I Know What This Must Look Like . . . .

. . . but Jack is just fine :)

Life 2.0. Letting Go

I am a selfish person. A bit of a control freak. And I didn't truly see that until the separation/divorce.

Because, until recently, I controlled almost every aspect of the girls' lives.

I know who their doctors are. I know when to schedule their appointments. I know that the only hairdresser who can cut Charlotte's stick-straight hair and Hannah's ridiculously thick hair with the same perfection is Suzy at Beauty Queen in San Carlos. I know that, when it comes to yogurt, Hannah will only eat Yoplait low-fat originals and Charlotte will only eat Trader Joe's non-fat French Vanilla. I scheduled their camps and classes and play dates and birthday parties and doctor's appointments. I helped them choose their clothes and shoes and accessories. I said "No" to the plaid skirt-tie-dyed-shirt-polka-dot-tights combo. I got yelled at for it--by them--but I said "No" anyway. Most of the time. I chose most of their books and toys and puzzles. I helped Charlotte with her speech therapy and physical therapy and occupational therapy. In short, I was the boss.

But now I have to share all of that. And I don't like it.

It's not an easy thing to let go of--not even the half time that Thomas has them. And not even when he's doing such a good job at it.

It's not that I didn't think that he could do it. It's that it hadn't ever really occurred to me that he'd need to. It wasn't supposed to be this way--after all, the SAHM thing was my job for almost eight years. And, while there were times when it was hard to be at home, times when I missed interacting with adults, this was my job. It was a job I wanted. A job I still want. A job I didn't know I guarded so jealously until last night, when I saw the papers for Hannah's new school. The papers that had a name--not mine--at the top. The papers that listed an address--not mine--as her home. Her home is with me only on Wednesdays and Thursdays and every other Friday/Saturday/Sunday. And that's hard. Even when he's doing such a good job.

Between the two of us and the two houses, we've somehow managed it so that the girls actually do chores now. They make their beds (almost) every morning before breakfast. They know how to fold clothes--theoretically, sure, but it's a start. They put away their toys. Sometimes. They take off their shoes when they come in the house. They get up and go to camp and go to bed when someone tells them to. Charlotte does push ups (or tries to), which is really good for her shoulder girdle. Hannah showed me the proper way to do crunches which is, let's face it, really good for my abs.

Next week is the first week of school. And Monday is a particularly important day, as it will be Charlotte's first day of Kindergarten. My baby off to school. All grown up, as she thinks, even if I'm not ready to admit it. And Monday morning isn't my morning to have them, so I won't be the one getting them ready for their first day of school, helping to choose their clothes and do their hair and pack their lunches and get their backpacks ready.

But I will still get to practice the mad rush to be at line-up on time; there's no way I'm going to miss walking with Charlotte to Mrs Baldini's classroom, marveling--as we did with Hannah--that that tiny little person is ready to go to school. And I go to school with Hannah for her first day, too, and try not to worry because I know that math homework at the Smarty Pants school is going to be even harder for me than her second grade algebra and plane geometry were. Fortunately, Thomas is pretty good at math, too.

I don't write anymore . . . .

. . . . and I hate it.

I write for my job, but it's not the same.


But for this, for me, I can't find a space, a voice , a reason.


I don't want to write stuff that would come from Angry-hurt-soon-to-be-divorced woman. Sometimes, what seems reasonable to be angry or hurt about on Monday is totally pointless on Wednesday. But I need to write. It's what I do. I actually dream in chapters and credits.


Really.


Some nights, my dreams will be prefaced with a "Chapter III" page. Some nights, I roll credits at the end of the dream. It doesn't matter if I've actually seen the dream. Credits will roll. Better than Alice in Wonderland, I suppose, when heads roll. But. I had a point.


My point was . . . . ?


Oh yes . . .


I write. I need to write. But I feel like I can't write about the stuff that is closest to my heart these days. I don't want to hurt people who may not deserve it. I don't want to publish things I can't take back. But I'm left feeling as though my tongue were cut out and my hands cut off, with no way to say how and what I feel.

Divorce is an ugly thing, no matter how hard you try to make it otherwise. You spent too many years studying one another, figuring out which button to push and when. And some days, one or the other of you will relish pushing that button, just because you can. And some days, you say things you can't ever take back.

And some days, I remember what Hannah said when she found the DIY divorce book in my room: "What if every page said, "Don't do it?"

It makes me sad, but the answer still has to be, "Sometimes, you just have to do it."

'tis True

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.

~Anatole France

Hannah: My Seven-Year-Old Happy Pill

As she watched me get dressed this morning, Hannah looked me over approvingly and said, "Diamonds."

As she knew that I was already wearing the diamond earrings, I asked what she meant.

"If I were a 40 or 41 year old guy, that's what I'd think. You're gorgeous. Like diamonds."

As I'm still working on being less self-deprecating, it was hard not to add "But diamonds are cold and hard."

For once I took the compliment and mentally added, "Yes, like diamonds. Full of unexpected fire." I like that better.

Now I'll just work on believing it.

Hannah-ism, on Sibling Rivalry

The girls were sitting at the counter, finishing dinner, when Hannah challenged Charlotte to a race to the bottom of their milk glasses.

Silly me:

"Hannah, not everything has to be a competition."

Hannah, once again showing a frankness beyond her years:

"Mom, it's been a competition since the day you brought her home from the hospital."

Missing My Girlies

I went in to check on the girls last night, as I have almost every night since they were born. In fact, when I count it up, I think that there were fewer than two dozen nights I’d not been home to slip in, pull up their covers and kiss them good-night before I went to bed.

Hannah is always first, because if I wake Charlotte up, even a bit, I will have to either race from the room before she wakes all the way—meaning that I have to skip Hannah—or I will end up sitting with her until she falls asleep again.

So last night, I climbed up to kiss Hannah. I felt around the bed for her—she likes to make a nest and disappear—and then I remembered. “They’re with Thomas.” Not with me. And, lest you think I’ve completely lost it, it wasn’t that I’d forgotten where they were. It was complete reflex. Muscle memory. Heart memory. Whatever you want to call it.

They spent a couple of days with Thomas last week and Sunday, of course, but I’d been so exhausted from the seemingly interminable move and starting a new job and working late on the nights they were with him and then coming home to unpack boxes and trying to create a bit of order somewhere that, though of course I missed them, I hadn’t had time to notice how quiet and hollow and empty the house felt. How I felt.

I worked late again tonight, but the minute I got home and put the key in the lock I began to cry. That’s one way (though absolutely not recommended) to season your scrambled egg dinner when you can’t remember in which box you packed the salt.

So tonight, I vacuumed. I unpacked more boxes. I worked. I wrote this. I did laundry. And the dishes. And talked to my BIL and to my sister. And unpacked more boxes and worked a bit more. I made Charlotte’s bed so it wouldn’t still look like there was a little person in it, though that seemed like a good idea last night. I put on their bedtime music and tried to convince myself that it will get better. Everyone says it will. Maybe it will. But not today.