You get to almost 40, and you think you know stuff. If you're a shrink raised by shrinks, you think you know the capacity of human emotion. Yet, there's always room for humility and growth. I find myself there with Neat Guy. I really, truly, had no idea love was like this. It's similar to the love I have for my children in its naturalness and depth. Yet also a passionate and abiding love like that modeled by my mom and stepdad. To experience it myself...I search for words. "Wonderful" barely covers it. It's this great mix of wonderous, comfortable, warm, heady, exciting, tender, safe, natural, inspiring, and joyous. I feel lucky, blessed, fortunate. I feel loved.
Neat Guy and I are going on 10 months together. I'm thrilled to say that he's all the things I've written previously, and a few extra. Exhilerating top notes of infatuation have lifted to reveal the comforting heartbeat of a relationship that both nurtures and stimulates. That's a fancy way of saying the new has worn off and what's underneath is even better. This is different than what I've known before.
I think this might even be normal.
Our daughters were talking marriage 8 months ago. We call that "Disney Princess Speed". In fact, I think it was on the second meeting that my oldest told Neat Guy, "We're gonna need a bigger house." She wasn't joking. There are 5 kids between us.
Asking if there is a future for us is like asking if we plan to keep breathing. The big picture requires a good balance of pragmatism and romance. I think of how good this journey with him has been. And that it has been healthy because we've been honest, laughed, and taken our time. The result is a relationship that is "comfy and joyful" [his words :-) ] and better than I ever imagined.
10 Great Things About My Relationship with Neat Guy:
1) He is always himself.
2) I can see how much he loves me in his eyes.
3) We laugh together.
4) His family is a wonderful bunch of people. You can see how he got that way.
5) My family adores him. My mom brags about him to other people.
6) Our kids get along.
7) Our kids want us together.
8) We have common goals.
9) We have mutual respect and appreciation.
10) I trust him.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Birthday
Today I am 39. Its already the best bithday in a decade. Today I have peace, friendship, and love. Nothing tops that. Last weekend my parents worked with my daughters to throw a family party. All day long they worked on steak, presents, and KitKat(my 11 y/o)baked our favorite chocolate cake from scratch. KitKat and my parents got me tickets to see Cake Boss on Tuesday, which also gave KK and I much needed bonding time. Throughout the week I received handmade cards full of touching poetry from my sensitive 9 year old and carefully formed letters spelling "I love mom" from my adorable 6 year old. I love my family.
Wednesday Neat Guy asked what I wanted to do on my birthday. Thursday and Friday he counted down via text. I'm not used to having my significant other do that...which made it all the sweeter. Last night I enjoyed laughing through dinner with his daughter (Miss M)and son (H) then snuggling with Miss M in our new matching fleece jackets. And best of all, they gave me a framed photo of the 3 of them smiling and talking. I love my man, and his kids.
Later I logged onto FaceBook to find a birthday tribute from my best friend Miss Daisy (yeahisaidit@blogspot.com). With humor and insight she beautifully described our 11 year friendship. I love my bff.
It's my birthday and I am blessed.
Wednesday Neat Guy asked what I wanted to do on my birthday. Thursday and Friday he counted down via text. I'm not used to having my significant other do that...which made it all the sweeter. Last night I enjoyed laughing through dinner with his daughter (Miss M)and son (H) then snuggling with Miss M in our new matching fleece jackets. And best of all, they gave me a framed photo of the 3 of them smiling and talking. I love my man, and his kids.
Later I logged onto FaceBook to find a birthday tribute from my best friend Miss Daisy (yeahisaidit@blogspot.com). With humor and insight she beautifully described our 11 year friendship. I love my bff.
It's my birthday and I am blessed.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Single Parenting: It Takes a Village (and caffeine)
There is not enough of me to go around. Any past concept I had of "spread thin" is now laughable. I am a divorced working mom who has sole custody of 3 "boisterous" girls, owns her own home, has animals, and a litigious and antagonistic ex husband. The saving grace is that I have a lot of support in the form of wonderful parents, morale boosting extended family, a awesome best friend who lives 7 houses down, and a really Neat Guy for a boyfriend. I also happen to be damn resilient. Otherwise, I'd be inpatient somewhere.
Seriously.
If you know a single parent who does 90% of the parenting alone, hug them for me. Because it's HARD. Really hard. Rough and exhausting like I had no concept of before. I have an army of support behind me, but no one can replace me on the front lines. That's kind of panic inducing all by itself. Throw in the general kid stuff like doctor and dental appointments and illnesses. Add to that all of the girls go to therapy--we average 2 therapy appointments a week. Meals. Homework. Class projects. School clothes. Overnights. Laundry. Puberty. And being as involved as possible at their schools, PTA, parent night, holiday parties. Our theme song is the William Tell Overture. The middle schooler has recently been asked to join 2 groups and honor choir, which means more schedule juggling and driving but dang, she needs that right now. And they ought to be in sports, or so I'm told frequently by the professionals I've hired to keep us all from falling apart.
And that's just the kids. There's the house: It's a great little house, brand new, and I enjoy it. It's mine. ALL mine. The mortgage, the bills, the things that grow, the things that break, the things that need maintenance, the things that wear out, the things that need cleaning. I edge the lawn with scissors. It's somewhat meditative. Neat Guy has been known to come over and use the correct machine to do the job. Nature Guy (Miss Daisy's husband) looked at me the other day as I was absentmindedly snipping away and said, "Seriously? I can get my weed eater." I mow a great lawn, but apparently weed eating requires depth perception I do not possess. Apartment? No thanks. My kids are, um, boisterous. And I'm just too much of a worrywart to let them roam in an apartment complex. Here I can see the neighborhood park from my back porch.
Those awesome people in my life need my attention also. And I need theirs. Which is why Miss Daisy drinks so much coffee at my house. And why I spend long hours cocooned from the world with Neat Guy on weekends my girls are gone, . And why my mom and I talk pretty much every day, and see each other several times a week. I help them wherever I can, you know, to reciprocate. It's a pride thing. I can tell you now, in my mind I owe my parents forever.
These are listed in order of importance...next would be that thing called "work". It's a flexible job. Fee for service. There are days I'm panicking because I'm not putting in the hours I had in mind. Never mind the money even. The panic is because a client is freaking out and needs more of my time. Or I have a goal to see someone twice a week and I've only seen them once for 2 weeks in a row. Or I forgot the next day billing is due and my printer decides to go offline and run out of ink. (WHY is it that only happens on a deadline?)
So then there's me, right? Gotta take care of number....4? Well, to keep the things above running is also to care for myself to some extent. If I could get more of anything it would be: rest and massages. That's a crap shoot though, with kids that crawl into bed at night and a puppy alarm clock, and no live-in masseuse. I manage pretty well given the task. Nowhere near perfect, but what the heck would that even look like? Imperfectly it is: prayer, great relationships, dishes in the sink, hugging my kids, laughing, appreciating the eye candy of nature, reminding myself to breathe, strange lawn habits, posted schedules, creating, time managment via iPhone reminders, shared meals, long walks, coffee, and gratitude.
Seriously.
If you know a single parent who does 90% of the parenting alone, hug them for me. Because it's HARD. Really hard. Rough and exhausting like I had no concept of before. I have an army of support behind me, but no one can replace me on the front lines. That's kind of panic inducing all by itself. Throw in the general kid stuff like doctor and dental appointments and illnesses. Add to that all of the girls go to therapy--we average 2 therapy appointments a week. Meals. Homework. Class projects. School clothes. Overnights. Laundry. Puberty. And being as involved as possible at their schools, PTA, parent night, holiday parties. Our theme song is the William Tell Overture. The middle schooler has recently been asked to join 2 groups and honor choir, which means more schedule juggling and driving but dang, she needs that right now. And they ought to be in sports, or so I'm told frequently by the professionals I've hired to keep us all from falling apart.
And that's just the kids. There's the house: It's a great little house, brand new, and I enjoy it. It's mine. ALL mine. The mortgage, the bills, the things that grow, the things that break, the things that need maintenance, the things that wear out, the things that need cleaning. I edge the lawn with scissors. It's somewhat meditative. Neat Guy has been known to come over and use the correct machine to do the job. Nature Guy (Miss Daisy's husband) looked at me the other day as I was absentmindedly snipping away and said, "Seriously? I can get my weed eater." I mow a great lawn, but apparently weed eating requires depth perception I do not possess. Apartment? No thanks. My kids are, um, boisterous. And I'm just too much of a worrywart to let them roam in an apartment complex. Here I can see the neighborhood park from my back porch.
Those awesome people in my life need my attention also. And I need theirs. Which is why Miss Daisy drinks so much coffee at my house. And why I spend long hours cocooned from the world with Neat Guy on weekends my girls are gone, . And why my mom and I talk pretty much every day, and see each other several times a week. I help them wherever I can, you know, to reciprocate. It's a pride thing. I can tell you now, in my mind I owe my parents forever.
These are listed in order of importance...next would be that thing called "work". It's a flexible job. Fee for service. There are days I'm panicking because I'm not putting in the hours I had in mind. Never mind the money even. The panic is because a client is freaking out and needs more of my time. Or I have a goal to see someone twice a week and I've only seen them once for 2 weeks in a row. Or I forgot the next day billing is due and my printer decides to go offline and run out of ink. (WHY is it that only happens on a deadline?)
So then there's me, right? Gotta take care of number....4? Well, to keep the things above running is also to care for myself to some extent. If I could get more of anything it would be: rest and massages. That's a crap shoot though, with kids that crawl into bed at night and a puppy alarm clock, and no live-in masseuse. I manage pretty well given the task. Nowhere near perfect, but what the heck would that even look like? Imperfectly it is: prayer, great relationships, dishes in the sink, hugging my kids, laughing, appreciating the eye candy of nature, reminding myself to breathe, strange lawn habits, posted schedules, creating, time managment via iPhone reminders, shared meals, long walks, coffee, and gratitude.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Balto P. Coltrane
Gentle readers, let me introduce you to our new canine addition, Balto. Also known as "Carl" (Neat Guy), "Balto P. Coltrane" (Me), and "Balto Pickle Train" (the 6 year old). Other name suggestions were "Sparkles" and "S'More". The rescue vet named him after her favorite movie. Men under 45 snicker and ask if I'm going to change his name. I would, if we could agree on anything.
Like his namesake, Balto appears to be part Husky. And perhaps Boxer, with a smidge of Pit Bull Terrier. He likes to chew things. Most recently he ate 2" of fringe tethered by 4 feet of string to a throw pillow. All the fighting and gagging in the world wasn't going to break that string or help him swallow that pillow. Finally Miss Daisy hand over hand pulled the lump of fringe out of the dog. It looked like she fished up a dead wet mouse. My best friend ROCKS.
Like his namesake, Balto appears to be part Husky. And perhaps Boxer, with a smidge of Pit Bull Terrier. He likes to chew things. Most recently he ate 2" of fringe tethered by 4 feet of string to a throw pillow. All the fighting and gagging in the world wasn't going to break that string or help him swallow that pillow. Finally Miss Daisy hand over hand pulled the lump of fringe out of the dog. It looked like she fished up a dead wet mouse. My best friend ROCKS.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Beware the Walking Wounded
It's the vulnerability of the wounded soul that is attractive. The hint that we can help and will reap the reward of this fantastic individual's greatness that is, we are told, momentairily overshadowed by a deep unhealed rend. For in every other way they are okay--maybe even fantastic. They are charming, beautiful, intelligent and a whole host of outstanding qualities that make the wound seem out of place.
We learn to love the person around the wound. Sometimes it is as though they are whole, and those are wonderful moments. Moments that keep us going for days, months, years, decades to come. Moments recalled as we sit dumbfounded in pain. How could someone who loves us so much hurt us so badly? So intentionally? So maliciously?
"What did I do?" becomes the question. Surely we must have caused this, inadvertantly salted the wound. And they are quick to agree, "It's not me, it's you", sometimes said so smoothly we hardly notice the prick. We walk upon eggshells, we cater, we go above, we go beyond, we get angry, and sometimes we go mad. Crazy. Trying to reignite the warmth of the lover, for the cold and barren place within their wound is such that most of us have never experienced.
There is a vampire like quality to this love. They are cold. We are warm. They draw the life out of us and into themselves. We emerge anemic, disoriented, harmed. They are energized, full of vitality (our vitality). Temporairily. For it is not theirs to keep, only consume. And that is how they survive.
When this person wants you, you are both prey and muse. A symbol of what they want and want to be, elevated above all others. But you are never "you". They have an infantile view of loved ones as extensions of themselves and they react to your departure as a betrayal.
Sometimes it takes a while to understand the dynamic. Our soul was not meant to sustain two. And the wound that they alternately hide and flaunt is not a wound, but a void. Like a black hole, it draws into itself and obliterates what it consumes. To feed it is to make it hungrier. To feed it is to waste the precious gift of our own soul.
Once you have transfused with this person a trace of them stays with you forever--To your benefit, because the memory will act as your alarm system. You will feel it in your gut, perhaps taste it as bile in your mouth. They will see the door of opportunity shut and move on as if you suddenly blended completely into the landscape. Neutrality is repellant.
Because what you know is that wounds don't heal from the outside in but from the inside out. And no amount of love, sex, money, religion, or adulation packed into that wound will ever do--such things will only become contaminated by the festering underneath. To heal a physical wound, nurture the body. To heal a psychological wound, nurture the soul. Take it into you, chew it, process it, let it become a part of you and rebuke the infection. Go forth whole.
We learn to love the person around the wound. Sometimes it is as though they are whole, and those are wonderful moments. Moments that keep us going for days, months, years, decades to come. Moments recalled as we sit dumbfounded in pain. How could someone who loves us so much hurt us so badly? So intentionally? So maliciously?
"What did I do?" becomes the question. Surely we must have caused this, inadvertantly salted the wound. And they are quick to agree, "It's not me, it's you", sometimes said so smoothly we hardly notice the prick. We walk upon eggshells, we cater, we go above, we go beyond, we get angry, and sometimes we go mad. Crazy. Trying to reignite the warmth of the lover, for the cold and barren place within their wound is such that most of us have never experienced.
There is a vampire like quality to this love. They are cold. We are warm. They draw the life out of us and into themselves. We emerge anemic, disoriented, harmed. They are energized, full of vitality (our vitality). Temporairily. For it is not theirs to keep, only consume. And that is how they survive.
When this person wants you, you are both prey and muse. A symbol of what they want and want to be, elevated above all others. But you are never "you". They have an infantile view of loved ones as extensions of themselves and they react to your departure as a betrayal.
Sometimes it takes a while to understand the dynamic. Our soul was not meant to sustain two. And the wound that they alternately hide and flaunt is not a wound, but a void. Like a black hole, it draws into itself and obliterates what it consumes. To feed it is to make it hungrier. To feed it is to waste the precious gift of our own soul.
Once you have transfused with this person a trace of them stays with you forever--To your benefit, because the memory will act as your alarm system. You will feel it in your gut, perhaps taste it as bile in your mouth. They will see the door of opportunity shut and move on as if you suddenly blended completely into the landscape. Neutrality is repellant.
Because what you know is that wounds don't heal from the outside in but from the inside out. And no amount of love, sex, money, religion, or adulation packed into that wound will ever do--such things will only become contaminated by the festering underneath. To heal a physical wound, nurture the body. To heal a psychological wound, nurture the soul. Take it into you, chew it, process it, let it become a part of you and rebuke the infection. Go forth whole.
originally written Wednesday, July 1, 2009 at 10:21pm
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Parenting, Puberty, and the Autism Spectrum
My precious, precocious, oldest daughter has a diagnosis of PDD-NOS, Pervasive Developmental Disorder Not Otherwise Specified. "The pervasive developmental disorders, or autism spectrum disorders, range from a severe form, called autistic disorder, to a milder form, Asperger syndrome. If a child has symptoms of either of these disorders, but does not meet the specific criteria for either, the diagnosis is called pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified (PDD-NOS)." Which, diagnostically, trumps her ADHD diagnosis although the two conditions can co-exist.
Just to look at her you'd not expect much different from your typical preteen. Her IQ is a little above average and she makes good grades in school. She's friendly and polite. She is healthy. She has very few "glaring" symptoms. Rather she has a range of symptoms that, depending how stressed she is, present as behavior that is quirky, odd, immature, or uncooperative. I do not mind my child being quirky. That runs in the family. The challenge for me is to keep in mind that she isn't "just" odd, immature, or uncooperative--important to remember especially when she's driving me nuts. She percieves the world a little differently. Traditional guidance/discipline (such as the universal "parental glare of disapproval") often doesn't have the desired result.
At age 11 1/2, she is very tall and clearly entering puberty with all of the usual hormonal repercussions. I had allowed myself to put the PDD-NOS on the back burner. With a high conflict divorce there was always some fire to put out in therapy. Plus there has been a social skills ebb and flow; she will be noticeably behind peers, then the gap will almost close to within normal range (as it did for most of 5th grade). A few months ago my daughter expressed her fears of managing socially in middle school--concerns echoed by her therapist--and PDD-NOS was back on the radar. Social issues are a hallmark of this disorder, as if middle school wasn't already social torture. And I realized we had been cruising along on my understanding of autism in young children. Adolescence is a different racket. And I have some homework to do.
One of the BEST information sites for Autism Spectrum disorders that I have found is from the National Institute of Mental Health. Click here to view.
Just to look at her you'd not expect much different from your typical preteen. Her IQ is a little above average and she makes good grades in school. She's friendly and polite. She is healthy. She has very few "glaring" symptoms. Rather she has a range of symptoms that, depending how stressed she is, present as behavior that is quirky, odd, immature, or uncooperative. I do not mind my child being quirky. That runs in the family. The challenge for me is to keep in mind that she isn't "just" odd, immature, or uncooperative--important to remember especially when she's driving me nuts. She percieves the world a little differently. Traditional guidance/discipline (such as the universal "parental glare of disapproval") often doesn't have the desired result.
At age 11 1/2, she is very tall and clearly entering puberty with all of the usual hormonal repercussions. I had allowed myself to put the PDD-NOS on the back burner. With a high conflict divorce there was always some fire to put out in therapy. Plus there has been a social skills ebb and flow; she will be noticeably behind peers, then the gap will almost close to within normal range (as it did for most of 5th grade). A few months ago my daughter expressed her fears of managing socially in middle school--concerns echoed by her therapist--and PDD-NOS was back on the radar. Social issues are a hallmark of this disorder, as if middle school wasn't already social torture. And I realized we had been cruising along on my understanding of autism in young children. Adolescence is a different racket. And I have some homework to do.
One of the BEST information sites for Autism Spectrum disorders that I have found is from the National Institute of Mental Health. Click here to view.
Friday, July 15, 2011
A Weekend With Dad
This past weekend Neat Guy and I traveled to IL to see my father. The guys wanted to meet each other. When your father is 82 and having memory issues you feel a sense of urgency about these things. Dad recieved a provisional diagnosis of Vascular Dementia last month. At the time of diagnosis he was in pretty bad shape. Now he's been on medications for about a month and has stabilized...fairly well...Well enough to refuse to attend the neurology and psychiatry appointments his PCP arranged. "I worked in neurology for 5 years!" bellows my father, a retired neuropsychologist/farmer. "What are they going to tell me about myself that I don't already know? And they want money up front!"
Dad and Neat Guy hit it off. We talked and laughed for the entire 3 days. Neat Guy enjoyed the fatherly Q&A thus earning himself the honor of being the only man my sister or I have dated that my father has actually liked.
The first day we went to the family farm. Dad tinkered with his riding lawn mower, then used the wiley old farmer tactic of asking Neat Guy to test it out. Next thing I knew my boyfriend had mowed the entire property and Dad was grinning from ear to ear. We ate at Dairy Queen every day. DQ is Dad's favorite restaruant, perhaps because he is diabetic. One day he ate 2 large Blizzards and an ice cream cone. Another day Dad shuffled to the Walmart checkout with his prescriptions and beer. He swore it was non-alcoholic. It wasn't. He attempted to look surprised, then elected to make the best of things and enjoy a couple anyway. Damn the Rx warning labels! This is classic Dad. And this is why I fondly refer to him as "the Geriatric Delinquent".
Aphasia was his most obvious symptom. Second to that was apathy. He said several times he has "no ambition". He struggles to recall how to operate convenience machines: his computer, the tv remotes, the air conditioning thermostat. He forgot I was there last month. He doesn't feel safe behind the wheel of a car. He feels physically weak. But he answers phone calls with his characteristic deep "HELLO!!". And he still tells stories that have me laughing until I can barely breathe. He remembers back country roads spanning multiple counties. He worries about his farm cat. He bitches about my habit of placing a hand inside the steering wheel to make turns. He hangs his laundry out to dry because he likes the smell of the sun in his clothes. With a contemplative look and a wave of his hand he says, "As long as I can look around me and see beautiful things in nature, people enjoying themselves, I'm okay. I want to be here."
Dad and Neat Guy hit it off. We talked and laughed for the entire 3 days. Neat Guy enjoyed the fatherly Q&A thus earning himself the honor of being the only man my sister or I have dated that my father has actually liked.
The first day we went to the family farm. Dad tinkered with his riding lawn mower, then used the wiley old farmer tactic of asking Neat Guy to test it out. Next thing I knew my boyfriend had mowed the entire property and Dad was grinning from ear to ear. We ate at Dairy Queen every day. DQ is Dad's favorite restaruant, perhaps because he is diabetic. One day he ate 2 large Blizzards and an ice cream cone. Another day Dad shuffled to the Walmart checkout with his prescriptions and beer. He swore it was non-alcoholic. It wasn't. He attempted to look surprised, then elected to make the best of things and enjoy a couple anyway. Damn the Rx warning labels! This is classic Dad. And this is why I fondly refer to him as "the Geriatric Delinquent".
Aphasia was his most obvious symptom. Second to that was apathy. He said several times he has "no ambition". He struggles to recall how to operate convenience machines: his computer, the tv remotes, the air conditioning thermostat. He forgot I was there last month. He doesn't feel safe behind the wheel of a car. He feels physically weak. But he answers phone calls with his characteristic deep "HELLO!!". And he still tells stories that have me laughing until I can barely breathe. He remembers back country roads spanning multiple counties. He worries about his farm cat. He bitches about my habit of placing a hand inside the steering wheel to make turns. He hangs his laundry out to dry because he likes the smell of the sun in his clothes. With a contemplative look and a wave of his hand he says, "As long as I can look around me and see beautiful things in nature, people enjoying themselves, I'm okay. I want to be here."
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