When I'm a mess, I still put on a vest with an "S" on my chest

"I'm going to be 33, divorced, raising two boys alone!"

 

This is what I screamed for the first six months, through terrified and desperate tears, at my friends, my parents, my sister, my therapist, a couple co-workers, and quite possibly the dog.

 

Two boys who will soon be teenagers, at that.

 

The reality that has come to be is that this is okay. Not as a synonym of ideal, but manageable. Sometimes rewarding. Daily exhausting. I remember having one day a conversation with the wasband, who kept repeating "I don't want it. I want to want it, but I don't want it." This while he was lying on our bed for the first time in months, after taking the kids to school that morning, which ended several days of interaction that left me hopeful things would be okay. I ran to Nashville's house first chance I could, when she was down the street from me, and sat in her family room repeating "I've made a huge mistake" over and over again. At that time, I could not imagine how I would survive heartbroken and partnerless with two children to lead through yet another painfully life-altering event.

You've got to look out for Number One

Part of this journey to redefine our family is finding somewhere new for the boys and me to live. "Expert nester" means I am feathering a nest - mine, yours, my sister's, ones I see on Pinterest - without them actually being mine. So the search for a new abode for me, the boys, the dog and the cat will include full layouts and space planning. If I cannot see my things in it, I cannot put my people in it.

 

I am going rounds with myself about buying vs. renting. What I can afford to rent is not necessarily where I would feel safest alone with two children, and not anywhere in an easy commute to the school. What I can afford to buy may lock me into something it may be difficult to unload in a couple years. Since I fully expect to be making a more significant and permanent geographic change when Jake starts high school, I am running on a two-year housing cycle. In reality, who knows what my housing needs will be in two years. They are dramatically different today than they were two years ago. I need to do the thing that provides the best space for us, is easy on my budget and is not too difficult for me to maintain on my own.

I'm Still Standing

"How are you doing?" or "How are you feeling?" are loaded questions. I am a pillar of strength. I am resolute. I am so f***ing angry. I wish I had the power to inflict as much pain as I have been subjected to. I am so confused and nostalgic I think I might die from it. I am heartbroken. I have dread. I am confident. I am gutted. I am free.

Earlier this week, I inexplicably remembered how emotional we both were on our wedding day. It was a blessing and a miracle to be committing to this lifelong experience together, because we had reclaimed something magnetic after an absence that left big holes in both of us. And here's the thing - I was the least emotional of the pair. I cannot wrap my head around how THAT person is THIS person. I know THIS person, and I did not invite him to my wedding. Where the f*** did THAT person go? How can this BE? Where did my miracle go? That day was too poetic, too profound, too miraculous to have evaporated and lasted no time at all. That day our future could not have been further from where we've ended up, where we have ALWAYS ended up. Shakespearean.

The "including, but not limited to" list

Of what needs to happen at my house before I can sell it. Also known at "A post that I could not think of a song title for."

 

I've put myself on a time-out from the news. At first I was loving the stories of compassion, courage and aid that were coming about the different ways marathon participants and spectators jumped in to save lives and help the injured. Evidence that people really are capable of performing extraordinary acts of courage and kindness are always what I look for in the face of tragedy. Now that the manhunt is on for the second of the two suspects, I cannot stop thinking about his poor family, thousands of miles away in Russia, incredulous and stunned that their little boys grew up to be capable of inflicting such harm to an entire country. I always think about the parents of the perps, whose agony is comparable to the families of the victims, but we demonize them when they usually do not deserve it.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

"But if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need."
The Rolling Stones

I have three best friends. Baton Rouge. Arkansas. Virginia. All three are the kind of ride-or-die friends who will commit capital crimes for you without your having to ask. They were there for the beginning, middle, and/or end of Surviving Him the First Time, and they all had to overcome very strong feelings to permit me to get married for Round Two. When trouble first started this summer, I did not tell them. I knew they would say nothing, and I would know they were trying NOT to say "pack your sh*t." I have never asked them what they thought when I finally told them, individually, that my marriage was taking a break. What all three of them said was "You are beautiful. You are amazing. You are brave and strong and smart, no matter what. And you don't have to live like this."

I Hear You Knockin' But You Can't Come In

When the signs that Things Were Amiss - first signs, teensy tiny little things that no one who did not know him like she drew him herself would have picked up on - started peeking their little heads around the corner , it was a source of consolation to lay in bed and decorate my next sans-husband bedroom, should I end up needing one. Everybody copes differently. I was looking at 75/25 odds he was coming home that kept ooching away from my favor, and I just kept thinking about my next place. My bedroom in particular. My bedroom has been my favorite room in every apartment I've ever had. My bedroom is not my favorite room in my house, which in hindsight should have been a blindingly bright indicator that something needed changing. I actually think the king size bed may symbolize the death of marriage for all eternity, and I'm wholeheartedly opposed to them now. I'd rather be elbowed in the head at night sharing a queen sized bed than ever get unmarried again.

High Five for Friday (i.e. Sweet Jesus It's Almost Over)

First of all, the fact that I even made it to Friday deserves a Hallelujah. All three Allbritton boys kicked my ass all week, starting with five offenses of my wasband on Sunday and the shouting, teary interaction on Monday, simply because I am irrational and he is alive. I'm also currently battling the Mouth of the South, whose favorite word is "just." As in, "I'm just saying...." when he's telling you how wrong you are or "I was just..." when he's defending his complete and total lack of following directions. Jake's Tourette's went into hyperdrive this week - eyes, nose, mouth simultaneously. The rash on his face that we thought was impetigo did not respond to the medicine, so he's off to the dermatologist for his perpetual red Kool-Aid mouth. He also dropped some serious academic balls this week and won an afternoon in detention. And I, single mother of two sons, with aid from their father and grandfather, am trying to impress upon them the importance of good hygiene. It's. the. freaking. weekend.

 

Planting hope with good seeds

"The only things that matter in life are what was true,

and truly said,

and how we treated one another."

Julia Sugarbaker

The second question I get asked, maybe the third, is "how are the boys?" This is an interesting question, because neither Jake nor Landen have really had any sort of emotional falling-out that can be attributed to this particular life event of their dad no longer living with them. It has just been folded in to how they approach life in general, for better and for worse.

High Five for Friday

More appropriately titled "10 PM? At 10PM I will have been in my pajamas for four hours."

 

I am going to try High Five For Friday posts again. I like the snippets of reg'lar life that are not interesting enough for an entire post, but worth a mention. Lauren at From My Grey Desk is the brainchild on H54F, and she's young, childless and fashionable. For a taste of the anti-me, go there.

1.  Did y'all know the jean jacket was back? I did not, until Arkansas Emily dropped in a conversation about the new one she just bought. If J. Crew has it, I feel that it is safe to buy (though not at the J. Crew price.) The Easter bunny bought mine this weekend while she was down taking us to a play and picking up my kids. I wore the sh*t out of a jean jacket when I lived in DC. They became uncool, probably long before I retired mine, and I did get rid of it. It had good wear, so boo on everybody who says "if you haven't worn it in a year, get rid of it." This is proof positive that some things should be held on to.

The stars are stacked against you girl, get back in bed

An email I sent to my friends this evening:

 

Dear friends, I am writing you this note as I make a packing list for my eventual trip to the mother***ing nuthouse. Last night, as Murphy and I were snuggled up watching Nashville, we were startled by what sounded like someone falling down some metal stairs and landing on a metal plate with a very loud THWAP! We then heard something like a small cat flipping the f*** out in our chimney. We have never used it, so the blessed flue is closed. I sat on the floor while Murphy climbed on the hearth to investigate the noises of the creature trying unsuccessfully to climb up the slick, non-brick walls of our chimney. This lasted for about twenty minutes, until the squatter then entered panic mode and began scratching furiously at whatever material keeps him from dropping his fat ass down my chimney. Without a guarantee of stocking-filling and gifts wrapped 'neath the tree, I am in no mood for things to be falling down my chimney and into my fireplace. It is in these situations that I get very irrationally emotional and uncontrollably angry about being left to deal with these types of situations on my own. Listening to the animal try to claw its way into my home and me with no man to handle critters for me, I convinced myself that I could not go to bed. That I would not wake up when the animal came through, ran straight up the stairs with an impeccable sense of direction, and scratched the faces off my kids in their sleep.

How do you solve a problem like a boys' room?

Next up: the boys' room.

 

Every time I do one of these boards, I am so glad I did not go into interior decorating, which was my Plan B in college. Doing any sort of visual representation of my artistic vision is so tedious. I'd rather just spread the torn-out pages of magazines across the dining room table to give an idea of how the elements work together. Y'all can't all fit in my dining room, and I'm not great with company, so I make these boards for you.

 

Apparently I struggle to find my groove in rooms that I do not spend much time in. I have done the boys' bedroom four times in three houses, and it has never been "finished." If they have ever noticed, they have never spoken of it, but I know. And I resolve to do better, and go a little easier on myself in the process. Their room is only going to cost me about $250 in updates, since I am using their current beds and one of the chest of drawers from my bedroom. Whatever apartment we pick after selling our house will be the place we'll call home until Jake picks a high school. The items I've put together here are not age-specific. A boy can easily transition into teenager-ness (groan) among all the elements of this room.