I'm back from the great beyond... of childbirth. Guess I've sort of been on a maternity leave from blogging, which I didn't intend to do. But time has been awash. I had another baby nearly 11 weeks ago, and I can't recall much of the blur of the first few of them.
We are thrilled with our new addition, whom I will refer to in this blog as Dottie.
Mabel has taken a liking to Dottie, though it hasn't been as such from the get- go. At first, Mabel needed to assert her presence all the time, probably in fear of losing attention. Even now there are times when Mabel will fake- cry because she sees how we cater to Dottie when she fusses. But mostly, Mabel loves playing helper. She is great at re- inserting dropped pacifiers, throwing dirty diapers away, and rocking Dottie in her bouncer or car seat. We often must remind Mabel of the meaning of "gentle" but she's getting there.
The strangest phenomenon has been how grown- up Mabel now seems-- both physically and otherwise. Not only does she seems to have giantism when I change her diaper, but I often catch myself treating Mabel like an adult. I'll say things like, "Man, Dottie is really using those lungs today. Annoying, huh?" Mabel humors me with a "yes" but probably doesn't get it. I have to remind myself that Mabel is still a baby herself at 25 months old. Funny.
Mabel has been chatting up a storm, with too many words to count, and her favorites to say being "NO!" and "I'll do it!" and "My turn." She doesn't put up with any bull-- that's for sure. But, wow-- that mild- mannered little thing has become quite a stubborn beast at times. We still love her to pieces, but she's making me feel I should go buy some expensive and probably meaningless parenting books for bratty toddlers. The cutest thing she does is soothe Dottie. She will run over and say, "Dottie, no cry, Dottie!" and give her a huge, sweeping hug.
Dottie is pretty laid back and quite smiley, and only cries when she needs something, but she has a set of lungs indeed. In fact, she is using them right now. And since we have to go pick up Mabel, I shall depart.
For my next few entries, I am planning a series of "Things that happen after you give birth" pieces. Hoping to carve out time to really do them justice! It's good to be back.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
Monday, January 13, 2014
RSG
This morning when I went to drop Mabel off at day care there was a swarm of media trucks and vans parked outside a house just about a quarter of a mile from our house, not even. Ugh, I thought, definitely not good. It was still dark out, and the bright news camera lights were blinding. The shock and horror of the lights would be only a glimmer of the grisly and stomach- knotting event that called the lights forth.
As I drove to work, J called me and said he had just heard on the radio that two children had been found unresponsive in that home. They had been immediately sent to area hospitals. Maybe they will survive, I hoped. I was convinced the perpetrator had been carbon monoxide, and as I lamented the terribleness of the news, my brain went something like this: I know we have carbon monoxide detectors. Tonight we need to check them all. I wonder if the testers on them work accurately. I hope so. What if they didn't? I wonder what would be most likely to cause a carbon monoxide leak? I wonder how many people that happens to a year? Is the beeping loud enough? Who would feel the effects and die first in our house? I shuddered and reminded myself I can't make the event about me, and I can't do anything to change the awful news.
By the time I had gotten to work, every media outlet you can imagine had the updated story. The two young kids had gotten trapped and locked, and they likely suffocated. Why does this feel so much worse than carbon monoxide, I wondered. And then my brain went like this: Ugh, I wonder who found them. What does it look like when someone is unresponsive? The poor doctors who are working on them. And the poor parents. How will they ever forgive themselves for not doing something?
By the time the news came around a couple hours later that the kids did not survive, I was nearly throwing up my breakfast. I shed a few private tears-- it was just so incomprehensible, all of it. But at the same time, so possible-- so easy-- so accidental: how many times have other parents let their 10- year- olds play on their own? Probably a lot. And a long time might pass before you check in on them. I remember going outside at that age and trompsing around the neighborhood until dark-- with no supervision at all. These poor parents and siblings and grandparents and classmates and friends and teachers. It's all beyond devastating.
J texted me a few minutes later telling me his stomach was in knots. He asked if we had anything in the house that locks like that. I said no. We both vowed that we would never take our eyes off the kids. What a hefty promise that one makes in the wake of something such as this. You suddenly become obsessive- compulsive nutball parents who won't walk away from your kids ever, ever, ever-- not for a millisecond. It's all reaction to the tragedy. You empathize to a degree you didn't even know you could. You want to reach out and hug these parents whom you've never met, and you want to put your own kid in some kind of safety bubble.
I couldn't stop thinking about how I always do this: I empathize to a level most would probably say is unhealthy. I found this article online (http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-athletes-way/201310/the-neuroscience-empathy) about the part of the brain that feels empathy-- it's called the Right Supramarginal Gyrus. It keeps us from being too egocentric and forces us to consider what others are feeling and makes us compassionate. (One theory about sociopaths is that they don't have a fully- developed RSG, but I digress.)
Maybe I have some whacked- out, weird, overdone RSG, or maybe this story hits home more because it literally hit close to home. But I find I do this over- empathy thing a lot. I can't seem to dismiss myself from horrible thoughts nor from placing myself in the other people's proverbial shoes. It feels irresponsible to avoid the media reports because the victims and loved ones don't have the choice to avoid the tragedy. It's like I feel that to be a good human I need to see all the info and soak it in and feel it. But I do all this automatically. It just happens.
Coworkers were all horrified by the news this morning. And maybe they are just good at hiding it, but they seemed to be able to compartmentalize the sad story and go on. I sat stifled for much of the morning-- wondering what the siblings of the kids are doing right now; whether those media vultures would be on the lawn when I drive past today; whether the parents are able to breathe let alone form coherent sentences. How will they ever move on?
I don't think I am special or in ANY way a better person because of my tendency to use that RSG thing so much. I'm sure it's just a hard-wiring thing that goes concomitantly with anxiety. I wish sometimes that I could turn it off, actually. I have a friend who refuses to watch news about ghastly things happening to children-- she just can't go there. I wish I had the will power to turn it all off and say no because it's not as if my empathy can bring anyone back or change the results.
I guess the argument to empathy being a good thing is that it does make us check our smoke alarms and second- guess our parenting. But with fluke things like this one-- what gives? These are the moments that make me feel that the universe is cruel. And those days are so hard to navigate because you start to wonder what it's all for-- and how you can keep fighting the good fight in the midst of horror.
I haven't figured out the use of this kind of distant empathy-- when you don't know the people involved. I will say my heart breaks and aches for these children and their loved ones. For what it's worth to the universe, I am thinking about and feeling for these people. I wish I could put that RSG to good use and change the whole thing.
As I drove to work, J called me and said he had just heard on the radio that two children had been found unresponsive in that home. They had been immediately sent to area hospitals. Maybe they will survive, I hoped. I was convinced the perpetrator had been carbon monoxide, and as I lamented the terribleness of the news, my brain went something like this: I know we have carbon monoxide detectors. Tonight we need to check them all. I wonder if the testers on them work accurately. I hope so. What if they didn't? I wonder what would be most likely to cause a carbon monoxide leak? I wonder how many people that happens to a year? Is the beeping loud enough? Who would feel the effects and die first in our house? I shuddered and reminded myself I can't make the event about me, and I can't do anything to change the awful news.
By the time I had gotten to work, every media outlet you can imagine had the updated story. The two young kids had gotten trapped and locked, and they likely suffocated. Why does this feel so much worse than carbon monoxide, I wondered. And then my brain went like this: Ugh, I wonder who found them. What does it look like when someone is unresponsive? The poor doctors who are working on them. And the poor parents. How will they ever forgive themselves for not doing something?
By the time the news came around a couple hours later that the kids did not survive, I was nearly throwing up my breakfast. I shed a few private tears-- it was just so incomprehensible, all of it. But at the same time, so possible-- so easy-- so accidental: how many times have other parents let their 10- year- olds play on their own? Probably a lot. And a long time might pass before you check in on them. I remember going outside at that age and trompsing around the neighborhood until dark-- with no supervision at all. These poor parents and siblings and grandparents and classmates and friends and teachers. It's all beyond devastating.
J texted me a few minutes later telling me his stomach was in knots. He asked if we had anything in the house that locks like that. I said no. We both vowed that we would never take our eyes off the kids. What a hefty promise that one makes in the wake of something such as this. You suddenly become obsessive- compulsive nutball parents who won't walk away from your kids ever, ever, ever-- not for a millisecond. It's all reaction to the tragedy. You empathize to a degree you didn't even know you could. You want to reach out and hug these parents whom you've never met, and you want to put your own kid in some kind of safety bubble.
I couldn't stop thinking about how I always do this: I empathize to a level most would probably say is unhealthy. I found this article online (http://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/the-athletes-way/201310/the-neuroscience-empathy) about the part of the brain that feels empathy-- it's called the Right Supramarginal Gyrus. It keeps us from being too egocentric and forces us to consider what others are feeling and makes us compassionate. (One theory about sociopaths is that they don't have a fully- developed RSG, but I digress.)
Maybe I have some whacked- out, weird, overdone RSG, or maybe this story hits home more because it literally hit close to home. But I find I do this over- empathy thing a lot. I can't seem to dismiss myself from horrible thoughts nor from placing myself in the other people's proverbial shoes. It feels irresponsible to avoid the media reports because the victims and loved ones don't have the choice to avoid the tragedy. It's like I feel that to be a good human I need to see all the info and soak it in and feel it. But I do all this automatically. It just happens.
Coworkers were all horrified by the news this morning. And maybe they are just good at hiding it, but they seemed to be able to compartmentalize the sad story and go on. I sat stifled for much of the morning-- wondering what the siblings of the kids are doing right now; whether those media vultures would be on the lawn when I drive past today; whether the parents are able to breathe let alone form coherent sentences. How will they ever move on?
I don't think I am special or in ANY way a better person because of my tendency to use that RSG thing so much. I'm sure it's just a hard-wiring thing that goes concomitantly with anxiety. I wish sometimes that I could turn it off, actually. I have a friend who refuses to watch news about ghastly things happening to children-- she just can't go there. I wish I had the will power to turn it all off and say no because it's not as if my empathy can bring anyone back or change the results.
I guess the argument to empathy being a good thing is that it does make us check our smoke alarms and second- guess our parenting. But with fluke things like this one-- what gives? These are the moments that make me feel that the universe is cruel. And those days are so hard to navigate because you start to wonder what it's all for-- and how you can keep fighting the good fight in the midst of horror.
I haven't figured out the use of this kind of distant empathy-- when you don't know the people involved. I will say my heart breaks and aches for these children and their loved ones. For what it's worth to the universe, I am thinking about and feeling for these people. I wish I could put that RSG to good use and change the whole thing.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
The Lull
Sorry for the lull. I don't have a good excuse. I keep thinking, yes, I should write. And I choose to grade papers or clean or play with the kid instead.
In short, I am 37 weeks prego and am looking forward to the end. Not in a dismal way-- in fact, the pregnancy has been mostly fine. I just get antsy around this point.
Mabel has FINALLY come around to the baby being in the belly. For a span of months, she would ignore us-- quite purposefully-- when we would mention the baby by showing her the ultrasound pictures, explaining the baby was in my belly, or showing her new items for the baby. She seemed to sense it meant it would be time for her to share attention, and she wasn't a fan. Just about a month ago, she started to actually CARE for the baby: giving willing kisses to said belly and saying "hi" to the bambino. She even tickles or gently gives it a high- 5. Progress indeed! And she will smile now and point and say "BABY!" at that ultrasound picture she used to loathe. Maybe it's just a natural instinct, or she decided to relent. Either way, we will take it.
Mabel is talking more and more now. She's repeating us lots, and has some favorite words. Overall, Mabel enjoys chatting these days. She's always quieter in other people's houses, but around us she is a chatterbox. She knows a few of her letters now-- can pick out the letter M from a stack and sings, "Mmm! Mmm!" and does the same with D and T and B. She can count to three-- though her favorite number is still 2. She always has 2 of anything whenever you ask her how many. At least it will make saying her next age very easy. :)
While Abby Cadabby used to be Mabel's favorite Sesame segment, she whines a little when it comes on now. She has switched to enjoying the "real life" parts of the show more: the ones where other toddlers and babies are showcased, and the ones in which the Sesame cast members interact. Alas, the days of the animated parts are sort of behind her. But she still loves the show-- and on the tired evenings when I need to sit down before J gets home, it's been a boon.
I will write more at another point-- off to clean the crayon marks from the table. She just colored a cupcake drawing but has not yet mastered the "color only on the pages" precept-- at least Crayola are washable.
In short, I am 37 weeks prego and am looking forward to the end. Not in a dismal way-- in fact, the pregnancy has been mostly fine. I just get antsy around this point.
Mabel has FINALLY come around to the baby being in the belly. For a span of months, she would ignore us-- quite purposefully-- when we would mention the baby by showing her the ultrasound pictures, explaining the baby was in my belly, or showing her new items for the baby. She seemed to sense it meant it would be time for her to share attention, and she wasn't a fan. Just about a month ago, she started to actually CARE for the baby: giving willing kisses to said belly and saying "hi" to the bambino. She even tickles or gently gives it a high- 5. Progress indeed! And she will smile now and point and say "BABY!" at that ultrasound picture she used to loathe. Maybe it's just a natural instinct, or she decided to relent. Either way, we will take it.
Mabel is talking more and more now. She's repeating us lots, and has some favorite words. Overall, Mabel enjoys chatting these days. She's always quieter in other people's houses, but around us she is a chatterbox. She knows a few of her letters now-- can pick out the letter M from a stack and sings, "Mmm! Mmm!" and does the same with D and T and B. She can count to three-- though her favorite number is still 2. She always has 2 of anything whenever you ask her how many. At least it will make saying her next age very easy. :)
While Abby Cadabby used to be Mabel's favorite Sesame segment, she whines a little when it comes on now. She has switched to enjoying the "real life" parts of the show more: the ones where other toddlers and babies are showcased, and the ones in which the Sesame cast members interact. Alas, the days of the animated parts are sort of behind her. But she still loves the show-- and on the tired evenings when I need to sit down before J gets home, it's been a boon.
I will write more at another point-- off to clean the crayon marks from the table. She just colored a cupcake drawing but has not yet mastered the "color only on the pages" precept-- at least Crayola are washable.
Monday, December 16, 2013
Lists for Worriers
I am well aware that not everyone in this world is a worrier like I am (ah, the biting envy to be like they!). But sometimes well- intentioned non- worriers like to dole out advice. And as a worrier, I can see the purpose, but the message gets lost. And so I would like to provide this list of things that are completely unhelpful for worriers to hear.
1. Relax.
Huh, you know what? You're right. I should just relax. I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner. I will go ahead and find that handy off- switch in my brain and turn it. Then I will calm down, and you will be my savior for imploring me to do so.
2. Don't worry about it.
This one isn't all that different from "relax" but it's perhaps a softer blow-- the diet version of "relax" because it's less of a command. But again, okay, I will inform my brain to stop worrying. That ought to do the trick. If only I were as smart as you and could have figured that out before, my life would be so different. Thank you for suggesting I should change my brain.
3. You can't do anything about it, so worrying won't help.
This one intrigues me. It's partly based on rationale, and rational thinking is commonly known as a good thing. It's like one of those proof things in Logic class: since I can't do "a," I shouldn't do "b." But the mind of a worrier is far from rational. We can know something intellectually and still have that knowledge be of no use. Of course I know that worrying won't really change a situation, but, again, I can't turn worry mode off. Plus, you sound so direly negative when you present the fact that I have no control. Throw me a bone here. Let me think I can do something.
4. If X (bad thing) is meant to happen, it's going to. So just don't even think about it.
Well, now there is some real sunshiny thinking if I ever heard any. I get where you're going with this-- let the world go on as it will; stop trying to intervene. The universe has a plan, yadda- yadda. But all you are doing is making me worry more that the universe has a bad plan for me. You're also telling me not to think about something, which shall, consequently, make me dwell.
5. It could be worse.
Yes, the world can always be worse. I know this. An avalanche of cruelty can always hit. But right now I am focused on worrying about this one thing. All other possibilities are irrelevant, and your mentioning them makes me worry about them. Please don't point out the obvious-- that in life, someone always has it worse. No brainer.
6. I totally get why you are so worried.
This one is my favorite because I can see more clearly than with any of the others the truly good intention here: commiseration. The non- worrier wants to let the worrier know that he or she understands and the worrier is not psychotic. But what we hear is, "Yes, there is a very good possibility that horrible thing is going to happen, so your worry makes good sense." It's definitely kind to let someone know he or she is not a lunatic, but when you confirm one's worry, you perpetuate it. I would rather hear someone say, "Dude, you are being a psycho. That bad thing is never going to happen." I can then repeat that to myself as a mantra.
I'm not just going to bitch about the things people say that are wrong. I am going to also offer up some suggestions for perhaps more successful comments when dealing with a chronic worrier.
1. What would help to ease the worry?
Sometimes I myself need to think about this question as I get so very wrapped up in a rumination. Asking me this question may make me slow down and pause and see how I can find a solution. Even if you don't want to, offering a listening ear could make a world of difference. After all, worriers love venting. We need to get it all out there, all 12 tons of garbled, nervous mess.
2. Stats-- if they are good ones
As I have blogged about before, I have a love- hate relationship with the Internet when it comes to worrying. I can find stats that scare me, but if I look hard enough, I can find ones that satiate me. If you can point out to a worrier the scientific unlikelihood of a possibility, it'll probably help. (If the stats go in the other direction-- and only prove how LIKELY the bad event is-- please, please refrain.) A true worrier will still be a little convinced he or she will be in the wee percentage of the victims, but hearing that you've got a better likely outcome DOES help.
3. LOL-- you are being crazy!
Or something light and airy to that effect. It goes in tandem with what I said in number 6 above. Please do make me feel crazy. I trust your opinion, so I may step back and go, "Huh-- maybe I am psycho." I won't be able to fully relent, but I will a bit.
4. Want to get a beer?
Call me a lush if you want, but a good cocktail can do wonders. Unfortunately, this one is not an option if you are pregnant or at work. Well, I guess some people drink at work, but the vast lot of us don't. Never underestimate the power of a table or bar, a bartender, and good conversation. If you want to hear me put something to rest fast, suggest beers, let me vent for like ten minutes, and then casually move the conversation away. Sometimes talking about it over and over is the key-- and you are going to need some alcohol to deal with the listening.
1. Relax.
Huh, you know what? You're right. I should just relax. I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner. I will go ahead and find that handy off- switch in my brain and turn it. Then I will calm down, and you will be my savior for imploring me to do so.
2. Don't worry about it.
This one isn't all that different from "relax" but it's perhaps a softer blow-- the diet version of "relax" because it's less of a command. But again, okay, I will inform my brain to stop worrying. That ought to do the trick. If only I were as smart as you and could have figured that out before, my life would be so different. Thank you for suggesting I should change my brain.
3. You can't do anything about it, so worrying won't help.
This one intrigues me. It's partly based on rationale, and rational thinking is commonly known as a good thing. It's like one of those proof things in Logic class: since I can't do "a," I shouldn't do "b." But the mind of a worrier is far from rational. We can know something intellectually and still have that knowledge be of no use. Of course I know that worrying won't really change a situation, but, again, I can't turn worry mode off. Plus, you sound so direly negative when you present the fact that I have no control. Throw me a bone here. Let me think I can do something.
4. If X (bad thing) is meant to happen, it's going to. So just don't even think about it.
Well, now there is some real sunshiny thinking if I ever heard any. I get where you're going with this-- let the world go on as it will; stop trying to intervene. The universe has a plan, yadda- yadda. But all you are doing is making me worry more that the universe has a bad plan for me. You're also telling me not to think about something, which shall, consequently, make me dwell.
5. It could be worse.
Yes, the world can always be worse. I know this. An avalanche of cruelty can always hit. But right now I am focused on worrying about this one thing. All other possibilities are irrelevant, and your mentioning them makes me worry about them. Please don't point out the obvious-- that in life, someone always has it worse. No brainer.
6. I totally get why you are so worried.
This one is my favorite because I can see more clearly than with any of the others the truly good intention here: commiseration. The non- worrier wants to let the worrier know that he or she understands and the worrier is not psychotic. But what we hear is, "Yes, there is a very good possibility that horrible thing is going to happen, so your worry makes good sense." It's definitely kind to let someone know he or she is not a lunatic, but when you confirm one's worry, you perpetuate it. I would rather hear someone say, "Dude, you are being a psycho. That bad thing is never going to happen." I can then repeat that to myself as a mantra.
I'm not just going to bitch about the things people say that are wrong. I am going to also offer up some suggestions for perhaps more successful comments when dealing with a chronic worrier.
1. What would help to ease the worry?
Sometimes I myself need to think about this question as I get so very wrapped up in a rumination. Asking me this question may make me slow down and pause and see how I can find a solution. Even if you don't want to, offering a listening ear could make a world of difference. After all, worriers love venting. We need to get it all out there, all 12 tons of garbled, nervous mess.
2. Stats-- if they are good ones
As I have blogged about before, I have a love- hate relationship with the Internet when it comes to worrying. I can find stats that scare me, but if I look hard enough, I can find ones that satiate me. If you can point out to a worrier the scientific unlikelihood of a possibility, it'll probably help. (If the stats go in the other direction-- and only prove how LIKELY the bad event is-- please, please refrain.) A true worrier will still be a little convinced he or she will be in the wee percentage of the victims, but hearing that you've got a better likely outcome DOES help.
3. LOL-- you are being crazy!
Or something light and airy to that effect. It goes in tandem with what I said in number 6 above. Please do make me feel crazy. I trust your opinion, so I may step back and go, "Huh-- maybe I am psycho." I won't be able to fully relent, but I will a bit.
4. Want to get a beer?
Call me a lush if you want, but a good cocktail can do wonders. Unfortunately, this one is not an option if you are pregnant or at work. Well, I guess some people drink at work, but the vast lot of us don't. Never underestimate the power of a table or bar, a bartender, and good conversation. If you want to hear me put something to rest fast, suggest beers, let me vent for like ten minutes, and then casually move the conversation away. Sometimes talking about it over and over is the key-- and you are going to need some alcohol to deal with the listening.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Groups
There is a picture going viral on social media right now. It's of a group of 20- something girls. Three in the front row, recently engaged, are showing off their new rings, and the girls standing around them are pointing to said bling admiringly and cheerfully... except one. One girl is holding a mock- gun to her temple.
It's hilarious, I think. And it got me thinking about groups.
For most of my early to mid- twenties I was part of the married group. I guess I never thought of my status as anything special, or even as a grouping. But it was a group: not necessarily a good one or a bad one. Just a group of people who were partnered up-- supposedly for life.
When I got separated and subsequently divorced, the pang of the grouping started to hit slowly. At first, I was relieved-- and at times elated-- to be in "group: single." It was the promise of a new opportunity to "find myself" (blech, I hate when people say that), and there was a curious joy I felt in having it thrust upon me that I would take care of myself completely. I had many single friends, but almost all my friends from college were married and most were having babies. I remember going to lunch in Mystic, CT one Sunday-- I think in 2008-- and one friend brought her newborn, while three of the others bore their pregnant bellies in the group photo we took. I stood on the end, happy to be there, but feeling the division more sharply than ever. I was the only one drinking a Mimosa at that brunch, and the symbolism was poignant.
It wasn't ever that I couldn't be happy for friends who had moved on to different stages of life way faster than I had. Yes, I was overjoyed for the births of their kids. But at the same time, I knew I wanted a family, and I also knew the prospect was not a guarantee for me. It was daunting, and so, as much as this makes me sound like a terrible person, there were times I didn't always love being around my friends who were in "group: family life." Maybe I am weak and selfish, but I was not only bored by the conversations around pack- n- plays-- I was terrified of these discussions, and even resented them. I felt pitiable-- which may have been all in my head-- but my social constructs to that point had made me feel that way. "They must think I am really pathetic," I would wonder.
Looking back, there are events I avoided altogether because of the pain they brought: a friend's wedding (not a best friend, but a friend) a month after finding out about my ex's new squeeze; a couple of birthday parties. I couldn't bear to be around the things that were now gone. My mom told me about how she had to avoid a baptism after she had a bad miscarriage, because it was too much to handle. She said in time she was fine with going to baptisms, but that's probably because she DID by then have babies of her own. And if I am being 100 percent honest here, I didn't feel fully confident around "group: family life" until I was there myself.
It doesn't mean I avoided people like a hermit, or that I refused to honor my congrats and well- wishes for people. I am not THAT evil. But I migrated toward people who were in my boat, and I wanted to spend most of my time with people who "got me" and what I was going through.
Over time, I have seen that the groupings are stupid, but you can't avoid feeling them. I think the girl in the viral picture has had enough of "group: engaged" and while she isn't hating the idea that these friends are hitched, she can't help but feel sharply the fact that she isn't.
Becoming part of "group: parent" means I do look when people post parenting questions on Facebook, when before I would have scrolled past ever- so- rapidly. Stories about suffering babies and kids hit me way more crushingly than before. And I can chat about sippy cups and playmats as much as the next guy. I am not sickened by these conversations over lunch anymore.
But I get it that some people are. Society has sort of created these groups, and then we can't stop reinforcing them in our own minds. When I'm around my single friends, they are always so good to ask about Mabel and J, but I try hard not to chat about family stuff the whole time. I think my friends in "group: single" have lives just as cool as mine, only in different ways. And most of them are actually way cooler. I feel the grouping in that I can't make it to most things they do on weekends, but, in some ways, I hate that I have moved groups. I try, therefore, to blur the lines. I don't want to be thought of only as wife and mother; for several years, I was someone totally different, and I came to like her. I don't want to let her go, and I am so, so grateful for the time I got to have being her.
A lot of people won't admit to the grouping they feel; and while I don't want to, I have to. Pigeon- holing has always annoyed me, but I wasn't born yesterday. I get the social and societal layerings and groupings that exist around us at all ages, but especially as young adults. And so to the girl in the pic, you rock that mock- gun at the temple. It's how you feel-- it's where you are. I've got you.
It's hilarious, I think. And it got me thinking about groups.
For most of my early to mid- twenties I was part of the married group. I guess I never thought of my status as anything special, or even as a grouping. But it was a group: not necessarily a good one or a bad one. Just a group of people who were partnered up-- supposedly for life.
When I got separated and subsequently divorced, the pang of the grouping started to hit slowly. At first, I was relieved-- and at times elated-- to be in "group: single." It was the promise of a new opportunity to "find myself" (blech, I hate when people say that), and there was a curious joy I felt in having it thrust upon me that I would take care of myself completely. I had many single friends, but almost all my friends from college were married and most were having babies. I remember going to lunch in Mystic, CT one Sunday-- I think in 2008-- and one friend brought her newborn, while three of the others bore their pregnant bellies in the group photo we took. I stood on the end, happy to be there, but feeling the division more sharply than ever. I was the only one drinking a Mimosa at that brunch, and the symbolism was poignant.
It wasn't ever that I couldn't be happy for friends who had moved on to different stages of life way faster than I had. Yes, I was overjoyed for the births of their kids. But at the same time, I knew I wanted a family, and I also knew the prospect was not a guarantee for me. It was daunting, and so, as much as this makes me sound like a terrible person, there were times I didn't always love being around my friends who were in "group: family life." Maybe I am weak and selfish, but I was not only bored by the conversations around pack- n- plays-- I was terrified of these discussions, and even resented them. I felt pitiable-- which may have been all in my head-- but my social constructs to that point had made me feel that way. "They must think I am really pathetic," I would wonder.
Looking back, there are events I avoided altogether because of the pain they brought: a friend's wedding (not a best friend, but a friend) a month after finding out about my ex's new squeeze; a couple of birthday parties. I couldn't bear to be around the things that were now gone. My mom told me about how she had to avoid a baptism after she had a bad miscarriage, because it was too much to handle. She said in time she was fine with going to baptisms, but that's probably because she DID by then have babies of her own. And if I am being 100 percent honest here, I didn't feel fully confident around "group: family life" until I was there myself.
It doesn't mean I avoided people like a hermit, or that I refused to honor my congrats and well- wishes for people. I am not THAT evil. But I migrated toward people who were in my boat, and I wanted to spend most of my time with people who "got me" and what I was going through.
Over time, I have seen that the groupings are stupid, but you can't avoid feeling them. I think the girl in the viral picture has had enough of "group: engaged" and while she isn't hating the idea that these friends are hitched, she can't help but feel sharply the fact that she isn't.
Becoming part of "group: parent" means I do look when people post parenting questions on Facebook, when before I would have scrolled past ever- so- rapidly. Stories about suffering babies and kids hit me way more crushingly than before. And I can chat about sippy cups and playmats as much as the next guy. I am not sickened by these conversations over lunch anymore.
But I get it that some people are. Society has sort of created these groups, and then we can't stop reinforcing them in our own minds. When I'm around my single friends, they are always so good to ask about Mabel and J, but I try hard not to chat about family stuff the whole time. I think my friends in "group: single" have lives just as cool as mine, only in different ways. And most of them are actually way cooler. I feel the grouping in that I can't make it to most things they do on weekends, but, in some ways, I hate that I have moved groups. I try, therefore, to blur the lines. I don't want to be thought of only as wife and mother; for several years, I was someone totally different, and I came to like her. I don't want to let her go, and I am so, so grateful for the time I got to have being her.
A lot of people won't admit to the grouping they feel; and while I don't want to, I have to. Pigeon- holing has always annoyed me, but I wasn't born yesterday. I get the social and societal layerings and groupings that exist around us at all ages, but especially as young adults. And so to the girl in the pic, you rock that mock- gun at the temple. It's how you feel-- it's where you are. I've got you.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
A Snapshot: Words
I realized it's been way too long since I have posted a snapshot of Mabel's doings. Guess I have been waxing philosophical and deep and emo as of late and have forgotten about the everyday joys and silliness of Mabel. Today I want to give a snapshot of Mabel's words.
When we went for Mabel's 18- month well- visit back in August, I had been concerned about Mabel's speech. I am inwardly rolling my eyes at the "uh- oh, my kid might not be perfect" knee-jerk reaction I had. She's a thinker, an observer, a keen listener. While she's sensitive, she also LOVES to laugh. And she was talking, but not as much as I was thinking she should be (ugh, that ugly word again). I mentioned my concerns to Dr. B. who gave me a few strategies to encourage speech, but told me, "I'm really not worried," and insinuated that I shouldn't be either. I felt guilty after that appointment for the time I spent on baby websites, reading comments and comparing Mabel to other babies and wondering if she was okay.
In early November, I wasn't sure if Mabel had made the progress Dr. B. said she should make by Halloween. Again, with Mabel in tow, I trotted on in to the pedi office for Dr. B to take a look and let us know what she thought. Mabel had started to babble a lot more by that point-- to the point of nearly constant vocalization-- and we were pretty sure we could detect attempts at various words, but we weren't certain. Dr. B. said, yes, she had made progress. And enlightened me to the easy observation that Mabel is a quieter, more hesitant kid. She's contemplative, not outgoingly chatty. It's who she is. While I had been making this whole thing about ability or disability, I hadn't stopped to think about personality. It was eye- opening, and I felt ashamed.
Since that appointment, Mabel has started saying lots of words. She tells us both, "Night night!" every evening as she heads up to bed, and last night, even after I tucked her in and closed her door, she lay there, calling out "Night night!" for another few minutes. I melted.
She tells us "no" a lot, sometimes in a forceful repetitive string--" No! No! No!" It's fun that she is developing opinions, but not so fun that her most common opinion appears to be the one in the negative. Mabel points out "dogs" often, and last week when we were at her uncles' in CT, where there are 5 dogs, she followed them around with kibble in her hand, demanding, 'Eat! Eat! Eat!' She tells us when she sees fishies by calling them "shees," and wants to go out each day to greet the mail truck, exclaiming, "Mail!" That's got to be her favorite time of day.
Mabel likes to build "tours" (or towers) with her blocks and rings. When she wants a play- companion, she takes out the stackers and looks up to me, asking, "Tour?" Of course I am happy to comply. When said "tour" falls, she yells out perhaps her more common word: "Uh- oh!" We hear "uh- oh" over everything, from a dropped Cheerio to a non- lit- up computer screen.
Mabel loves to brush her teeth, and simply asks by saying, "Teeth?" When she sees a baby, she declares, "day- dee," and the mix- up of the d for a b is just so precious. She always has "two" of something-- even if she really has one or four. "Two" is apparently a favorite number, or is just easy to say. She might try to tickle you and will plead, "Tick? Tick?" Little does she know, J or I will beat her to it and tickle her cute little thighs first.
Other words include bottle ("buh- buh"), cheese, and a variation on "downstairs." She calls out for her "daddy" or "da-da" a LOT, and lately has greeted me with "mama," which might be the best sound in the world. I struggled for months waiting for Mabel's use of the "m" sound, and sometimes heard an actual "mama," but rarely to me. The other morning, I came down the stairs, and there she was in her high chair, shrieking, right into my eyes, "MAMA!!" When she brought the mail in with J yesterday, she delivered me an LL Bean catalog, prancing along toward me screeching, "Mama!," as if she thought I really wanted that one catalog in my hands. I had had a busy and stressful day, and in that moment, all the ickiness went away.
Some 21- month- old kids speak in phrases, or say way more words than Mabel. And some say fewer, still only babbling or maybe mustering just a few words. Some kid are virtual verbal- masters, and some like to climb and play and contemplate, and will speak "when they feel like it," as Dr. B advised. I know Mabel has a lot more word- learning to go, but I sure am glad I've pulled back and just let her be. I know I won't be a pusher as a mom, because I see adverse effects of that daily in my school kids. But I was worried for her, so I did what any conscientious mother would do in bringing her to the doc. If only I had known that time would be the answer, and to stay off that frickin' Internet, I would have saved myself a lot of worry and toil this summer. We will see how the next months go.
When we went for Mabel's 18- month well- visit back in August, I had been concerned about Mabel's speech. I am inwardly rolling my eyes at the "uh- oh, my kid might not be perfect" knee-jerk reaction I had. She's a thinker, an observer, a keen listener. While she's sensitive, she also LOVES to laugh. And she was talking, but not as much as I was thinking she should be (ugh, that ugly word again). I mentioned my concerns to Dr. B. who gave me a few strategies to encourage speech, but told me, "I'm really not worried," and insinuated that I shouldn't be either. I felt guilty after that appointment for the time I spent on baby websites, reading comments and comparing Mabel to other babies and wondering if she was okay.
In early November, I wasn't sure if Mabel had made the progress Dr. B. said she should make by Halloween. Again, with Mabel in tow, I trotted on in to the pedi office for Dr. B to take a look and let us know what she thought. Mabel had started to babble a lot more by that point-- to the point of nearly constant vocalization-- and we were pretty sure we could detect attempts at various words, but we weren't certain. Dr. B. said, yes, she had made progress. And enlightened me to the easy observation that Mabel is a quieter, more hesitant kid. She's contemplative, not outgoingly chatty. It's who she is. While I had been making this whole thing about ability or disability, I hadn't stopped to think about personality. It was eye- opening, and I felt ashamed.
Since that appointment, Mabel has started saying lots of words. She tells us both, "Night night!" every evening as she heads up to bed, and last night, even after I tucked her in and closed her door, she lay there, calling out "Night night!" for another few minutes. I melted.
She tells us "no" a lot, sometimes in a forceful repetitive string--" No! No! No!" It's fun that she is developing opinions, but not so fun that her most common opinion appears to be the one in the negative. Mabel points out "dogs" often, and last week when we were at her uncles' in CT, where there are 5 dogs, she followed them around with kibble in her hand, demanding, 'Eat! Eat! Eat!' She tells us when she sees fishies by calling them "shees," and wants to go out each day to greet the mail truck, exclaiming, "Mail!" That's got to be her favorite time of day.
Mabel likes to build "tours" (or towers) with her blocks and rings. When she wants a play- companion, she takes out the stackers and looks up to me, asking, "Tour?" Of course I am happy to comply. When said "tour" falls, she yells out perhaps her more common word: "Uh- oh!" We hear "uh- oh" over everything, from a dropped Cheerio to a non- lit- up computer screen.
Mabel loves to brush her teeth, and simply asks by saying, "Teeth?" When she sees a baby, she declares, "day- dee," and the mix- up of the d for a b is just so precious. She always has "two" of something-- even if she really has one or four. "Two" is apparently a favorite number, or is just easy to say. She might try to tickle you and will plead, "Tick? Tick?" Little does she know, J or I will beat her to it and tickle her cute little thighs first.
Other words include bottle ("buh- buh"), cheese, and a variation on "downstairs." She calls out for her "daddy" or "da-da" a LOT, and lately has greeted me with "mama," which might be the best sound in the world. I struggled for months waiting for Mabel's use of the "m" sound, and sometimes heard an actual "mama," but rarely to me. The other morning, I came down the stairs, and there she was in her high chair, shrieking, right into my eyes, "MAMA!!" When she brought the mail in with J yesterday, she delivered me an LL Bean catalog, prancing along toward me screeching, "Mama!," as if she thought I really wanted that one catalog in my hands. I had had a busy and stressful day, and in that moment, all the ickiness went away.
Some 21- month- old kids speak in phrases, or say way more words than Mabel. And some say fewer, still only babbling or maybe mustering just a few words. Some kid are virtual verbal- masters, and some like to climb and play and contemplate, and will speak "when they feel like it," as Dr. B advised. I know Mabel has a lot more word- learning to go, but I sure am glad I've pulled back and just let her be. I know I won't be a pusher as a mom, because I see adverse effects of that daily in my school kids. But I was worried for her, so I did what any conscientious mother would do in bringing her to the doc. If only I had known that time would be the answer, and to stay off that frickin' Internet, I would have saved myself a lot of worry and toil this summer. We will see how the next months go.
Friday, November 22, 2013
The Post I Didn't Know If I Should Write
When my alarm went off today at 5:15, I was abruptly awoken. Some days, especially lately, I am already awake, just lying there dreading the ironically sing- songy tune I have selected from my iPhone to break my slumber. But today I was jolted-- profoundly in the midst of not just sleep, but a vivid dream.
While I showered, I debated whether I'd write this blog entry. I knew I wanted to write about what I had dreamt of, and the host of other issues it ignited in my psyche, but since my dream was about my ex- husband it seemed to be something I should keep to myself, or confine to text messages with a friend. The neurotic, paranoid side of me thought, 'What if he somehow knows you have a blog, and sees this?' That idea is far- fetched, since we are in no touch at all, and our mutual friend circle has dwindled over time. It's highly unlikely he'd know much at all about me, let alone that I write a blog, which uses pseudonyms about my personal life. But then I thought, even if he did know, or did see it, it's okay. Because I am not ashamed I dreamt of him. I have before too. He was a significant-- perhaps the most significant-- part of my life for 8 years. We were married for 3 1/2 of them. It's okay that he should sit in my subconscious.
We will call him Mack. When Mack shows up in the dreams I have at night, it's never romantic, and for the sickos out there, no, it's never dirty either. :) His appearances have been under differing scenarios but almost all of them have one thing in common: he is trying to respark things between us (which may seem presumptuous, so I will point out now that, no, I don't think Mack has any interest in trying to respark things in real life, and I know he is happily married-- dreams are just weird), and I am panicked, wondering where J is, terrified about going back to a life with Mack. In a couple of the dreams, I am married to J, and in a few we have Mabel. But each time, I am worried my current life is over and I have to return to my old one. So while these dreams freak me out a little and make me do the whole "Why am I dreaming of him?" analysis, they also reaffirm for me how glad I am about how things turned out.
I won't sit here and slander Mack. He wasn't a bad guy, he wasn't abusive, he wasn't a derelict. We were a bad match. We had been together since I was 20, and, as far as I can see from many other examples around me, being together since quite young is often a recipe for a downfall. Mack and I actually were too similar to be together (took me some years and therapy to see that). We were both too Type A. I need Type B to bring me any iota of balance. And so I was bad for Mack too, I think. I suppose most would say I was the one who ended the marriage. He liked to refer to it as my "walking out" on him. I know I didn't. We went to marriage counseling, and separated and got back together twice. It wasn't until after a solid year and a half of strife and comings- and- goings that we ultimately called it quits.
In March of 2007, when I went back for the third time for what he called a "trial run," he said to give it two weeks and if things weren't any better he would not stop me from leaving. On a Friday night, he sat me down and said, "You aren't happy, are you?" We talked and both sobbed for hours. Around 5 in the morning, he went into the guest room, saying, "I just can't watch you leave. But go." I packed up the few clothes I had brought in my old, ratty blue Vera Bradley bag and closed the front door softly behind me. As I drove to my parents' house, I thought, 'This is truly it.' And while I sobbed more, I felt the most startling empowerment and optimism I have ever felt while I drifted down the highway. And when my parents greeted me, my dad said, "Thank God it's over now. Really over."
The months from there brought a lot of pain. Not even two months later, Mack would go on a blind date, and begin a quite serious relationship with someone new. They would be living together by that summer, before I even had taken some of my clothing and personal affects out of the townhouse. They would become engaged in early 2008 (right around when our divorce was final) and would marry in May of 2009. They would give birth to a child in 2010. Through most of his life- revamping, I was alone and wondering how he could, despite our issues, replace me with the swiftness with which someone rips off a bandaid.
I would experience some of the most lasting and meaningful moments during those years too, though, forging new friendships, traveling, living on my own in great apartments in the city, and proving I could take care of myself. I would learn the immense power of the support of family and close friends. I would date lots of jerks and feel defeated and scared. And I would reflect a lot. Most significantly, I would meet J.
Six years after that Saturday morning in March when I rode down route 95, the memories of the marriage, the turmoil, the painful divorce, and the aftermath of it all are kind of blurry. Yet, these dreams in which Mack appears are always quite clear.
In the one last night, we were at his mother's house (his mom's real house-- strikingly accurate), and she had just had an addition put on. I was, for some reason, going to dinner with him. In his mom's bathroom was a baby bath seat, and in my dream I thought, 'That's for when his three kids come over,' a reflection of his real life. And as we walked down the street toward a restaurant, I started to wonder where J was and if I was going to be somehow pressured into staying with Mack. I don't know if Mack was divorced or something in this dream-- that part was not relevant, I guess. Suddenly, my uncle (who grew up in the neighboring town, so it makes sense) appeared, and I feared he would tell my other family members I was back hanging with Mack. All I could think of was that I wanted out. I was pregnant in the dream too.
When the alarm went off, I pondered the usual, 'Why did I have that dream?' I tried to analyze it all morning but fell short.
What I thought of next was what I always seem to think of after such dreams: will I/ we tell Mabel that I was married before her daddy? I am not embarrassed or ashamed. But I often wonder, at what age could she understand it? Does she need to know? if I don't tell her, am I dishonest?
My cousin was also married before she met her now- husband, S. C and S decided that, yes, they would tell their kids that C had been previously married. It's almost inevitable that it will come up, she told me. Kids ask about how their parents met, how old they were, what their lives were like. She told them that she had a husband before S but that he wasn't the right husband for her. They barely batted an eye, and then moved on from it. I don't know how Mabel will or would react, but it's probable she might not think much of it. Or maybe she will have all sorts of questions-- who knows.
J and I have time to think about these things, of course. But what is remarkable is how much time has passed since the last chapter of my life, and how much things have changed. On that hazy morning in 2007 when I drove home to the sounds of that song, "The rest is still unwritten" and couldn't help but think it a useful albeit cheesy metaphor, I wondered where I would be years later. I specifically remember thinking about that. I felt I would marry again, and hopefully I would eventually have a child. The prospect often looked grim as time went on, but I never really noticed how much was changing around me until I looked back over a several- year span.
Mabel and J aren't the only people or forces that have produced change in my life. They are the most important ones, yes. But a lot of stuff has happened within me over the years. I went through despair, heartbreak, and a "depression diet" that put me into teeny jeans (that I could only dream of fitting one leg into now) at one point. But I remember that on the day I found out Mack had moved on, my best friend M was at my parents' house with me immediately. My friend C came over later, and the next day, M came with me to meet my friend E at Legal Sea Foods for drinks in the town where I work. People rushed to my side. I will never forget that, or its impact. I changed by recognizing that even in the I- can't- eat sadness, there were glimmers of hope-- and the stability that people were not going to let me drown. I have always been hesitant to rely on people too much or put them out, so to speak. But in those vulnerable moments, I had to let people carry me.
And in the years that followed, when I got my own place and started to put some physical and emotional pieces back together, I learned the value of alone time. I spent time in my city apartments coming home and throwing my bags down and eating cheese and crackers for dinner. And watching reruns of "Friends." And sleeping on the couch, just because. And hearing the noise of nobody else. And I was completely content.
I dated, and struggled with dating, and cried a lot, bemoaning the dating scene and the fact that everything felt hopeless a lot of the time. I drank too much during certain periods. I spent too much money. I let things about myself go when I shouldn't have. But I am glad I did "bad" things along the way too. I needed to test things out and see where I was most comfortable just being, well, me.
So if Mabel asks why were you so OLD when you and Daddy met, as a naive kid might think about a 31 year- old, I don't know exactly what I will tell her. I don't know what I will leave out and what I will keep in. But I want her to know that I struggled. That I felt alone while also feeling shrouded by the close protection of my friends and family. That you can be alone or lonely and still enjoy it. That you can know what you want and feel like you're shouting it from the rooftops and still not have it and feel frustrated and have crying sessions, and still end up okay. That you can have the strength to say something isn't working in your life, even though you are deathly afraid of shame and embarrassment and defeat you might feel.
I want her to know that I am human. And to err is human. And to try things is human. And to be able to look back and shudder at some stuff, and smile at the other stuff, is human... and also very, very satisfying.
I don't know for how long I will continue to have dreams where Mack shows up. Maybe I always will. But the beauty of change-- and time, too-- has been that I don't think of him much anymore in the waking hours. I wish him well and feel no ill will. But if you'd told me in 2008 that there would be a time when I wouldn't ruminate on "How could he dooooo this??" I wouldn't have believed you. Now he is a foggy memory-- an often happy one, for some of our years. But the mind has an amazing capacity to filter. And to let you struggle, and then fight the struggle, and then just be you. Years later, Mack is not a key player, but a memory, and a figure who walks in and out of night dreams. And that seems perfectly ok to me.
While I showered, I debated whether I'd write this blog entry. I knew I wanted to write about what I had dreamt of, and the host of other issues it ignited in my psyche, but since my dream was about my ex- husband it seemed to be something I should keep to myself, or confine to text messages with a friend. The neurotic, paranoid side of me thought, 'What if he somehow knows you have a blog, and sees this?' That idea is far- fetched, since we are in no touch at all, and our mutual friend circle has dwindled over time. It's highly unlikely he'd know much at all about me, let alone that I write a blog, which uses pseudonyms about my personal life. But then I thought, even if he did know, or did see it, it's okay. Because I am not ashamed I dreamt of him. I have before too. He was a significant-- perhaps the most significant-- part of my life for 8 years. We were married for 3 1/2 of them. It's okay that he should sit in my subconscious.
We will call him Mack. When Mack shows up in the dreams I have at night, it's never romantic, and for the sickos out there, no, it's never dirty either. :) His appearances have been under differing scenarios but almost all of them have one thing in common: he is trying to respark things between us (which may seem presumptuous, so I will point out now that, no, I don't think Mack has any interest in trying to respark things in real life, and I know he is happily married-- dreams are just weird), and I am panicked, wondering where J is, terrified about going back to a life with Mack. In a couple of the dreams, I am married to J, and in a few we have Mabel. But each time, I am worried my current life is over and I have to return to my old one. So while these dreams freak me out a little and make me do the whole "Why am I dreaming of him?" analysis, they also reaffirm for me how glad I am about how things turned out.
I won't sit here and slander Mack. He wasn't a bad guy, he wasn't abusive, he wasn't a derelict. We were a bad match. We had been together since I was 20, and, as far as I can see from many other examples around me, being together since quite young is often a recipe for a downfall. Mack and I actually were too similar to be together (took me some years and therapy to see that). We were both too Type A. I need Type B to bring me any iota of balance. And so I was bad for Mack too, I think. I suppose most would say I was the one who ended the marriage. He liked to refer to it as my "walking out" on him. I know I didn't. We went to marriage counseling, and separated and got back together twice. It wasn't until after a solid year and a half of strife and comings- and- goings that we ultimately called it quits.
In March of 2007, when I went back for the third time for what he called a "trial run," he said to give it two weeks and if things weren't any better he would not stop me from leaving. On a Friday night, he sat me down and said, "You aren't happy, are you?" We talked and both sobbed for hours. Around 5 in the morning, he went into the guest room, saying, "I just can't watch you leave. But go." I packed up the few clothes I had brought in my old, ratty blue Vera Bradley bag and closed the front door softly behind me. As I drove to my parents' house, I thought, 'This is truly it.' And while I sobbed more, I felt the most startling empowerment and optimism I have ever felt while I drifted down the highway. And when my parents greeted me, my dad said, "Thank God it's over now. Really over."
The months from there brought a lot of pain. Not even two months later, Mack would go on a blind date, and begin a quite serious relationship with someone new. They would be living together by that summer, before I even had taken some of my clothing and personal affects out of the townhouse. They would become engaged in early 2008 (right around when our divorce was final) and would marry in May of 2009. They would give birth to a child in 2010. Through most of his life- revamping, I was alone and wondering how he could, despite our issues, replace me with the swiftness with which someone rips off a bandaid.
I would experience some of the most lasting and meaningful moments during those years too, though, forging new friendships, traveling, living on my own in great apartments in the city, and proving I could take care of myself. I would learn the immense power of the support of family and close friends. I would date lots of jerks and feel defeated and scared. And I would reflect a lot. Most significantly, I would meet J.
Six years after that Saturday morning in March when I rode down route 95, the memories of the marriage, the turmoil, the painful divorce, and the aftermath of it all are kind of blurry. Yet, these dreams in which Mack appears are always quite clear.
In the one last night, we were at his mother's house (his mom's real house-- strikingly accurate), and she had just had an addition put on. I was, for some reason, going to dinner with him. In his mom's bathroom was a baby bath seat, and in my dream I thought, 'That's for when his three kids come over,' a reflection of his real life. And as we walked down the street toward a restaurant, I started to wonder where J was and if I was going to be somehow pressured into staying with Mack. I don't know if Mack was divorced or something in this dream-- that part was not relevant, I guess. Suddenly, my uncle (who grew up in the neighboring town, so it makes sense) appeared, and I feared he would tell my other family members I was back hanging with Mack. All I could think of was that I wanted out. I was pregnant in the dream too.
When the alarm went off, I pondered the usual, 'Why did I have that dream?' I tried to analyze it all morning but fell short.
What I thought of next was what I always seem to think of after such dreams: will I/ we tell Mabel that I was married before her daddy? I am not embarrassed or ashamed. But I often wonder, at what age could she understand it? Does she need to know? if I don't tell her, am I dishonest?
My cousin was also married before she met her now- husband, S. C and S decided that, yes, they would tell their kids that C had been previously married. It's almost inevitable that it will come up, she told me. Kids ask about how their parents met, how old they were, what their lives were like. She told them that she had a husband before S but that he wasn't the right husband for her. They barely batted an eye, and then moved on from it. I don't know how Mabel will or would react, but it's probable she might not think much of it. Or maybe she will have all sorts of questions-- who knows.
J and I have time to think about these things, of course. But what is remarkable is how much time has passed since the last chapter of my life, and how much things have changed. On that hazy morning in 2007 when I drove home to the sounds of that song, "The rest is still unwritten" and couldn't help but think it a useful albeit cheesy metaphor, I wondered where I would be years later. I specifically remember thinking about that. I felt I would marry again, and hopefully I would eventually have a child. The prospect often looked grim as time went on, but I never really noticed how much was changing around me until I looked back over a several- year span.
Mabel and J aren't the only people or forces that have produced change in my life. They are the most important ones, yes. But a lot of stuff has happened within me over the years. I went through despair, heartbreak, and a "depression diet" that put me into teeny jeans (that I could only dream of fitting one leg into now) at one point. But I remember that on the day I found out Mack had moved on, my best friend M was at my parents' house with me immediately. My friend C came over later, and the next day, M came with me to meet my friend E at Legal Sea Foods for drinks in the town where I work. People rushed to my side. I will never forget that, or its impact. I changed by recognizing that even in the I- can't- eat sadness, there were glimmers of hope-- and the stability that people were not going to let me drown. I have always been hesitant to rely on people too much or put them out, so to speak. But in those vulnerable moments, I had to let people carry me.
And in the years that followed, when I got my own place and started to put some physical and emotional pieces back together, I learned the value of alone time. I spent time in my city apartments coming home and throwing my bags down and eating cheese and crackers for dinner. And watching reruns of "Friends." And sleeping on the couch, just because. And hearing the noise of nobody else. And I was completely content.
I dated, and struggled with dating, and cried a lot, bemoaning the dating scene and the fact that everything felt hopeless a lot of the time. I drank too much during certain periods. I spent too much money. I let things about myself go when I shouldn't have. But I am glad I did "bad" things along the way too. I needed to test things out and see where I was most comfortable just being, well, me.
So if Mabel asks why were you so OLD when you and Daddy met, as a naive kid might think about a 31 year- old, I don't know exactly what I will tell her. I don't know what I will leave out and what I will keep in. But I want her to know that I struggled. That I felt alone while also feeling shrouded by the close protection of my friends and family. That you can be alone or lonely and still enjoy it. That you can know what you want and feel like you're shouting it from the rooftops and still not have it and feel frustrated and have crying sessions, and still end up okay. That you can have the strength to say something isn't working in your life, even though you are deathly afraid of shame and embarrassment and defeat you might feel.
I want her to know that I am human. And to err is human. And to try things is human. And to be able to look back and shudder at some stuff, and smile at the other stuff, is human... and also very, very satisfying.
I don't know for how long I will continue to have dreams where Mack shows up. Maybe I always will. But the beauty of change-- and time, too-- has been that I don't think of him much anymore in the waking hours. I wish him well and feel no ill will. But if you'd told me in 2008 that there would be a time when I wouldn't ruminate on "How could he dooooo this??" I wouldn't have believed you. Now he is a foggy memory-- an often happy one, for some of our years. But the mind has an amazing capacity to filter. And to let you struggle, and then fight the struggle, and then just be you. Years later, Mack is not a key player, but a memory, and a figure who walks in and out of night dreams. And that seems perfectly ok to me.
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