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Happy and Miserable (:(

28 Sep

This is me raising my head for a minute from the total mess my life is in to break the 5 week silence and say something.

At first I wasn’t writing because I wasn’t really sure how I could possibly say, here, to you, that BD and me were trying again, and that I was miserable again. I mean, really. It’s getting old. And embarrasing.

By the time I decided to write about it, my life had become such a crazy mess of back-to-school drama, that I really didn’t have time to put down even one word. Then the Boy was sick, and then I went to a friend’s romantic destination wedding with BD and had that to deal with, and then my car got hit by bus and needed fixing and then I was sick, and in between I was working on a presentation to the school board and to make a long story short, well, here I am. Happy and miserable all at the same time.

Here’s a game my Boy and I have started playing recently. It’s called the Thank You Game. I love doing this with him. We each in turn have to say something we’re thankful for. I’ll say: I’m thankful to have such a delicious dinner on my plate. He’ll squeal happily: Mmmmm! Delicious! And add: I’m thankful for my choo choo train. And I’ll say: I’m thankful for our friendly neighbors. It’s so nice to have good neighbors. And he’ll say: I’m thankful for the cats! Meaning the ones that run around in the yard, that he greets with an excited “Hello cat! How are you?” every afternoon when we come home from daycare. He must be the sweetest almost two-and-a-half year old on the planet. I’m so lucky to have him in my life.

So I’m happy. Despite the exhaustion, I do like my hectic life and the feeling that everything is constantly moving. But I’m also miserable. Because, well, you know. I’m not going to get into it again.

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Movie Moments

1 Jan

spatula

New Year’s day, and here I am. Still uncertain, still shaky, still on hold. What the hell am I doing? I know what I have to do, it’s just that I haven’t been feeling very courageous lately.

A year ago I was beginning to get a grip on things. Everything fell apart in October 2012. But in January 2013 I was beginning to put the pieces of my life back together. Slowly, one piece at a time, I learned that my life was a puzzle that could be put together in more ways than one. I waited for three months for BD to turn around. And then came the SCREW IT stage, no pun intended, well, maybe semi-intended. I discovered that life was magic. I was astounded by the revelation that I could live my life any way I wanted to, that I was free to do whatever I wanted.

Life is magic. People watch movies and read books and hear stories, and they say: things like this never happen in real life. Bullshit. Everything happens in real life, if you let it. Movie moments are all around us, waiting to be discovered by the power of one bold move, a small act of bravery.

Dinner today. Scrambled eggs. Tomato. Cucumber. Olives (Baby loves olives!) A spoon. And then BAM, Baby leans over and grabs a giant yellow spatula with a smiley face on it from the kitchen counter. Now he’s using it as a giant spoon, picking bits of tomato with it and stuffing them into his mouth, laughing his head off. Too young to have reservations. So open minded, that he would never ask if it was appropriate. Who the hell cares? It makes him happy.

It’s harder for us. We’re so aware, so worrisome. It’s harder for me. So uncertain, so afraid of making a mistake. So afraid to be brave that I prefer this impossible status quo. I prefer to let life guide me and spoon-feed tasteless mashed carrots. Instead, I should just grab me a giant yellow smiley-faced spatula, pull life by its reigns and fill it with movie moments and passion and happiness and me.

That Girl

2 Dec

disclaimer

I’ve been reluctant to post about this, because I’ve been reluctant to admit it, but – we’re in therapy again. BD and I, trying to work things out, with the hopes of reuniting and giving our little boy the family we want so much for him to have.

I haven’t really talked much about it, I let almost everyone around me just assume that we’re separated, and on the way to a divorce (I bet they’re wondering what’s taking us so long). The few friends I have told, received the news followed by giant all-caps disclaimers: IT PROBABLY WON’T WORK OUT. NO POINT OF GETTING MY HOPES UP. WE MIGHT AS WELL GIVE IT A TRY, BUT, YOU KNOW, I DON’T REALLY THINK IT’S GOING ANYWHERE.

We have a good therapist. She’s practical and gets to the point quickly, which is good. And things are going well, I guess. We’re discussing moving in together for a trial period in a month or so. If this works out, it’ll be great. I mean, just think of the convenience: First off, having a live-in partner helping me raise my boy, and having that live-in incidentally be his father! There’s the little things – taking out the trash without worrying about leaving Baby at home. Going to the bathroom and, drumroll… Closing the door! Having someone to eat dinner with and spoon with at night. And then, there’s being able to have sex whenever I want, without it becoming a huge project. Only for that to become a consideration, we need to actually have sex, which we’re not, at all. God I miss sex. Sex is the best.

So now I have some down time, since the holidays have provided a short break from work, and BD went on yet another one of his business trips. Time to myself and I have no idea what to do with it. I’ve become so used to working nonstop, I kind of want to work though my vacation, and I can – it’s not that I don’t have stuff to do, I just don’t think that would be smart. I really need a time out.

After taking Baby to daycare this morning I went running, which always makes me feel powerful and sexy and I haven’t done it in a really long time. My running music is horribly outdated, but I haven’t listened to it so long that even Thrift Shop didn’t get on my nerves. When I came back home, feeling energized, I took a nice long shower and was suddenly overwhelmed with memories, little fragments of a winter day, almost a year ago, January 22nd, the day that marks my biographical birthday, the day New Me was born. As the water rushed over my hair, my face, my body, I felt a tingle in my toes as I caught a glimpse of a head of auburn curls, enormous brown eyes and strong arms that used to crush me to pieces and make me feel alive.

But it wasn’t SG I was remembering, it was me. Beautiful, sexy, strong, energetic, creative, vibrant, healthy, happy me. The girl who somehow survived the flood; the girl who camped out on the beach, sipping Breezers all day and returned home with her hair full of sand, and didn’t feel guilty for a minute for leaving her 7-month-old with his daddy; the girl who kissed a guy she never met at a club when she was 10 kilos heavier with post pregnancy weight, but felt hotter than she could ever feel these days; the girl who painted abstract crap and hung it on her wall shamelessly because it meant something to her, and started a blog and wrote 83 posts, consistently, every day, and then every week, and then every other week, but never stopped; the girl who, while raising a baby on her own managed to change her career around; the girl who fell in love, not only with a beautiful, free-spirited red-head, but with her brand new self.

I can’t go back now, I can’t. How could I ever give her up?

But I have. I am. I look back at that girl and I think I must have dreamt her. Just as I dreamt those enormous brown eyes that looked straight into my soul, and those big pouty lips that whispered “I love you” before they devoured me.

Happy Place

12 Oct

porch swing

In the midst of the chaos and uncertainty that are constantly intertwined with my routine, I pop up for a breath of fresh air every now and again, driving to work on one of those rare morning when I’m not racing against the clock, walking to the supermarket on my morning off, closing my eyes and nodding off on a night when I can still remember my name…

And there I am. A year after my divorce. I’ve moved to a little house with a garden, or a small apartment with a balcony, full of plants, green and pink and flowery. Baby isn’t a baby, he’s a lovely three year old boy, who talks and has opinions, and is growing more and more independent. We live alone, with our dog, Barry, and enjoy a routine of daycare, work, afternoons in our backyard, or at the park with Barry, home cooked meals and bedtime stories followed by cuddles and lights out.

BD and I have stayed in good relations, and he spends time with our boy, and gives me my night off, which I use to go out, get laid, paint, blog and do laundry.

There may be a guy in my life, nothing really serious, just someone to make my heart flutter and kiss me on the nights that I don’t have the Boy.

And with this as a background, there I am in my happy place, sitting on a porch swing, looking into the distance, with a cup of tea in my hand. It’s autumn and the evenings are chilly, so a blanket is wrapped around my shoulders to keep me warm. I’ve just checked on the Boy and he’s sound asleep. And I just sit there, in complete quiet and wonder about how everything that happened, him leaving, me crying, getting back together and breaking up and getting back together and going to therapy, and giving up and trying again, and giving up again, how it all led to this beautiful moment, in which I sit, quietly and peacefully and just feel happy.

A Piece of Advice from the Cheshire Cat

23 Sep

– I was just wondering if you could help me find my way.

– Well that depends on where you want to get to. 

– Oh, it really doesn’t matter, as long as…

– Then it really doesn’t matter which way you go.

cheshire cat

I have no fucking clue where I’m going, it’s difficult to even say where I am, and I certainly don’t know where I want to be.

Two roads are diverging in this yellow wood. One will lead to a reunion, mother, father and son, living together, sharing the same ‘boat’, caught up in a routine of joys and sorrows, pausing to become excited by first words, first days at school, first fights, first loves, first disappointments. Anyone who says I can have that without BD – and I’ve been getting that – is wrong. I can try to create a similar kind of closeness. I can’t have THAT.

The other road leads me to great passion and comfort. Not necessarily with a partner – I’m doing pretty well on my own these days – but maybe, at some point, that too.  This road is reliable. It will never fail me. It’s the road in which I learn to accept the fact that my son and I are a complete unit that lacks nothing. It’s a road that makes me feel empowered, because I do everything on my own and prove to myself that I can. Only, I already know that I can. Everyone in my life knows this too, including BD. So who am I so desperately trying to impress?

I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something, misinterpreting something. Being let down by men, picking myself up and doing it on my own – it’s a nice narrative. It just seems a little too easy. It doesn’t really feel like it’s my story.

Most of my life I’ve been very opinionated, impulsive, stubborn. I don’t feel like these words really describe me anymore. And though I realize that people change, and it’s a good thing, and I know that I’ve been through quite a bit, and my priorities have changed now that I’m a mother, now that I’m separated, now that we’re “working on the relationship” again… Still, I’m not sure I’m liking this new me. I’m not sure I’m ready to give up opinionated, impulsive and stubborn for reasonable, level-headed and accommodating.

Comfort Food and Contemplation

15 Aug

pasta

Pasta with tomatoes and parmesan cheese at midnight. Healthy.

Staying up to blog rather than get some sleep. Smart.

Contemplating life and trying to reach a decision. Necessary, difficult, a lost cause.

 

Here’s what I know about BD:

1. He loves me.

2. He’s a good father.

3. He wants the same things in life as me: another kid, family time, travelling.

4. He has resources to make my life comfortable financially.

5. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to make us work.

6. He’s a slob.

7. He’s chronically late, everywhere.

8. He’s not really passionate about anything.

 

Here’s what I know about me:

1. I love who I am when I’m alone, I’m scared of losing myself in a relationship. I have before.

2. I’m a great mother, I’m sure I make mistakes, but I give it my all, 24/7 and I do more than just all right.

3. I can do it on my own. I’m just not sure I want to.

4. I do still care for BD.

5. There’s only so much I’m willing to do to make things work between us.

6. I feel happy when my house, schedule and emotions are tidy and neat. I need order.

7. I don’t know if I will ever be able to forgive BD for what he put me through when he left me abruptly with a 4 month old baby. 

8. I seek passion in every aspect of my life.

 

And there you have it.

No conclusions, just thoughts.

No light bulbs or ‘Eureka’s, just midnight pasta and contemplation.

Once Upon a Tuesday, Six Months Ago

21 Jul

“Have you heard of Margaret Atwood?” He asked. He was holding my credit card in his hand, tapping it repeatedly on the counter.

“No.” I answered, feeling uncomfortable, like this was some sort of test.

“And Haruki Murakami?” Now I realized that Margaret Atwood was a writer, and I immediately felt at ease. A bookworm like me, with a Masters in Literature, this was my territory.

“Sure.” I answered bravely.

“What have you read by him?” He asked inquiringly.

“The Windup Bird Chronicle,” I responded a little too quickly, please don’t ask me about specific details, I begged in my mind. It had been ages since I read it.

“And?”

“It was good. Though weird, I mean a little too weird, for me that is.” Apologetic smile.

“Weird is an understatement.” He answered to my relief. “I’m going through a Murakami phase right now. I’m reading everything he’s ever written. Have you read Hardboiled Wonderland? You should. I mean, it’s even weirder than the Windup Bird, much weirder. But you’d love it. I think.” A thin dark haired boy, who seemed barely 20 to me took my credit card out of Skating Guy’s hand.

“Two tickets?” He asked, looking at D who smiled and nodded beside me. A minute later my card was back in SG’s hand, and he was writing the closing time on the receipt and explaining to my friend and I where to pick out our skates. He was shorter than the dark haired boy, and seemed older. His hair was light and drawn back into a tight ponytail. He had enormous brown eyes, with long auburn lashes drooping over them heavily, which matched his oversized lips, the bottom of which I found especially tempting. Despite his overgrown features there was a softness to his bristly face.

“Have fun.” He said with a smile, and just as I turned to leave he added, “Maybe I’ll come skate with you later, if you want.”

“Was that guy hitting on me, or was he just being friendly?” I asked D.

“Hitting on you.”

“Geez, I’m so out of practice.” I smiled. “He was kind of cute, wasn’t he?” It was exciting to be noticed, and even more so by someone who seemed intelligent, someone who seemed to be interested in someone intelligent, and much more so now that I was single for the first time in thirteen years.

We stepped on the ice, our legs wobbly, attempting to stabilize ourselves, grabbing onto the rail. A few rounds later we were a bit more confident on the ice, and that’s when T joined us, sexy and energetic in her skinny jeans, tight top and perfect hair, bouncing about, giggling like a school girl as she stepped on the ice. Behind her was my guy, with his hair, and his lips and his Margaret Atwood.

“Huh. I guess he found T.” I told D, only slightly bitter.

“Actually it looks like he found you.” She laughed as the skating instructor popped up behind me with a “Hey.” I nearly lost my balance, which made him ask, “You OK there?” He’d be asking me that same question in the future, and the answer would be no, but right now it was “I’m starting to get used to this, but I’m counting on you to show me a few tricks.” Which he did. He had the appearance of the shy-quiet type, but he was actually rather talkative. We discussed books we liked, and books we despised, and books by Margaret Atwood that I promised to read.

“How old are you anyway?”

“Twenty-five,” The boy answered. “You?”

“Thirty-one,” I answered honestly. Screw it, if he wasn’t into me because of my age, he was welcome to leave. Pop music was blasting in the background, and I was feeling high on adrenalin. Half an hour later I was explaining the benefits of my Kindle to him, and he was defending the old fashioned paperbacks, and the irreplaceable feeling of flipping through their pages. “With my Kindle I can change the font size and read while I do stuff at home, like umm laundry.” And breastfeeding, I thought to myself.

“Laundry is important.” He laughed. Where do you live? I told him. “Roommates?” I smiled. “You could call it that.” He waited for an explanation. “Forget it, we just met. Let’s wait a bit longer before I shock you.”

“Uh-oh, you’re married with two kids aren’t you?”

“Not exactly.” I had a nice time flirting with him, and that’s what counted. It couldn’t last forever. I might as well tell him now, I thought, and go back to skating with my friends. “I live with my son.” I said. “Separated.”

“Ah.” Well? “He must be cute, how old is he?

“Seven months.” Nice of him to stick around and not bolt. So he’s polite on top of everything else, I thought.

“So, separated, is that like divorced?”

“Pretty much.”

“And that’s supposed to shock me, huh?” He smiled mischievously and we continued skating. “He must be grabbing stuff now, right?” He asked knowingly. “I read about that. Or is he putting everything in his mouth?” It took me a second to realize he was talking about my son.

“Both!” I laughed with relief.

It was ten o’clock and we were exchanging phone numbers, and setting up a date for Sunday. It would be my first date in thirteen years. I was as high as I’d been in a long time. I couldn’t wait.

It’s been six months since I first met SG at the Skating Ring. Five months, three weeks and two days since we sat at that bar on our first, magical date, since he kissed my shoulder and told me I was beautiful, and turned me on so bad that I had to follow him home and lie to the sitter that I had decided to watch a late-night movie. It’s been four months since we broke up for the first time because BD wanted to get back together and I was confused. Three months and three weeks since I told him I loved him, and he said it back. Three and a half months since we gave Baby a bath together and made animal noises, making him laugh hysterically. Three months since I cried into his shoulder, after a sick friend was told she’d have to have surgery. Two and a half months since I told him I was going to go to couples therapy with BD. Two months since I changed my mind but continued going nevertheless. Six weeks since I stopped therapy and spent and insanely passionate night with SG. One month, three weeks and six days since he told me he wanted to end it because he couldn’t be in a serious relationship with a woman who had a son. One month since I texted him miserably, desperately, and was answered with a straightforward, though kind goodbye. Four days since I found his email and foolishly wrote him a letter and got no response.

Less than a minute since I last fantasized that I might ever have him back.