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.