Suburban Goddess

You completely take your mother for granted until you have a child. Then, you suddenly have an epiphany, “OH MY GOD, SHE WAS RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING!!!” And you are humbled, and it’s like you start life over with a new understanding and appreciation for exactly what it means to be taken for granted. You had NO IDEA what it was like to be taken for granted before you had that kid. Life is HARD with a child.

Then you look at women who have more than one child. These women should be held with the same reverence as Olympic marathon runners. It takes STAMINA to keep up with just ONE… it takes an impairment of mental judgement to elect to multiply that factor. (ARE you CRAZY???) These women are, in my book, either completely insane or incredibly enlightened. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

But then you take the single mothers, and now you have a level of respect that I have only recently learned to understand. To do it all by yourself, you are stronger than anyone could ever imagine. There are days I cannot cope with the overwhelming sense of disappointment… I broke down this weekend and called my mother to come help me. It is now that I am learning that for my daughter’s own good, I must swallow some of the pride I’ve hidden behind for so long and ask for help. My mother remembers that even as a baby, I was fiercely independent, wanting to do everything myself. It’s 31 years of self-sufficience, 31 years of stubbornness, 31 years of pride… to go against everything that you’ve ever been.

That’s what you will do for your child.

If I had one wish, it would be for life to be this way.

“Yuck, how can you eat that crap?”

“What? Honey?” I said as I poured it liberally into my cup of Earl Gray.

“YUCK! That’s so gross!”

“What’s gross about it? It’s good!” I licked the drop of honey from my finger and watched my cohort shudder violently.

“You’re eating…. bee excrement! Bee crap! Bee sh*t! Barf!”

“Thanks for completely and utterly ruining my morning tea. Now, everytime I take a sip, there will be this little mental image of a bee sitting on the crapper, reading his Bee Weekly…”

I spoke to my father yesterday, who had spent the day with his best friend. It was the anniversary of the death of his son. The boy was sixteen years old, the third and final son of a prominent doctor. He had everything he ever wanted; as the baby, he was spoiled rotten. I remember watching the boy grow from a pudgy-faced toddler to a tall, handsome teen.

Five years ago, I received a phone call while camping with Chip & some friends. My father had been trying to reach me for over 48 hours; Danny had committed suicide. His father had an extensive gun collection, and occasionally pulled one out in his personal indoor firing range. Danny had taken one of the pistols, gone down into the firing range, and shot himself in the head right below the family home. His suicide note was angry and vengeful; it wasn’t the letter of the boy we all knew. My father took on the task of cleaning the room where Danny died; it was too much for the family to endure.

So every year, on the anniversary of Danny’s death, my father has called me. I don’t know if it is a conscious effort, or if he’s just thankful that he doesn’t have to endure that kind of grief and subconsciously needs to hear his baby’s voice. I know that he we hung up the phone, and I thought about the loss that his friend has to live with, suddenly my problems didn’t seem quite so huge.

I reached for Alex and held her tightly.

When you commit to life with someone, there is an unspoken future that you just come to assume will be there. As I looked around my home, I saw things that I wanted to fix “down the road.” Taking out the carpet & putting in hardwood floors, building out a hutch in the enclave, painting, watching the jasmine grow up over the arbor…. There is also a whole life you’ve imagined; taking your daughter to Disney together for the first time, camping out together, planning her wedding & watching her father walk her down the aisle and then return to hold my hand while we watch our little girl begin a life of her own…

So when your marriage starts to fail, you don’t just lose the NOW, you lose that entire unspoken future that you just assumed would happen. Then comes the crushing sense of complete & total loss that leaves you feeling lost and completely alone.

But the reality is, the future is not written yet. Which is why you can’t ever give up hope. Maybe the future won’t turn out as you planned, but if you’re always looking for the future, you miss NOW. And NOW only sucks if you let it. I vow to live now, and let the future handle itself. You can live an entire lifetime worrying about things that may never happen.

DISCLAIMER: The following post is extremely personal & pretty brutal at times. Tread carefully.

I thought my “separation” was going pretty well. We were having great conversations; honest and direct, airing out all the dirty laundry. We kissed like we hadn’t kissed in years. He called & emailed, like we did before. Things were going what I percieved as a positive direction. On Friday, my iPod died, and I dropped a little hint jokingly. I was astonished to come home to find a brand new one sitting on the counter. Knowing I had a photo shoot early the next morning, I invited him to just stay. He did, on the couch. And at 11:00pm, the phone rang.

There’s a lot of history with the person who was on the other end. Nothing sordid & bizarre, but the person was once romantically linked to me. I say “romantically linked” in a guarded way; we never actually had a relationship. We never slept together; our relationship never got to the physical point. But we talked a lot. He used to work with me many years ago. Chip & I hit a very rocky point in our relationship because I could not accept his unwillingness to commit. He broke up with me, citing “irreconcilable differences.” So at that point, Randy stepped in. He made it pretty clear that he would like to have a relationship with me, but I wasn’t ready to start over yet. So we became friends, and he, Dylan (another good friend) & I would hit the clubs of New Orleans. They cared about me, and my well-being, and they made me feel like I was worth something. To them, I was independent, fierce, funny, and fun to be around. And so it went for a couple of weeks, until Chip decided he wanted to be with me after all.

Randy took it pretty hard. He wasn’t the most emotionally stable person to begin with. He began to spend more & more time around my office, until I became uncomfortable. I told my boss about it, and he was given a stern warning to stay far away from my side of the building. After a few weeks, things settled down. I was able to wave “hi” in the hallway; eventually we started to speak again in a normal way. But with the inter-office “restraining order” still in effect, I was mortified about a week later to see him being escorted out of the building by police officers.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He was fired for sexual harrassment because he wouldn’t stay away from your office,” my boss told me. I was floored. I felt sick. I was completely responsible for ruining this guy’s career, when all he wanted to do was be my friend. But there was nothing I could do about it. I was ashamed to tell Chip the truth, so I didn’t. I just told him he was fired for sexual harrassment because he wouldn’t stay out of my office.

A couple of weeks later, I called Randy to apologize. I felt I owned him that much. He was actually pretty forgiving; the company had decided to re-hire him on a contract basis, which meant he actually got to charge them even more. So in a roundabout way, he said I did him a huge favor. We both knew better, but I appreciated him trying to make me feel better.

Meanwhile, Chip had finally decided that he wanted to marry me. We proceeded with the wedding plans. I still emailed Randy on a pretty regular basis; I considered him to be a pretty good friend. He was easy to talk to, and never judged me. I could be completely, sometimes brutaly honest, about myself, about him & his occasionally whacked out behavior, and he never got angry. I appreciated that about him. It was easy to open up and tell him personal things. I didn’t think twice about it.

One afternoon I returned home and found Chip angrier than I’ve ever seen him. Apparently I had left an email open on the computer, & he read it. (Side note: I know he didn’t go digging for it, he’s not that type of person.) The email was to Randy, and there were some pretty personal comments in it. I understood Chip’s anger; he thought I’d stopped talking to the guy. To find out that your fiancé was having some heartfelt conversations with a guy who was fired for sexually harassing her didn’t make much sense to him. We were only a few weeks away from our wedding; the invitations were sent, the plans were made, the tickets were paid for. He felt betrayed and decieved. I didn’t understand it at first, because there was no physical relationship, but Chip put it in a way that hit home.

“You’re sharing things that only people in serious relationships share.” He had a point. He told me to make a decision, him or Randy. I chose Chip, for the second time. I cut off all ties to Randy, cut him completely out of my life. I changed my email address and closed the one we corresponded through. He didn’t understand what he’d done to be treated so coldly by me, but respected my wishes. Shortly afterwards, he moved out of the state. I was married to Chip on May 4, 2002, and never looked back.

Fast forward a few years, and I became pregnant. I told everyone I knew, including Dylan. Word travels on the grapevine, and Dylan called one day to ask a request. Randy just wanted to wish me congratulations, and could he email just to catch up? I didn’t see any harm in it. Enough time had passed that he would have moved on. So I gave him my new email, and we started to write once more.

But this time it was different. I always remained respectful of Chip and my relationship; I didn’t divulge personal details anymore. We talked about our jobs, our families, and our relationships without crossing that inappropriate barrier. He moved often; Florida, Colorado, and finally Baltimore. Part of me was envious of his nomadic lifestyle, but it really gave me an appreciation for home. I was surprised at how much different he had become. He was mature, focused, & centered. I was proud of him.

I kept the emails secret from Chip; our previous dealing with Randy had almost torn us apart, despite the fact that he never understood that it was only HIM that I’ve ever wanted. I was actually very happy for Randy a couple of months ago when he wrote me to tell me he was engaged. He’s a great guy; he deserves happiness. And so it’s gone for the past few months, the occasional emails, until Chip & I hit a rocky spot once again.

When Chip moved out two days after Christmas, he left to a remote section of Oklahoma where his cell phone had little to no reception. I took it pretty hard, thinking he didn’t even want to talk to me. So here it was, the holidays, alone, no contact and no direction from the man that I love. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know if it was over, or if this was just one of his “cooling off” periods. So I wrote all my guy freinds for an opinion. They all said the same thing, “Wait it out. Let him figure it out, and don’t dwell on it. Live your life.” So I did. I called old friends. I wrote everyone I knew. I circled the wagons & prepared for the fight of my life. During that time, I sent an email to every contact in my address book with all my contact information, a blatant and obvious distress signal. Randy called.

I spoke to him about a week ago. He works as an IT professional, so his hours are bizarre. He called at 10:00pm, on his way home. I told him I didn’t feel comfortable with the call, 1) because it was so late, 2) because of my current relationship issues, & 3) because he was in a committed relationship. He wanted me to know he was just worried about me, and to hang in there. He remembered how much I hated being alone at night. The next day, I actually recieved an email from his fiancé, which blew me away. Her name is Kristine, and she wanted me to know that Randy had told her all about me a long time ago. We sent a couple of emails back & forth during the day, and I was pleased to find her witty, charming, and very sympathetic. She invited me to their wedding in June (7-7-7), and hoped that I would be able to bring Chip & Alex with me. I doubted very seriously that would happen, even if we do work it out.

So the calls came about every third day (later I found out that he & Dylan had made a pact to take turns), just a simple phone call in the evening to say, “Hey, you okay?”

Which brings me full circle to Friday night. I went to bed about 9:00pm, a smile on my face because the day had gone so well. The phone rang at 11:00pm, & Chip answered.

Now, if I put myself in Chip’s shoes, I’d be pretty pissed off, too. I mean, there’s no way around it, it looks BAD. But I have this desparate feeling of, “But I didn’t do anything wrong!” In actuality, I understand that I did. I should not have ever re-established contact with Randy, knowing how much it would hurt Chip. Because when you love someone, you make those kinds of sacrifices.

The timing couldn’t have been any worse. I feel like he using this as his excuse now. It’s his free ticket out. He already told one of our neighbors, “Yeah, her ex-boyfriend called in the middle of the night.” That was GREAT dinner conversation with friends. Of course, once I explained it, it didn’t look so bad. Because it’s not. I love Chip, & want to be with Chip. (Do you understand that????)

Chip is the one who has decided to check out of this relationship. Yes, I made some mistakes, some pretty big ones. But the focus was, and still is, I love you, Chip. I am not perfect. I am self-conscious, I have low self-esteem, and I am needy. I did not give you the attention you wanted, but you weren’t giving any, either. It’s a double-edged sword here.

Now is the time to decide: are you going to accept me for the flawed being that I am, or are you going to run away again? I know I hurt you, but the fact of the matter is, if you’d been here, none of this would be happening now. You hurt me, too. Consider us even. Now grow up & come home.

I’ve been eating more green crap than roomful of daycare kids. Lettuce, broccoli, celery, yada, yada, yada… and let me tell you something. Not only do I NOT have more energy, I actually feel LARGER than when I started. My poor stomach is distended & bloated & I feel that if someone were to poke me with a stick, I’d pop like a three-day old corpse. (Too much? Yeah, maybe a little…)

Seriously, though, I think my body is going into shock.

“What is this green stuff? Hey, Lady, are you crazy? Where’s the mozzarella sticks & chocolate? I can’t digest this crap! Hey, maybe you’re starving… are we stuck on a deserted island? Is that why you’re feeding me seaweed? Maybe I should hold onto this stuff for a while, since there’s obviously something going on out there. There MUST be, since you’re only eating grass & leaves…..Here, let me poof up. Maybe if I poof up, you’ll notice that eating massive amounts of yard clippings is not recommended, and I’ll get something FRIED.”

And so it goes…eating healthy makes me more poofy than when I started. Now that the entire world has been briefed on the state of my digestive grief, I can move on to other topics. Like the state of my sinuses. Or the lint in my poofy bellybutton. If I could FIND my bellybutton…

Diets suck.

Over the past two weeks my beautiful, sweet baby girl has began the transformation into the spawn of Satan. Before you blast me for being a horrible mother, consider the evidence:

1.) Playtime with Bubby (the dog) now consists of whacking him with her toys and pulling his long black hair. Thankfully, he is a patient and docile creature, but it has become a common occurence for us to meet eyes while she has a handful of hair, his expression one of pained suffering, as if to say, “Lady, how much more of this must I endure?” To which I reply, “Sorry, Bubby, but she does it to me, too.”

2.) Hitting Mommy. I was completely taken aback the other day when I tried to remove a box of raisins from her grasp & was rewarded with a smack and a growl. Satan, get thee out of my child!

3.) Spitting. I thought I’d escaped this lovely little habit, but apparently she was just growing into it. Trying to be a kind & loving Mommy, I gave her a small piece of a candy bar after dinner. She feigned wanting a kiss from me, so I leaned in (SUCKER!) and SPLAT! Slobbery chocolate cookie goodness all over my face. Linda Blair has nothing on this child. I swear, I waited for her head to spin around.

Kicking, screaming, hitting, spitting, and just general meanness is starting to surface. I was so taken aback by the change of behavior that I solicited the advice of my therapist, afraid that my marital situation might be part of the problem. But my husband and I have never been physical in our altercations. Hell, we don’t even yell. But my therapist assured me, there is absolutely nothing unusual about this behavior. In fact, she laughed gently at my concern.

“She’s just testing her independence,” she smiled encouragingly.

My God! How is one supposed to deal with this? I am at my wit’s end! Time to dust off the rosary and head down to the church for a little holy water. Rough waters ahead!

Some years ago, while I still lived in New Orleans, I was late to an appointment. Louisiana roadways are nothing like Texas; four lanes in Louisiana are saved for sprawling metropolises such as Lafayette or Baton Rouge. So I was stuck on a two lane highway behind a Toyota Camry. There was just enough traffic coming in the other lane to prevent me from passing the Toyota, which was traveling at a constant speed of 35 MPH, despite the 55 MPH speed limit.

I grew more & more agitated, blinking my lights, swerving back & forth in the lane, and running up on the bumper of the small car. Nothing fazed the driver; they continued to drive 20 MPH under the speed limit. In a rare expression of road rage, I began to honk the horn, something I NEVER do. In a last ditch effort of frustration, I let out a string of explatives that would make a sailor blush. Finally, I saw an opportunity to pass. I hit the gas of my vehicle and had my middle finger poised for a friendly salute, when I saw the driver had a passanger.

They were nuns.

Oops.

“Happy endings are just stories that haven’t ended yet.” - Mrs. Smith

It took exactly 48 hours for me to come back to myself. By that, I mean, returning to my personality B.C. (Before Chip). In 48 hours, I realized I have been living someone else’s life for almost two years, possibly longer. In 48 hours, I realized that I wasn’t doing it through any duress by him, but a self-imposed exile from myself because of a crippling fear of being alone.

I have now been alone for over 48 hours, and I’m not dead yet. I know that sounds ridiculous, but it was truly an epiphany for me. The worst thing that could happen is that he could decide not to come back. Reality check; I still have a life to live. And now I’m responsible for another life, a life that depends on me.

This may come off as a melancholy post, but it is anything but that. Whether the story ends now or later, you CAN have a happy ending. It may not be the ending you expected, but life is too short to worry about the endings that could have been…