When it's over, but not done

Nobody tells you that when it's over, it's not done.

The table is big and oak and could likely tell quite the tales of what it's seen. The pens are new, and the papers are crisp and official. The judge is old and he talks and talks and talks. He goes on and on. Only after do you realize that while you can't even speak or look up for fear of the tears, the judge does this every week. It's not the end of his chapter that he is signing, witnessing and notarizing; it’s yours. It's not his partner, his family, his hopes or his dreams that he is declaring legally null and void, it's yours. So you decide not to hate him and instead to focus on breathing while he passes the papers around the room. You reply with the requested "yes" or "no" at the questions you are required to answer. You breathe evenly to keep your voice from cracking. And then, while you are focused on the inhale and exhale, on how the knot in the table looks like the knot in your stomach, everyone rises and shakes hands. And that's...it.

You knew that it wouldn't be easy and that you did not want what happened in this room to define the day. So, in advance you asked if you could have lunch together. Eating and drinking were always something you were so good at doing together. So you go and you eat and you drink. You eat off of each other’s plates because old habits die hard. You taste his drink because he insists and you've never been able to say no to him. You talk and you laugh and there are a few jabs but mostly it’s ok because you pretend that it's not what it is, that it's just lunch. Then it's over and you stand on the street realizing that it's the most bizarre goodbye ever. You hug and congratulate each other for getting through it without killing each other. Then when you climb in your car, alone, you finally realize that the foreign feeling you couldn't place is numb. You've moved past angry, past heartbroken, past remorse. You feel completely and utterly numb.

So you drive and you walk in the cold, waiting for feeling to return to your fingertips, your feet and your brain. You breathe and try to connect with the relief you thought you'd feel. You cry and try to reach the bottom you thought you'd already hit. None of that comes.

So you go home and you move on. You live and laugh and work and parent and love and only when it's quiet do you allow yourself to know that there's no such thing as over. You have mounds of paperwork and finances to wade through. You have calendars to plan and holidays to coordinate and children who want their "family" to be as present as before. You have friends who expect you to show up. You have new relationships that fill you with hope but need to be introduced and explained with care and sensitivity.

So you go on and everything has changed, but a few things have not. You still can't seem to communicate well, you still seem to argue and hurt each other as much as you help and need each other. You still seem to see everything differently and feel everything differently. But most of all for you, you still love and miss and cry sometimes, too. And he still seems to hate all of that about you.

You realize it will never be done. Instead, you start to try to figure out what the next part will look like. And you hope that you two can do this part better. That you'll get there with practice, with patience that neither of you own, with faith that is tested daily, with compassion you've never given each other, with humility you will both need, and, most of all, with a reminder that there was love there once, and maybe for you, always.

Drawing inspriation from...

I could lament about how long it's been since I posted or the why (how long do you have?), instead I will say that I am not ready to put pen to paper about all that is going on in my life right now (sometimes even the loud ones need quiet time) but there something I want to share.

I am a very lucky almost 40. I have led a rich life, full of some of the most amazing humans. In the last few weeks, I have thought on more than one occasion that several are also talented, raw and honest bloggers too.

The more I get wrapped up in the slog of day-to-day the less I am focused on what is real, what is lasting and what is important. My mantra has always been "if it won't fit on my headstone, it can't run my life."

I want to share here a few of them, some are very private, intimate and even difficult to read. Some are lighter but no less engaging and powerful. I am proud to say that each of these people has had an impact on my life in the last 40 years and I thank them for their inspiration.

Amy (my sleep away camp counselor) is one of the funniest people I've ever known, who is now dealing with one of the hardest things life can throw at you - when your child wants to die. https://wheresmypoolboy.wordpress.com/

Adam (my first boyfriend, in 6th grade) was always a kind and gentle soul. He's navigating the middle ground between family and career and writing for "Life of Dad."
http://www.lifeofdad.com/blog_post.php?pid=20012
http://www.lifeofdad.com/blog_post.php?pid=19955

Brit (a "newish" colleague) whose writing is beautiful and whose faith is inspiring. Reading her blog reminds me how much we gain when we focus not on what makes us different, but what makes us the same.
http://taminglions.org/

I am sure there are others I missed or don't know about. But for today, this is who is keeping me inspired.

Unconditional

When thoughts are at the tip of my fingers and I desperately need to put them down, I have no question about why I write. It's cathartic. It's the "why I share" that I am often asked to defend. I don't share it because I am a particularly good writer or because I profit in any way. I share because I am an avid reader. I read all day, every day. So much of what I read touches me, appalls me, moves me and often scares me. But, it reaches me. There are days I will read something and I will swear I must have written it or that the author must have a secret window to my soul. And it is that feeling of being understood, of being less alone, less afraid, that pushes me to share. It is not always easy or comfortable but it is always worth it.

My parents just left after an incredible 4 day weekend together. The first in my new house, the first with me alone with my kids. I am incredibly sad, but even more grateful. My parents are as "normal" as anyone else, but to me they are the epitome, the picture of unconditional love. I thought about writing them a letter in private, but realized that is simply not my way.

In life, there are very few people who can and will love us unconditionally. For me, that is my parents. I talk a lot about "who shows up" and "loving us when we are unlovable." In my almost 40 years, I can honestly say there has not been a single time that my parents were not there when I needed them. Physically, emotionally, financially - all of it. They have delivered tough love when I've been an idiot and been my soft place to land when my world was falling apart. They always show up. They always make their love known. There are no conditions to their love. They do not wait to be asked or invited. They do not back down in my defense and they do not lie when I am wrong. They are simply always there.

We fight, we are Jewish, loud, opinionated and human; of course we fight. They drive me crazy and I them. We are as imperfect as any family, with our skeletons, our insanity, our "ways" and our stupid jokes. But they are always there. They have taught me more than anyone else ever has about life, love and my own worth. They have shown by example what it means to be a family. They have cared for our sick, our elderly and our broken. They have rarely asked for help, but when they do it is always with a thread of regret at having to.

This weekend they helped turn my house into my home. My father worked tirelessly, for days, handing, drilling, nailing, screwing, measuring, but never complaining. All the while only concerned that we would not have accomplished everything on my list. He is my hero. He is a saint with endless patience, love and devotion. My mom never stopped planning, making lists and approving everything we did. She is my greatest advocate, my best critic and the voice in the back of my head. As a child there was little my parents did not sacrifice to give my brother and I everything we needed. The 12 year old brat I was never understood why I couldn't have everything I wanted too. Like all of the kids around me. As a parent, I get it and realize it was likely the most valuable lesson they taught us.

My greatest wish is that I am half the parent to my girls. That I sacrifice my needs for theirs when it makes sense. That I instill in them the same self worth, unconditional love and support I have and that I always show up. At the end of the day, that one act is all we need.

Wisdom Before 7am

This was the first thing I read this morning.

“Divorce is always good news. I know that sounds weird, but it's true because no good marriage has ever ended in divorce. That would be sad. If two people were married and ... they just had a great thing and then they got divorced, that would be really sad. But that has happened zero times." Comedian Louis C.K.

It was before 7am, the sun was not up and coffee had yet to be ingested. That might be why I questioned how much it resonated at first. It was sarcastic, harsh and yet…boldly and completely true.

Divorce is sad. We were (and sometimes still are) sad. Our children were (and sometimes still are) sad. Endings are often sad. One of the smartest women I’ve had the privilege of knowing, once said to me, “I got divorced once. It had a beginning, a middle and an end. The end was awesome.” And that’s it really, isn’t it? Once you’ve made the decision, then the hard part really becomes getting it done. Getting from the beginning to the end without being enemies, being the best parents and people that we can. But we fall down too. Divorce makes us forget that we were once married to this person, that we loved them. Divorce often overshadows the fact that we might actually feel OK on our own. We forget to see that we are actually growing, rediscovering, shedding negative self-images and even simply laughing more.

Divorce is sad but it needs an end. At some point it gets to be over. As you move closer to the end you realize so many things about yourself. I am stronger, more independent and more badass than I ever knew. This will likely be unpopular, but I AM A BETTER PARENT when parenting alone. I am more present. I am more patient. I am more grateful. I am both more and less rigid and flexible. I am more open. Quite simply, I am more me. I am also learning to be more open to constructive criticism from their dad when I fall down. Words that I’d have been too defensive to hear in the past, now resonate with truth and the need for change.

Divorce is sad but we don’t need to be forever. Our divorce will always be sad, but eventually all of us, we can be happy.

Basket (not bucket) List

It's like riding a bike, right? Except, I've never lived alone. I've never ridden this bike before. The tires seem thinner, the seat less worn, the handle bars harder to grip and the road longer. But there's a basket. I've never had a basket before. Always wanted one, but baskets seemed like something someone else had, that I coveted from afar.

This basket is woven, no obvious beginning or end. It was empty, so open to possibility. So I began to fill it with things I never even knew I'd need for my adventure. I began the ride and a list formed on the horizon. A list of "never befores" and "maybe I cans" and "why haven't I evers?"

1. Packing the car for a road trip as the only driver
2. Summer adventure with my kids
3. Driving in Manhattan
4. Mowing my lawn
5. Living alone
6. Choosing everything for my new home – paint, décor, furniture, set-up
7. Fixing and building things on my own instead of asking for help
8. Buying my first house alone
9. Asking amazing friends for help and support during surgery and recovery
10. Trusting my parents adult to adults
11. Creating circles of trust, support and community

And the list goes on, and the basket fills, and the journey is endless, and the ride gets easier as I go.

Change of Address

 

I loved our house. Truly. We were sort of forced into it when out first house sold in 14 days and the buyers wanted to close 5 minutes later. There was little on the market at the time, and the idea of renting for a year with little kids and a dog put me over the edge. He was less than enthusiastic about the new house. But I pushed. What else is new? I wanted “home” and “done” and it was beautiful and big and had 100 times more closet space than the first house. It was always a source of contention. Every time anything went wrong in the house, I was reminded that it was I who chose it.

Now my house belongs to someone else, and technically I am homeless for a while. That is not to liken myself to people who are actually without the means to have a roof over their heads. But I have to admit, it’s been a sock in the gut every time I have been asked for my address in the last few weeks and had none to give. The look on the receptionist’s face at the pediatrician almost did me in. My mail seems to be lost in space, my belongings are being stored in pods at a storage facility, and my sanity was lost somewhere between here and there.

As we locked the door behind us last week for the last time, my older daughter was crying. He was crying. I was numb. She talked about it being the last time we’d live together as a family. Both girls made it clear they did not want to even drive past the house once it wasn’t ours anymore.

I have purchased a new house, for the first time, on my own. Ever dollar and every ounce of blood, sweat and tears I have will go into making it a home. One of the two homes my kids will go between. It doesn’t close for another month; hence the “no address.”

Our divorce is not yet final either. Finality appears to be elusive in these times. Despite trying to do it amicably and make things cheaper and faster, the reality is a sluggish process filled with angst, endless compromise and 700 legal terms I need defined. It’s a weird and awkward in-between space. We talk about the kids and the details, but rarely -- if ever -- about us anymore. Our 14^th anniversary is in a few weeks, and Hallmark simply does not make a card for that one. Could be a goldmine, considering.

I am a painfully honest person, often to a fault. So when I am asked (several times a day) how I am doing, I generally respond as such.

“I’m treading water.”

“I’m coming undone.”

“I’m doing my best”

“I’m sad.”

I’ve learned that most people don’t actually want those answers. They are disappointed or speechless, disinterested, or overwhelmed. But some of them get it. And they show up. With coffee and ice cream and wine and offers of company and dinner and “can I take the kids” or “move in with me, for as long as you need.” And I am once again reminded that this entire experience has rocked my world, but the silver lining have been the rocks in my life. Those I’d anticipated, and those I’d never have expected, but who are the most beautiful gifts nonetheless.

Miles melt away as those who love me hold my hand and my heart. They remind me that I am worthy and that there is a light at the end of this dark path. Friends near and far, who were keeping their own secrets about being in a similar place, call and write and ask for guidance, love and support in their journey. As much as my heart aches for them, it also warms, knowing I am not alone. Knowing that I have been there and get it. That bond creates deep and powerful friendship, where previously there had just been a surface knowing.

Earlier this week I made the decision to go to NY and stay with my family. A short visit had always been planned, but it will now be a few weeks. My brother and sister-in-law are having a baby (my first niece!) and I am sending the kids to sleep away camp from the Long Island bus stop. I work for myself and can set up shop anywhere, so that was easy enough to figure out. But the truth is, I need to get out of Dodge. For the first time in 20 years, the idea of the cocoon of my parents and my childhood home is calling my name and I am heeding the call.

When I return I will begin Chapter 2. Baby steps for sure. New house, new unmarried status, new address and, I guess, in many ways a discovery of a new me.

That new me will likely need some very cute change of address cards.

So THIS is 39...

So THIS is 39…

I love birthdays. I mean really, really, love. I enjoy making a big deal out of loved ones special days, and prefer that my own lasts a week -- or even perhaps a month. So I wasn’t quite prepared for the way 39 would feel. It’s not 40 and it’s certainly not 25. It just, well…39.

I had the pleasure of emailing with my 12^th grade Social Studies teacher this week. She was floored that I was 39. She is only 7 years my senior, but 21 years ago that was a world of difference. She had completed college and graduate school. I had gone to prom and gotten my license. Today, so many of my peers and friends are 10 years my senior or 10 years my junior. Where we are in our lives is the thread that binds, no longer our ages.

So this is 39, I pondered as I woke to the sound of my kids’ voices singing to me. Over the phone. Because they were with their dad and not jumping in my bed.

So this is 39, I thought as I applied eye cream to de-puff my eyes, sunblock to protect my skin (even though it’s only 56 degrees) and plucked hairs I can only see with the 3x mirror. And as I counted the gray hairs on my head and the ones not on my head (OMG). I made a list, to add to my list, to be incorporated into the master list. Of course, without all three I will forget.

So this is 39, I smiled as the number of people wishing me well on Facebook climbed over 100. Some of them had been wishing me a happy birthday for over three decades. I was reminded that I have kept a promise to myself – don’t burn bridges. I am still in touch with every guy I’ve dated and every boss and close colleague.

So this is 39, I breathed deeply. 38 was a year defined by change. My family has a new version of itself. My home and my life are altered. I am forever and remarkably different. The last year has been steeped in hard and painful moments, peppered with incredible friends and family lifting me up, supporting me and loving me when I did not feel so loveable.

So this is 39, with a measure of acceptance. I accept that I am a mommy of two girls who finally understands what there is about my body and mind to love. Sharing that understanding with them is what will make the difference. I accept that people will judge my choices, mistakes and words, and I can still believe in them. I accept that when life is at its toughest, I will be floored by who comes through and who just can’t or won’t. I accept that I am worthy, deserving and entitled to happiness. I accept that I need to work hard for all of that, and I will want to give up on a regular basis.

So this is 39, and I am healthy and I eat well. I should exercise more for my mind than for my body. I need to stop putting off the mammogram and admit that too much wine is a guaranteed night of restless sleep. I need to commit to sleep, as it is elusive when I stress.

So this is 39, and I own my own business and just bought my first house on my own. I pay bills and taxes and worry about interest rates, 529s and the Dow; but I am still carded when buying wine at Trader Joe’s.

So this is 39, and I am a mommy to kids with real worries and angst, who talk back and question the world, and yet still expect me to have all of the answers. They try my patience and break my heart with their sweetness, all in a matter of minutes. They are me and they are their dad, but such better versions. They are small adults and big babies all at once. They are the very heart of me.

So this is 39, and I am starting a new chapter. It is terrifying and overwhelming, but also exciting and energizing. I am realizing that I am just beginning to truly know the adult me, to appreciate, understand and love myself again. But I am also vulnerable and raw -- and often still naïve. I do not always guard my heart as I should, or consider my words well enough. I am still a work in progress.

So this is 39. Happy Birthday to me.