The Victory

I’m on a plane right now, traveling to see two old friends in Utah. A bit of a last minute “Girls’ Trip,” my invitation came by way of text. “Come to Park City Jan. 27. Just say yes.” And I, in uncharacteristic spontaneous fashion, acting without detail (difficult for a hard core planner), booked a flight on the prescribed dates, trusting in hotel accommodations and plans made by others. I don’t know what called to me exactly-; the chance to unwind with no agenda, my bum knee prohibiting any skiing – the invitation from two girls who had known the pre-marriage me, pre-divorce me and the me that was now a proud divorcee – or the vision of a snow-covered town ripe with romance and quaint winter coziness? Regardless, I was on my way.

The eve of this trip made me nostalgic. Sitting with my boyfriend over plates of sushi, I shared with him my rambling mind. Something about the trip had transported me to my pre-kid adventures, then on to the newborn & divorce stage, (whose co-existence make that a time I rarely re-visit, for reasons of trauma and for fear of the emotions I didn’t have time to feel) – to the sweet side of that life- as a single mom of two tiny strangers – who would soon become my reason for living.

And the strangest feeling arose. And I don’t say it as a cop out- or as a way of glossing over the hard parts. I know some of those unprocessed memories are still there, and I know I must re-visit them at some point. But while I shared stories and pictures from that chaotic and confusing time, I felt victory. VICTORY.

For those who don’t know the truth of my past, my mind had transported me to a time when my hard-won Invitro twins were 15 months old. My husband at the time hadn’t spoken to me in 8 months, though we lived in the same home. His parenting responsibilities started at none when he shut us all out in May, and gradually increased to 4 hours once a week, after a successful email negotiation designed to give me a much needed break. I was a few weeks away from finally giving up; and moving out. As I said. It’s not a place in my past I revisit often.

In survivor mode as I was, I couldn’t acknowledge that what I was doing was fucking hard. Absolutely terrifying. When people would say, “I don’t know how you do it!” I’d brush it off with a brusque, “What choice do I have?” As if accepting their awe and praise would somehow make the struggle too real – as if admitting the truth might break my resolve, might diffuse the effective fog I’d laboriously thrown over my situation.

So sitting in the safety of a softly-lit restaurant, across from a stable and secure partner who valued and respected me at levels deeper than I’d known, I was finally free to accept the win. And bursting silently with pride, I shared with him some of my truth. I showed him pictures of our weekly jogs to Starbucks – two 15-month old babies in a Schwinn jogger with a tired but determined mom who showed up religiously at the shop a mile or so away. For respite from my silent and angry home, and joyful oatmeal (them) and a Latte (me) and most importantly peace. If I’m honest, I’ll admit that even in those moments I was proud. The jog was less about losing the baby weight than it was about proving to the world that I was strong and able. That I could do this. The staff and regulars at Starbucks regarded me with a certain affection, a bit of awe.
In that fragile time, though I convinced myself otherwise, I very much doubt I hid the hurt on my face, the fear in my eyes. And in that I found compassion. From the fellow diners who opened the door for us, to the many people who stopped to admire my babies to the Baristas who knew just what we wanted. Perhaps my vulnerability tapped something in people that allowed such behavior, or maybe in that state I was simply desperate to see it.

So now, four years out from those haggard days and fearful nights, I am finally ready to declare victory. I’ll stop short of a Mission Accomplished banner on an Airforce carrier. I know the battle is not over, nor fully won. I know there are frustrations and fears ahead of me. I know there is another court battle looming, another nasty challenge from my ex in my email box. No, the victory is not legal. It’s not formal. It’s mental.

It’s arriving on the other side of a very long, very dark tunnel, and knowing that the world is still difficult, still challenging and still uncertain; but admitting to myself and to those who have been with me through this battle that I’m proud of what I did. That there was great joy in the midst of fear and adrenaline and disappointment. And that I can celebrate that time, and even face it now – proud of the person who emerged from the other side. Despite the tears, the failings, the poor decisions and the wrong ones. Without the darkness, there could be no light.

Today I celebrate the light.

Good at Goodbye

Tonight, my ex picked the kids up for “his half” of Easter weekend. Hopped up on sugar and Egg Hunt adrenaline, with faces painted like bunny rabbits, they went this time without a fight and with minimal complaint. My daughter in her Hello Kitty nightgown, my son in shorts and a tee (they dress themselves now).

But as my three-year-old boy stood in the yard frantically waving and yelling “BYE!” with all of his 34 pounds of force, it occurred to me; My kids are getting good at goodbye.

Like it or not, the fact that my marriage couldn’t (and shouldn’t) survive, means that “goodbye” will be a regular part of their lives for the next 15 years. It means that from the time they were 15 months old, coming and going has been the norm.

And I’m not sure, in the big picture, quite what that means.

I know this. It means two bedrooms, and two Easters and two Christmases, of course. It means two sets of toys, two closets of clothes and two summer vacations. But it also means two lists of rules, two beds to adjust to and one parent to miss at any given time.

It means that two parents don’t kiss them goodnight each night. And two parents don’t wake them up on Easter morning. Two parents aren’t there at dinnertime and two parents don’t spend sunny Sundays in the park.

So what?

Will the goodbyes make them resilient and adaptable? Or detached and untethered? Does the half-and-half lifestyle mean they get half of the Mom and Dad they deserve? Or does it mean they get all of them, just half the time? Again, I’m not sure.

Are we “good enough” as two ones, and can we love them twice as much in half the time, so as to keep the reserves full for the regular absences?

I don’t know. But I know laying here tonight and picturing that waving three-foot-tall bunny-boy, I pray, and hope, and promise, and commit to make it so.

Thoughts on the People Wearing Rice Jerseys

I’m going to be honest. I haven’t watched the Rice video. I have no need and no desire to. I know what I need to know, and I’ll get no thrill out of watching still more violence against women in a culture full of it.

The NFL, albeit under pressure and extremely belatedly, took the right action and made a vital statement to our kids, both girls and boys.

He took way too long to do it, but ultimately Roger Goodell sent an overdue message. Boys, if you treat women this way, there will be lasting consequences in your life. Girls, this nation will not stand by and celebrate the barbaric men who abuse women.

At least, most of us won’t.

Which brings me to the idiots wearing Ray Rice jerseys this weekend. Both women and men who feel like it’s okay to walk around making the public statement, “If you can catch a ball, it’s okay if you beat the shit out of your wife.” Men who, through their actions, are telling their sons, “it’s ok to hit girls. They probably had it coming.” Women, through their wardrobe choice are telling their daughters, “If he’s a big deal, famous or successful, you deserve abuse from him.”

It’s a sickening display of the misogyny deeply-rooted in our nation and of the unwillingness of the cowardly men and women mentioned above to take a meaningful stand.

To all of those people, both women and men – please, please spend a day in a domestic violence shelter. If you’re too lazy or afraid, spend some time reading #whyIstayed on Twitter and understand what these women go through. Then maybe, just maybe, consider why you feel an abusive man is worthy of your blind adoration. What’s wrong with you?

Girls who are exposed to domestic violence are much more likely to become victims themselves. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/22/domestic-abuse-psa_n_4645569.html

My three-year old boy and girl are too young to know who Rice is, or what domestic violence means, but this controversy has forced me to think about what I’ll teach them. And here it is.

For my son. It is not ever acceptable to hit or harm a woman. Men who do so are cowardly and sick. They are insecure people who have a demented addiction to power and need control to feel like real men. But they aren’t. Real men stand up for the weakest among us, know right from wrong and do whatever is necessary to protect their families. They respect women and draw their masculinity from character and not physical prowess.

To my daughter, you will expect nothing less than the deep-rooted and genuine respect of men in your life. You will demand to be treated well and will never settle for a man who would harm you, be it emotionally or physically. I hope when you are old enough to choose a partner, you will seek character over looks, and value mental and emotional strength over physical abilities. You are valuable and worthy of love. You are strong and resilient.

And to both of them, there are people in this world who just don’t get it. People who are swept by the power of celebrity and who have been robbed of moral code. Don’t accept them.

If I’ve done my job, you know what is important and what is right. Don’t listen to what society tells you. It’s usually wrong.

There are those who, for reasons sometimes beyond their control, are victimized by other people. Help them, don’t judge them. We can’t understand everyone’s challenges. Stand up when they can’t.

And yes. Go enjoy sporting events, movies and the other entertainment of our day.

But when you choose a hero, or a role model, please look beyond total yardage or movie reviews. Model your life and your expectations after something deeper.

Reject those who fail to reject injustice, meaningless violence and abuse.

And don’t wear a Ray Rice jersey.