during small moments in passing on my maternity clothes, in the ovary flip of holding delicate handmade baby shoes, in watching a friend's baby clench his face in the most adorable scream, in fostering the fantasy that I can certainly slip a baby into a sling and work and live and thrive as a single mama to two children.

It's not that I am ready now -- no matter what you've read here that may lead you to believe that. I am definitely not ready to have another child right now. But what I do want is a stronger feeling that when I am, it will be possible, it will be a choice, it will be in my control.

It could also be that the tightest clenching came tonight during the season finale of "16 and Pregnant", when a high school junior and her boyfriend chose to give their daughter up for adoption. They did it with a sageness I've not yet seen on the show and despite their parents' awful and manipulative pressure to somehow raise the child in two highly dysfunctional, uproarious homes.

The high schoolers chose a married couple to raise their daughter, and there were the very real moments of hesitation, many reminders of why they made this choice and lots of tears. What gripped me was the boy, holding on to his girlfriend so she did not have to see the baby being pulled from her body, telling her over and over how he loved her, how they loved the baby, how they were all strong enough to let her have a happy life. More tears accompanied an awkward hand-off to the adoptive parents and then the parting words from this girl, who had only given birth and given away her baby days before as she spoke directly to the camera.

I hope one day to get to know her. I am at peace with my decision.

I watched, my palm subconsciously pressed to my chest, the tears falling on to my fingers. I wondered once again how this girl did this, how she made it through. Before the answer came to me, a voice over from the birth mother answered.

I just did what was in my heart.

In all its complexity and simplicity, there it was. In all of its heartbreak and heart healing, she just followed the answer she found there.

My own heart is still all tangled up. And this wisdom certainly doesn't answer the million questions about if and when and how I might ever have another baby.

But what I love, what I am going to cling to, what did help my own heart unclench just enough was the thought that followed, the feeling that filled me and made all the other things I was going to write about quickly slip away.

I may not have complete control over my body. But I can seek out peace with all that has come before  and what might happen with my fertility in the future.

Peace, peace. That might be the most critical and most difficult, most painful and most empowering thing to choose. Even as -- especially as -- a woman, a mother so adamantly pro-choice.

In which I pretend this Fourth of July post is right on time

I won't pretend to be totally Zen as holidays approach, nor as I pack Lil E's bag full of clothes, stuffed animal babies, Star Wars figures, light sabers of both plastic and homemade from wrapping paper tubes, gray rocks picked up on walks, pennies, cardboard tags from every toy he's gotten in the last six months, and sometimes even a bracelet or two of mine so (as he says) "we can think of each other" (apparently, over a not-so-secret love of bling).

I get clenched up and sometimes, in a panic, make too many plans for any of the hours I have (supposedly) to myself. The good thing is, that all that fades, usually within minutes of saying goodbye to the boy and ascending the stairs to a quiet house while he skips off to the car with his dad. In the big picture, we're still new at this, I know. But I am breathing deeper and it is getting better. We've come a long way since those first, very tough holidays (was it only a year ago that we were dealing with night dryness?) when I felt like I was releasing my little boy to the entire universe, not just for a day or weekend with his father.

This Fourth of July, my day with Lil E was actually the third.  Here, in Chicago, the third is when the good stuff happens. There are fireworks downtown to an audience of more than a million people, and it is all beautiful chaos that echoes and reflects off of our amazing skyline. Since I've been working so hard on enjoying -- not just surviving -- my time without Lil E, I also know how important it is that we do the same when we are together. So we took the train right into the epicenter of it all, met up with fun friends and soaked up the best of the holiday.

                                        

Leaving downtown was exhausting -- everyone leaving at once and many of them packing into El cars along with us, our umbrella stroller and giant bag of snacks. Even as I breathed a little deeper and harder than I'd been practicing while carrying a heavily half-asleep child with everything else up steep stairs from the train platform to the sidewalk, I was happy to hold on to the holiday for just a little bit longer.

                                        

I fell asleep for a few minutes, snuggled up to Lil E, as I put him to bed that night. The sound of much smaller fireworks sounded off outside the window to his bedroom giving way to the steady waves of his breathing. The chaos crowds and the calm as he clung to me when we left it, the bright flashes of light and stillness of the dark, his squeals and the silence at home, our time together and our time apart -- all of it was in balance.

This holiday, this year, it worked out just fine. It was exactly as it should be.

Jon & Kate: I hate to say it, but I relate

It was not my intention to watch THE BIG ANNOUNCEMENT on "Jon & Kate Plus 8" tonight. It was not my intention to watch it at all this season. Many, many episodes ago, Kate's germophobia and Jon's passivity wore me down.

Before the weariness set in, I did watch the show. When Lil E and I lived with my parents, we either watched or heard each episode detailed by my mother, who is delighted by all reality TV that involves a) small children, b) fashion, c) island challenges, and 4) food. Lil E and my mother were equally squealy to see kids Lil E's age times six, with two older, bossy girls corralling them through the house. When Lil E and I moved into our own place, we'd sometimes glory in the fact that we had our own cable and we watched old episodes while unpacking boxes and arranging pillows on the floor until we got furniture a few months later.

It all seemed innocent enough then, barring a yelly mommy with bad hair and a doh-dee-doh-dee-doh daddy and the tension of bringing so many children out of womb at one time. I no longer had the time or energy or emotional reserve to commit to any of the many television shows I formerly watched. And so there they were every once in a while, Jon and Kate and all their maniacal outings with too many children.

In the past few months, I've paid some attention to their lives off-screen. How could you not? I've oscillated in my sympathies, first rolling at my eyes at the all too familiar cheating husband and then watching in horror at the footage of Kate denying her daughter water while she sipped from a bottle herself. I felt for her, for them, but I was done. I didn't need to watch more.

So I am not sure how or why I ended up tuning in to the BIG ANNOUNCEMENT episode tonight. But I clicked on it and never looked away.

What I saw, what I heard saddened me more deeply than I anticipated. It saddened me because the words they each said -- about choosing to separate, about trying to find happiness, about hoping for friendship, about having absolutely no relatioship left with the person they are married to -- sounded so damn familiar. Except for the bit about striving for friendship (no thanks), it could have been a script out of my own divorce.

I don't feel sorry for Jon because I don't understand how a person can choose such a damaging, unfair, disrespectful way to leave a family, all in the name of finding himself. I do feel for Kate, not as the cringe-worthy mother but as wife on the end of all that other crap, and only because I understand how scary and sad it is to face the end of a love affair and the beginning of being the official primary parent.

Of course, I feel for the kids. Oh, those kids. But that's not what surprised me. It surprised me that I ached in relating to the parents.

Sure, they have cameras and access and money now. One day, the show will be cancelled and the parents will be left with split holidays and kids trying to play Jon against Kate. One day, the kids will be awkward teens and taller and louder than their mother's yelling and overhear the dad complaining about child support or never really completely escaping Kate's control. I mean, unless by luck or the grace of God, something goes differently for that family than too many others.

I am not Kate Gosselin and I am the mother of one child. But I have certainly had my yelly mommy moments, had horrible hair (and skin), acted out and been a bitch out of a need to be right or ahead or in control. That said, I also did my very best to get through my divorce. It wasn't always pretty.And I certainly am glad it wasn't all captured on camera or splashed across magazines. That was (and is) their choice, but divorce doesn't care if you are famous or not. It brings the bullshit no matter who you are or how much money or how many kids you have.

But maybe, they really will find happiness outside of their marriage, the family that was, possibly even the show. I was as full of pain and anger and fear that I imagine Kate is right now, and I have found more happiness than I ever dreamed. Than I ever dreamed when I first filed for divorce, and even long before I realized my marriage was over.

Not all divorcing or divorced people are the same. This I know. But I can't deny the similarities that I saw and heard tonight. I can't watch Jon & Kate anymore, but I also can't pretend that there's not some reality behind that reality TV.

Postcards from the Past: The end of the school year last year

This is Lil E's last day of co-op, last year. I'd been in court and so there was no farewell post. There was, however, a recital and program the night before. He stood on stage, singing his heart out. I clapped loudly from the awkward position in the church pews between his dad and my own parents.

I waited to tell Lil E that he would not be going back, in part to give some space to all the transitions we'd already made that year and even that month. I was also nervous myself, maybe even a little guilty that he would be going from two half-days of preschool a week to a full-time academic program.

You can tell a lot about that time by the boxes stacked up behind my boy. We'd been living in our place for about a month and I was overrun by baby clothes, wedding china, and all of the bare necessities we had with us while living with my parents the previous seven months.

One more change, I remember running through my head. Can we do one more change? We can do one more change.

Of course, we could do one more change. In fact, that one change, going from co-op to his current preschool, is one of the primary reasons this child has flourished this year.

There was a surprise, he cried, and then it was all OK

Last night at t-ball, Lil E soared. We talked about where he could hit the ball to avoid the cluster of 3-6-year olds where the pitcher's mound would normally be, and he bulleted the ball right through that empty spot on the field. And because it was cold and many of the kids on his team left early, he fielded ball after ball, running hard and pinning his glove over it protectively until we yelled from the sidelines to throw it to first.

The kid was blissed out on t-ball.

His dad came to watch and he was thrilled. It was a make-up game andhis right privilege to watch Lil E play, but not normally a day when they see each other.

"What a surprise!" I smiled sharply, pointing toward his dad as he walked across the field toward our boy.

My parents cheered as Lil E confidently ran from base to base. He was supported. He was strident.

My son in the oversized team t-shirt draped on top of a jacket and long underwear top, was happy.

Until it came time to leave. Normally, game days fall on the nights Lil E spends with his dad. We have kisses and high-fives after the last inning, and I hand off the small child and his overnight bag brimming with Legos and stuffed animal babies and action figures. Last night, he said goodnight to his dad and we went home. It confused him, it upset him.

My son with dirt and a junior-sized baseball glove covering half his face, was confused.

He turned suddenly silent, asking why his dad didn't take him for the night, then yelling that I was lying about what day it was after I explained the (happy?) surprise of the situation. Once home, he collapsed on my lap, crying into my shoulder while the bath ran in the next room.

It all ended OK. We snuggled in his bed and were both enthralled by a new book on grasshoppers he brought home from school. We giggled and he gave me more kisses and tight hugs than usual before he fell asleep. I drifted off next to him after singing our standard ni-ni songs and woke up to feel his legs running like crazy his sleep.

Earlier, he was processing what are the real and daily and inevitable logistics for a child living in two homes. Most days, he rolls with that situation pretty well. And some nights, just like last night, surprises (even happy ones) throw the whole game off.

It was just a moment in time, and this morning, it was all better. Tomorrow, it's game time again. And then, he will go home with his dad, just another sign that our structure, our schedule has been righted once more.

Life, particularly this life, is not predictable. There's a pain that surfaces for him sometimes that I cannot make go away (I know this) but I can soothe (or do my best, at least). Until we are all a lot better at this (and you've all assured me that does come...eventually), I'm going to keep cheering him on as he runs and slides and dives into new things. But I'm also going to be enveloping him protectively, tightly. Just like his glove sheltering the ball from everything and everybody else on the field.

And instead of yesterday's craziness, let us focus on this

A few precious moments of sunshine. The windows down, the sunroof open. Music playing too loudly. A spring skirt that has not been worn yet this year. A glare off the windshield that requires sunglasses and windblown hair that insists you use them later to keep it all tucked back.

The small child singing his own lyrics in the back seat. A calmed pulse. Prayers set to indie pop. Lavender growing wildly in the medians. Enough traffic to hear the entirety of the song that says, for some reason that is unnecessary to explore, "Summer is coming. It will all be OK."

Do you still believe the things your ex says about you?

I've heard stories about amicable divorces. They are surely out there. Right? Can anyone verify that people really do separate on good terms?  Are there any first-hand accounts available of what it is like to interact peaceably with the other parent or former partner? If there are, I think I need a nice, long sit-down over a pot of tea to understand the mechanics of that kind of relationship.

It's no surprise I don't have that. The peace I have has come from within, and I am grateful for that. I have worked and do work hard to get to that silent, still place in myself and in my life that is not cluttered by the noise of someone else screaming, of legal issues and complicated schedules.

And no matter what I write here or say to my parents or seethe over in my mind, I work very hard to have a workable relationship with The Ex. Sometimes, it goes better than I predict, thank goodness. Many times, it is tough but manageable. Other times, it is just awful.

Today was one of those days. A complete breakdown of communication into yelling and dredging up old stuff other ugly interactions that I am ashamed to admit. In defense of myself (and if I don't do that, who will?), I gave it my all. I tried so hard to just talk. I called back a second time, calmer, asking to negotiate, trying to reason. Sadly, none of that could be heard through the name-calling and accusations. It was as raw as it was early in our divorce process.

To be fair (and really, none of this is truly fair), I yelled back. I took the bait. I engaged even when I know, I know it is better not to engage. I tried to hard to let (my) logic win and I talked too much. I felt I was being fair, but I also know that too often I am not.

And in the end, I will not win this one (and no, when it comes to divorce, especially with kids, there is never winning). I will concede because otherwise the conflict will impact Lil E and I cannot have that. I am backing down.

Here I sit, hours and hours after the hour I spent on the phone with The Ex, and I am still sad, exhausted, overwhelmed by the idea it will always be like this (I know, it won't always be like this). The thing that feels the worst to me is being told how I am, who I am, and why I do the things I do (at least according to the other person on the end of the cell phone).

When I told this to my parents (as I tell all of these things), my mother asked me a hard but important question, "Why is it that you still believe the things he says about you?"

In my head, I don't. I know myself, better now than I did when I was married. But my heart sobs every time I'm told all of those awful things.

My marriage, until the end, was not like that. But my divorce is full of those hateful moments. I guess if I wasn't internalizing all those words, I wouldn't take it so much. I don't need anyone's "awww" for that. I am more upset that I let his anger inside the door of my home. Again.

Next time, I will end the conversation. Or hang up. Or follow through on my already-outlined list of exit strategies.

But I have a bigger task that clicking "end call." The opposite of love, my mother often reminds me, is apathy. Isn't that the damn truth? Truly, I was over the love immediately, and for most aspects of The Ex's life, I am completely un-invested. But I think today I got that I have been settled in the hate for so long, and now it is time to move into an apathetic place. Why is it so hard to get over so much other stuff but this, what the other person thinks of us, lasts so much longer than the loving feelings?

I have a lot yet to unravel. I have a lot to un-believe about the woman who messes up, yells, is miles away from perfect, but is doing her best in this single mama life a great deal of the time.

Even if none of you are blessed with an amicable ex-relationship, perhaps there are those of you who have been through the un-believing process yourselves. Please, share, share.

And if you, like me, are still caught in the chaos, do you continue to take your ex's beliefs to heart?

Also:

• Are you wearing your divorce?
• One small and significant reminder of new beginnings
• Holy oh hell, I am happy

Tonight at the dinner table, we talked about Prop 8

There were only a few minutes at a time today that I wasn't thinking about the same-sex marriage ban upheld by the California Supreme Court today. How could I not? Twitter and Facebook updates were explosive in response and I felt emotional all day to see how vigilant we must be to ensure that all people have the fundamental right to marry.

Then I wrote about it, knowing I would get the all-caps responses that I indeed got (and am getting). And wanting, in spite of the hate or ignorance or just ill-informedness or shelteredness that might be revealed in comments section, for the conversation to be opened.

After I picked up Lil E, we went over the details of other things present in our day -- how he ran to the sink to wash his hands in the bathroom, slipped, knocked his head pretty hard on the floor and had a goose-egg still swollen on his noggin;how the Spanish teacher wasn't there but really was there but by the time they realized she really was there, it was too late, and so they played on playground instead of having class today; how we would not be eating pizza on the floor in a picnic and would actually have to talk at the table together.

We did talk at the table. We shared our usual Four Things About My Day and the favorite parts of our day. He asks, as he usually does, what I'd been blogging about, and in the most age-appropriate language I could find, I told him.

We've discussed this all before. This time, I gave him the context of the November elections and the California Supreme Court review of the proposition. Then I asked him what he thought. I grew up having a valid voice over such issues at the kitchen table, and he has that, too. Even at four. Especially at four.

He listened. He made a pouty face. He shook his head. His eyebrows framed a wrinkled nose.

"What do you think?" I asked. [The whole convo after the jump.]

What do you suppose this means?

These four books arrived in the mail for me today. In one box. From one publisher. Unsolicited.

What do you think the universe is trying to tell me? What? WHAT?

And then there was the big, bedazzled divorceabration

There was a lot to celebrate, well beyond the binder full of paper signed off by a stern judge in January and followed by the paragraph of auctioneer-paced legal jargon and ended with, "The marital union is dissolved. Ms. Ashley, good luck."

It took a moment for the words to sink in. It has taken years for the divorce to take place. It has taken a lifetime to get here. What my mom had in mind when she planned this event all came from a silly conversation we had somewhere in all of the muck and the mire. We needed to laugh and so we started talking about all of the sassy, evil, fun, raw, overdone ways we could get together a bunch women to be happy that I was free of everything that made me (and us) cry, rant, unable to sleep or eat for months, lash out, and eventually leave for good.

Maybe a dance-around bonfire to burn the bouquet? Possibly a dinner party to finally crack open the wedding china? A swanky something? A silly soiree? Whatever it was, it was going to be packed full of grrrl power.

It was a good plan, it was the same reason we were laughing so hard when the pain was the greatest. It would be something to look forward to, it would be a break from the binder, it would be a reminder that life would (eventually) go on. That there would be happy dancing somewhere in the great beyond.

 

The only thing I knew for sure was that I'd be wearing my wedding tiara. Mostly as a sparkly "Goodbye, lovahhh, you so pretty and shiny on my head."

We didn't know how fucking long it would take to arrive in that great beyond, but last Friday, it finally arrived. (It hasn't actually taken me this long to recover...I'm just lazy.) If this all sounds a bit too lovely, do know that the name of the whole shebang was nothing but. 

It started with buttons labeled Vamp, Feisty, Lucky and other great tags. My mom said everyone could pick their own. Except me. Since there wasn't Shoe Whore, I was Too Hot. (Thanks, Mama)

 

Yes, my mother insisted we serve this appetizer she enjoyed calling "Cut Your Own Sausage."

Thanks my friend Viola who I met in drama club in high school (go The Crucible senior play!), we called our night of spa-liciousness and drinks...

...wait for it...

[it's after the jump, swearsy]

Before the divorceabration, there was all of this

This weekend, there was a big party that marked a fresh start for me. But before we get into all of that, I thought I would once (and this is it, and this time I mean it) provide some context. Here's the rundown:

In April 1972, I was born. Stop calculating. I'm on the downslope of my 30s.

At some point in 1975, I had my first big crush. His name was Antoine. We called him Twany. His killer afro has a role in many of my preschool memories.

In the fall of 1977, I sat on the circle painted on the floor in my kindergarten class next the boy I assured I would be the stewardess on the plane he was determined to pilot. It's all good -- I was wearing a hot pink Ms. magazine t-shirt.

During the school year of 1983, I went to a sock hop at school. With a boy as my sort of date. We were so nervous, we never did dance together.

In April 1986, I had my first real kiss. He had braces. It was thrilling and sloppy.

In October 1986, I went on my first real date. The boy was 6 good inches shorter than me. Really.

In April 1987, I went on my first date with an older boy. A senior. He spent all of his money on a cab getting to my house since my parents insisted on meeting him before we went out. My dad drove us to Water Tower Place to see a movie and I paid (he should have taken the train) and when I dropped popcorn on my itty bitties, he grabbed it and ate it and laughed. Later he kissed me (much better without braces) and asked me to prom. The prom thing never materialized. I went home both thrilled and mortified.

In November 1988, I went to an all-ages show and met the boy who would become my first real boyfriend. Swoon. I was in love. Big time. I laughed, I sighed, I made mix tapes. It was so good for a moment in time. Until...oh, you know how teen love turns out. [So much more after the jump.]

Countdown to the divorce-abration!

Remember how I mentioned what a lucky grrrl I am? I have not even begun to explain the many blessings that are a part of my every day. Yes, I am including my parents.

God love them for turning the TV volume up to 47 and getting a little nervous about which space to pull into in a ginormous, empty parking lot, they have supported us through my divorce in many more ways than I could ever completely list. My dad went to every single court date and attorney meeting with me and has pulled out the DSM IV to really dig into our own psychological diagnoses. My mom has spent countless hours debating with me about what I should do with my wedding dress, whether I should respond to upsetting text messages, and how in the world I am going to channel a Heidi Klum-Seal vibe into my next marriage. They've lent me a car for a year. A year, friends. When it was all finally finally FINALLY final, we went out for ribs and champagne toasts. The waitress thought we were crazy. We felt giddy.

Now, we are taking our celebration up a notch. My parents are generously throwing me a divorce party this weekend, partly to help me gather together some of my favorite ladies to cheers to the new life and partly because I am finally bucking up and buying their damn car.

The party will be for ladies only, which caused my dad to only look up once over his crossword puzzle and say how disappointed he was not to get a mani-pedi at the nail bar my mom booked (cue the goatee-framed smirk). The idea was all my mom's and it will have her stamp on it -- pretty, patterned paper plates and a guest list of very sassy women.

We will be getting our nails done, sipping more champagne and delighting in my divorce. I have no idea where the night will lead, but I know it's going to be fabulous. And I will definitely be wearing my wedding tiara, feed myself (cup)cakes (none of that frosting smearing bullshit this time around either), and have a raucous little reception with my grrrls.

Who knows? It might even inspire me to crack open the never-been-used china and crystal and have a divorce dinner party next.

Chime in: Any ideas for the divorce-abration?

Dating is hard, y'all

It's not something I discuss here often because I'm still turning over in my head and heart how to merge dating and motherhood. It's difficult to figure out how to write about both of those parts of my life here, and it's even harder negotiating the two in real life.

Plus, I've come to be very good at compartmentalizing. When my son is with his father, that time is mine alone. When my son is in my care, that time goes first to him. I defined these parts of my life with pretty strict boundaries. For a long time, I didn't let any man into my home at all. And in the last few months, I've realized, I didn't really let them fully into my heart either.

But I did what I could. I gave what I could. I was who I could be to the men I've chosen to go out with in the time I've been dating. I offered up as much as I had in the moment to the many men I've been out with -- sometimes that has been too much information and sometimes that has been too little emotional investment.

Yes, I said many men.

Are you wearing your divorce?

Good news! Not only does divorce show up in a big, fat fucking bill for attorney's fees, it also shows up on your face. Hooray! I just love that once I took off the wedding rings, I added two years to my face.

Make that -- added two years to my smiling face.

I am not willing to disclose sure that my divorce has resulted in wrinkles, but I do know that I never expected my settlement to include such stress skin. I do not love talking about this stuff but since my laser guy told me that I wore too much make-up (remember the guy with the wild ear hairs? yeah, him with the cosmetics advice), it has really been...well, out there.

I've been trying to balance out the loveliness I got with the television and wedding china by changing make-up completely, by not applying the new make-up with a sander and spackling paste, going back to my Ayurvedic oils and essences, drinking more water and sleeping absolutely as few hours as possible. The lack of rest isn't doing much, but the other stuff seems...OK.

And so it seems time to get serious. Thank goodness a new friend, one of the preschool moms who I now lovingly call The Raunchy Mommies, now works at a med spa in the 'burbs. Her skin, which is all glowy perfection, is the best commercial ever for facial overhaul.

So to celebrate my birthday (Saturday, yeah!), I've made an appointment next week at her med spa for a microdermabrasion and peel combo. Two years ago -- before my divorce and apparently the two extra years that study says I get for keeps -- I never would have thought I'd be so excited to shoot little crystals into my pores and then burn off the top layer of my skin. But I am. I really am.

I may not leave my home for days* (sorry, Carrie Bradshaw, you will have to go it alone at your book launch party!), but I'm determined to keep my soon-to-be perfect chin up and face the next year (or would that be 1.8?) with a face that has nothing to do with you-know-who.

Get ready, friends! Pretty soon, I am going to scorch those years off of my forehead and all that will remain is one hot divorcee.  If we meet, just promise you'll pretend it's a sunburn from hours and hours of single life fabulousness and frolicking.

In the meantime, I've told Lil E that I am turning 22 and that his father is much, much older. And you know what? If that's how this divorce skin thing really works, if you hurl it at each other with karmic delight, then maybe he is looking that way (too).

* I've been assured I won't be relegated to my home, but will need loads of sunscreen and should try not to wash my face for 24-48 hours. That, incidentally, means I will not be leaving my home.