sueeeus

...one of the last of the innocents and she keeps fooling herself...

I’m learning.  At a glacial pace.  Or even a plate tectonics pace.

It’s beginning to dawn on me that my body and heart and soul are all speaking to me at times, and that I should listen.  They may actually know what they’re saying.

When I recall all the nights I would cry myself to sleep, curled up in fetal position, in complete and utter anguish, I should have listened.  Instead, I assumed I was somehow at fault, that I really was that insecure, or that my hormones were to blame.  I have pages and pages of blog posts and journal entries to that effect.  Pages and pages which constitute hours upon hours of rationalization.  It’s not you it’s me.  Guess what?  It was you.  It was me too.  I should have given myself credit and honored my body, heart and soul, instead of allowing myself to be duped by my head.  What my head couldn’t see, everything else about me could.

I wasn’t then and am not now an overindulgent mother who lets her kids walk all over her.  Yes, I have a particular parenting style that is gentle, but also strict.  I believe that discipline can be accomplished without a  heavy hand.

I wasn’t then and am not now insecure and needy.  I’ve always been open and loving.  Not grasping, in order to receive or validate my existence, but simply giving. I give my all, with innocence, pure, simple,  open and complete.  If it’s met with scorn, ambivalence, or rejection, of course I wince.  How can I not, when all I’m doing is pouring out love?

Yes, I am definitely ultra sensitive.  Absolutely and most definitely.  Positively and completely.

I should do a better job of giving myself the benefit of the doubt.  At least I recognize that now.  I hope I can pay better attention from here on out.  I probably won’t, but I can at least make an attempt to try now and then.  Or at least recognize it more quickly in retrospect.

Eventually…

I’ve been on vacation all week, and it’s been fantastic.  I’ve shaken and sobbed for joy to see a long lost brother, and then again to see another brother’s first, last and only baby — a girl who looks so much like him that I can’t help but gaze in wonder and awe.  I’ve been to two states beyond my own, driven hundreds of miles, experienced sunsets, moonrise, glorious days, wildlife, wildflowers, forests, trails, beaches, lake swimming, campfires, and a thunder storm.  I drank one shot of smooth smooth whiskey and had one breath of something illegal and one breath of something legal.  I’ve played softball with the kids.  I’ve had endless cups of incredible coffee and tea.  I’ve washed mountains of dishes and mountains of laundry.  I’ve seen my children exhilarated, covered in dirt from head to toe.  I’ve read a book (Little Bee, very good).  I’ve napped.  I’ve painted.  I’ve worn shorts – the kind that show my legs.  I’ve stayed up until 3 a.m. juggling conversations with a handful of men.

It’s been a very happy week!

I’m not sure about this dating business.  I’m crap at it.  I’m great at having conversations with people, and we have fun, but I’m at a bit of a loss when it comes to sorting out whether or not there’s a connection, how much of a connection there is, how to part kindly, and also how not to be offended if the man ambles off after making contact and saying he’d like to get to know me better.  Blue collar men, white collar men, older men, younger men.  I saw one man a few times over the course of a few weeks, and thought he had potential, but have since rethought that thought.  He’s an executive and has his act together, but is a bit serious or maybe controlling or possibly both.  I told him I wouldn’t see others while I was getting to know him, out of respect for the getting to know him phase, but I think I’ve gotten to know him enough to know there’s no long term magic.  And I’m conversing with others and planning to meet one or more soon.  So I’ll have to tell him.  I don’t like that part.  There’s another man who I conversed with a bit before I got together with Skills, and he’s resurfaced which I find interesting.  It’s almost like running into an old acquaintance or a long lost friend.  He’s an Irishman, and I’m a total sucker for an Irishman.  I need to be a bit vigilant there!

Sigh.  I’m learning that people are people, and the men seem to think there’s more of a connection than I do.  How does one smile and say, “Honey, you’re a fine man, and I hope you meet a fine woman, but I don’t think we’re a good fit.”  I can say that.  And I can get along with almost anybody.  But I don’t want to force any issues.  I want it to be easy, and I want to feel magic, not just, I’m nice, you’re nice, let’s try this out.

I think that I want all or nothing.  And that’s a tall order to fill.  At least the all part.  Nothing is easy as pie.

stones

I scheduled a donation truck and left a mountain of things, the remainder of unwanted accumulations from the Gadget years, in front of the garage in the hopes that it would be gone when I returned home.  And so it was!  I can’t even say how delighted I felt, to pull up to my house and see no trace of the mountain.

Finally, my home, all of it, is mine again.  It’s a good feeling.

Closure.

steps

Last night, after a short message transaction, Skills de-friended me on FaceBook.  Apparently keeping the friendship channels open isn’t going to work for him.  I guess it’s understandable.  Regrouping is difficult after being entwined with someone, and it was a lot for me to hope that we could go on with the warmth of friendship.  So he cut all ties.  I wish him the best.

More closure.

It’s okay.

light

And it’s interesting, in the scheme of things, how events transpire.  As though the universe planned it all along.  This day.  This was the prescribed day for closure to happen.

In one sense, closure brings with it a deep sense of decompression, but it’s accompanied with a marked physical reaction.  There is an exhaustion that pulls at my very bones, and I feel as though my body is giving in and collapsing, finally, under the compounded stresses of the past year.  And I think it’s okay.  I think it’s a release that I need to go through.  A cleansing to wash these poisons out of me.  Hopefully forever.

So I’m sipping my echinacea, vitamin C and zinc concoction, bundled up in my jammies and robe, and getting ready to curl up as tight as I can in the safe haven of my pristine new bed, and let what will be, be.

sunset

I am certain the sun will shine brightly, come the dawn, and I will have a deeper sense of peace to anchor me.

if a picture paints a thousand words

It’s not you, it’s me.  It’s not me, it’s you.  It’s me.  It’s you.  It’s me.  Me, me, me.  Me.

Why did we fail, he wants to know.

Maybe I should go back to Gadget, he suggests.

WTH!

It’s troubling, he says, to see how I used Gadget (to get my babies), and how I used him (as a rebound).  As if it were premeditated.  Sigh.  Oh, how I sigh.  Of course I can say in retrospect that I had an agenda when I married, and that was to have children.  I still went into the relationship with full hope of a bright and fulfilling future.  And I tried to make it work.  Lord, I tried.  But I couldn’t do it, and I sure as hell couldn’t do it alone, so I had to end it.  Likewise, I went headlong into our whirlwind with full hope of a bright and fulfilling future.  I premeditated nothing.  I had no designs.  No agendas.  I just wanted to love and be loved.  To understand and be understood.  I effervesced and thrilled in the beauty of the universe that opened up to me, to us.

The drama began to infiltrate.  I couldn’t make heads or tails of things and blamed it on hormones.  The writing on the wall was there from early on.  If not fully evident, it was written between the lines.

We don’t fit.  For many reasons.  But there was a moment where we did, and that moment was treasure for me.

Am I a user?

If that is how it played out, then that is how it is.

Premeditated?  No.  But guilty, as charged.

It is done.

I am officially single.

Not sure how I feel.  I don’t think it’s completely sunk in yet.

I’ve asked BB about his visits with his dad.  What is Daddy’s room like?  Where does Daddy sleep?  According to BB, it appears that his daddy is living with another woman, as in, not just sharing a house.  According to his dad, he is sharing the house with a family consisting of a husband, a wife, and a 5 year old boy.  BB says that the boy’s daddy doesn’t live there and he has a different place.  Oh, I just don’t know.  And do I care?  Not so much, really.  I just wish I could get a straight and honest answer.  And if it is true that he found someone to shack up with already, he could have at least had the courtesy to wait until we were actually divorced.  Which we are, now.

However.  Today I learned that Gadget never did go to the court-required parenting seminar.  I scheduled it for him originally, then rescheduled when he didn’t go, then forwarded him the information to show him the importance of completing a court-requirement (as in possible fines, contempt of court, blah blah blah), to which he rescheduled, then didn’t go, then rescheduled again, and then, apparently, blew off.  At least the court still let the divorce be finalized.  It’s his problem, if there are any repercussions.

The other thing that bothers me is that he suggested the kids spend the night next weekend.  I will have to say a resounding NO.  The parenting plan calls for every other Saturday, with no sleep overs.  And he’s supposed to provide his address and contact information at all times, yet, he won’t give me his address.  I’ll not allow the kids to stay over night when I don’t even know where they are, and where they will be sleeping.  What if there were an emergency?  If he wanted a different plan, he had a chance to work it out with me, but he didn’t.  And so far, it seems that he doesn’t make sure they’re properly fed, when he does have them, or that they’re properly napped.  I might let them stay the night, eventually, but I need to see where they will be staying, first, and I need to be confident that he will be vigilant with them and attentive to their needs.  His track record, per my own observation, is less than inspiring.  It’s the main reason for the parenting plan as it stands.

Besides that, I need to know that his guns are safely locked away.  And how can I ever be sure of that?  Good Lord, there is a pistol upstairs at this very instant, which I am not at all happy with, but I don’t want to touch it.  It’s high atop a shelf, out of sight, and I only found it because I was on tip toes and feeling over the lip of the shelf top, looking for a remote control.  I’m confident that BB won’t be climbing those shelves and will never discover it, and I will insist that it be removed as soon as Gadget sets foot here again.  I accidentally found a gun in one of his desk cubbies before that, and was LIVID.  If I could stumble upon something, so could BB.   One time, before BB was born (I think, I hope), I sat down in Gadget’s chair and a gun tumbled out.  I was HORRIFIED.  And put my foot down immediately that ALL guns be locked up.  I didn’t want ANY in the house at all.  Oh, gosh, I’m getting all worked up now, but suffice it to say that clearly he didn’t respect my wishes, since I’ve discovered loose guns not once, but twice in recent history.  That man cannot seem to grasp the meaning of RISK, in life situations.  He just says “it didn’t happen” and somehow extends that to equate to “‘it never will”.  This goes for his behavior behind the wheel, too.

So.  I will tell him that the kids can’t go visit him until he gives me his address, and they absolutely can’t stay the night until I know that his home is safe.  And how will I ever be able to know that?

I should have stopped at ‘It is done’.  Now I’m fraught.

…a new beginning

…a fresh start

…an open book

…exquisite moments ready to burst into being

Hello 2010.  I am ready for you.

It’s not just the end of a year, but the end of a decade.

A decade!

Many momentous happenings.

• The birth of a nephew, and with it, an epiphany that changed my life;  saved my life, even
• The death of a brother
• The birth, life, and death of a marriage; my marriage
• The realization of motherhood; the birth of my two sons
• First teeth, first words, first steps
• Travels in far off places — Italy!  France!  Australia!
• New friends in faraway places; friends in the blogosphere
• Professional growth
• A new car
• A home of my own
• The end of my parents’ marriage
• New love and marriage for my mother
• The beginning and end of a marriage for my brother
• A new nephew; the realized dream of motherhood for my sister
• Two other brothers married
• A new niece on the way; the realized dream of fatherhood for my brother

Much love, sorrow, and joy, these past ten years, but overall, much, much joy.

Adieu, 2009.

Adieu.

For as long as I can remember, I haven’t considered myself a career-person.  The word itself put a sour taste in my mouth.  I’ve let it be known that the work I’ve done has been just that.  Work.  A job.  But not a career.  I’m not sure what I thought the word career implied.  Maybe to call my line of work a career is in some way to call myself some sort of conformist.  One of them.  I don’t know.  It all seems a bit silly now.

I never wanted to define myself by the work I do.  Had I found a line of work that I’d have considered worth defining me, well, then perhaps I’d have called that a career.  But that line of work hasn’t materialized (yet).  And now, here I am, forty three, about to have my second child.  It’s been twenty two years since I graduated from university and entered the engineering work force.  Twenty two years.

Although I’ve always just called it a job, of course I’ve done my best and given it my all.  And now that I’m over forty and have a family, suddenly my perspective is somewhat different, and I’m almost willing to accede that I am, in fact, a career woman.  I’ve grown up in this company.  I’ve spent the better part of my life here.  The people are like family in many ways.  We’ve lived our lives here together, day in and day out.  We’ve been there for marriages, divorces, children, graduations, retirements, tragedies, victories, sorrows and joys.  There is history there.  Upswings, downturns.

Where I used to be arrogant and considered that the company was lucky that I chose to grace it with my presence, now I am grateful that I’ve had the opportunity to live my life in the presence of some very fine people and partake in some interesting and rewarding work.  The company has afforded me the roof over my head and the clothes on my back.  I’ve been blessed to have decent health benefits and good working conditions.  There have been some troubled times along the way in which I worked with difficult people in a difficult organization, but even so, the rough spots opened doors to brighter pastures.  It’s all been worth it.  I have a great position now.  I’m settled.  I get to do a variety of things, and I’ve made it to a good place.  I’m respected among my peers and by my management.  There’s no glass ceiling here.  I am very content.  I think I’ve made it.

Until I became a mother, I never imagined I’d want to stay with this company until I retire.  But now that I’m a mother, with the responsibility of raising and nurturing two boys to (God-willing and hopefully) grow into fine upstanding men, the prospect of working until I’m fifty five is no longer unthinkable.  What is another twelve years in the scheme of things?  Or more than twelve years, even.  These boys won’t even be through high school in another twelve years.  I can easily imagine working through their high school graduations, and perhaps even beyond.

I’ve given this company my life, and this company has given me my life.

Twenty two years today.

Happy Anniversary.

I have had a huge collection of boxes that I’ve carted along with me, through the years. Every letter, ever card, every ticket stub, every theatre programme. I’ve been working my way through, and whittling my life down. My life in boxes. Pretty boxes.

It’s not that I love anyone any less, but I’ve decided to keep only those things that are most historically important to me. Because the boxes, they are a burden. A cluttered weight upon my soul. I’ve saved my journal writings and all the sappy poems that I’m embarrassed to have written. I didn’t save all the copies of letters I’d written to siblings. After (re)reading them, I (re)discovered, to my horror, that I am/was a bossy sister, meddling in their affairs and trying to tell them what to do. Well, I was earnest. I wanted the best for them. I didn’t want them dropping out of junior high school, in one case, or racking up debt without holding responsibly to a job, in another case. In my defense, I was trying to parent where parenting was lacking. I hope they forgive me. I meant well. To my (further) horror, I (re)discovered that I was a zealot for far too many years. My life as a zealot. Granted, those were the years in which I was most attuned to myself and least subject to depression and melancholy, riding the wave of self-conviction. How I wish I had found the happy medium in which I held fast to that level of self-esteem and assurance, while honoring the delicacy of the human spiritual walk. I hope the recipients of that young zeal forgive me. (And it’s not that any beliefs I hold have changed, but the level to which I share or discuss them has.)

And now, with my life reduced to the contents of these boxes, I aim to rediscover something of myself. What were my hopes and dreams in the innocence of my youth? Can I find my way back to the place called happy, if ever the place existed?

I’ve had a box of course work that I’ve toted about for the last twenty some years. I don’t remember why I saved it for so long, other than a vague notion that I’d refer to it once in a while and refresh my memory of lessons learned. As if I would need to know how to do a Laplace transform. Or remember Thevenin’s equivalent. Or differential equations. I have used the equations I learned in economics for calculating amortizations and present and future values, before the advent of the www with its plethora of readily available calculators, but now there’s no need to remember how to calculate them by hand. It does astonish me, somewhat, to imagine that those squiggly scratches made some kind of sense at one time. Oh the things we can do when we’re young!

I bought this pencil in 1982 or 1983. I put much consideration into the quest for the perfect pencil, and it was a splurge, at $8, for a student on the brink of poverty. It continues to serve me well, and it reminds me of my youth. In retrospect, money well spent.

College for me was drudgery. I didn’t enjoy engineering school. I wanted a decent paying job at the completion of my degree, so it was merely a means to an end. I couldn’t imagine spending so much time and money on an education that wouldn’t serve me. That was back when I naively thought that the road to financial stability was the road to happiness. How often I’ve looked back and regretted not investing more in my heart. How different my life would be now.

All the same, my path is my path, and here I am. Learning to revere the journey. Learning to revere the day. This day. This moment. Now.

Had I not followed that path, where would I be? I can’t imagine a life without my beloved boy, so all steps that led me here were necessary steps in the journey.

So I wouldn’t change a thing.

And look at me now.  Mother of a superhero.  Can it be any better than that?