Because I Didn’t Know What to Say This Morning

Dear Friend,

We’ve known each other for 20 years. I’ve known you since you were a gangly teenager with a goofy smile and a wonderfully warped sense of humor. (If I’m telling all the tales, and I don’t even know if you remember this, through a series of miscommunications and misunderstandings, you were the first boy to see me completely nekkid. To your credit, you did not gawk. Nicely done). Through the mixed miracle that is the Internet, we’ve seen pictures of each others lives on the book of faces, you’ve kicked my ass at words with friends, I’ve appreciated your comments on my blog. And then, this morning, the Internet brought me your message. A message sent out to a select group of people, tastefully announcing that you and your wife are getting separated.

After I got over my mild jealousy that you’d figured out such a great way to get the word out (when it happened to me, I had no idea how to let people know. The papers won’t publish un-wedding announcements…), I found it just a little bit tough to breathe.

I lose my breath every time I hear it. I have been hearing it a lot, these days. There’s something about this age we’ve all achieved, all us 30-40-ish folks. It seems like some of us are all “Oh HELL no, I refuse to let the time I have left be miserable/unfulfilling/painful/unproductive/etc., etc.”

It’s happening quite a bit. And I’m shocked that it still shocks me.

But it does.

And once the shock subsides, I go into some Momma Bear/Divorce Fairy mode. I want to bring the person into my living room and make them tea and give them a nice quilt to curl up with and close the curtains so they can feel comfortable crying the Ugly Cry. And I want to tell them all the stuff I learned. So here, all I can think of at this moment, is thecompletely unsolicited advice I can muster.

1. Cry. Cry a lot. And don’t freak out when the crying starts at uncomfortable and awkward times/places. People understand. And you need to do it. Don’t deny the ugly hurt. It’s happening, and pretending it’s not will only make things worse. You’re a dude, so I don’t know that this will translate for you, but the whole separation thing felt like childbirth to me. I kept feeling like I could go around the contractions. At a point, I realized I had to stop skirting them, face them, go through them. Same thing with the emotional pain. Go ahead and mourn. You might feel like there’s been a death. There has.

2. Go to mediation. The government provides a free/cheap service. It was invaluable for us. It made us talk. Having a stranger in the room made us act like the best possible people we could be. And it let us map out how our lives would work during this crazy-ass, upside down time. Kind of like triage.

3. I know you want to handle this maturely. But when things can’t stay civil (and believe me, it is really, really hard to talk about things like money and kids without thinking “I used to love you, and do stuff with you, and we had so many awesome inside jokes, and you want to haggle over the fucking lawn-mower???”), don’t sweat it too hard. It’s not a straight line. There can/probably will be setbacks.

Having said that….

4. Keep your eyes on the prize. Picture how you want your family to work a year, 5 years, 10 years from now. And act accordingly. What helped for me was looking at a divorced couple I knew, who came to their son’s school plays together, and still talked and laughed, and even though in the beginning I never thought I’d get there, having role models helped.

5. The co-parenting was harder than I thought it would be. At first, I didn’t know why. I honestly believed that even though my ex and I didn’t love each other, we could parent with no problems. And when that didn’t happen, I was a bit mystified. We parent together wonderfully now, and I went back to when I first felt that way, to figure out what had been wrong. The turning point, for me, happened during a discussion about money. There was a moment when things got incredibly heated. I was as stressed as I’d ever been(which was saying a lot). And then my ex looked at me, and used a phrase I hadn’t heard him say since back when we’d been young, and this person who’d become a complete stranger to me since the day we separated? Well, all of a sudden, I could see him again.

I had been trying to parent with a stranger. And who can trust a stranger?

Which leads to

6. It gets better.

Time, in and of itself, does most of the work for you. It puts distance between you and the ugliness. It dulls the pointy memories. It makes you realize you’re still breathing, and this thing hasn’t ended you.

In my case, it made my life so much better. I was pouring ridiculous amounts of time and energy into something that turned around and sucked all that energy right back out of me, and then some. When it ended, I put that energy into other things. Figuring out who the hell adult-me is. Being a waaay better parent. And being excited about life. Probably for the first time, ever.

All of this might apply to you. None of it might apply to you. I don’t know. But it’s what I have to give you. Plus my number, which you have, never hesitate to use it.

Virtual hugs and mega-good thoughts,

Ginny

Thankful

I can only assume this dog did something very, very heinous in its last life.

On this, Canadian Thanksgiving (and no, I do not know why Canadian Thanksgiving is a month and a half before American Thanksgiving, nor do I have the inclination to even google that shit, which is weird, really, because I am always the first to google everything, guess I’m having an off day), the completely incomplete list of stuff for which I am thankful:

Heated seats. I cannot believe we considered ourselves a civilized people before these were a thing.

Finally, finally being able to hear my intuition. Getting a grasp on up, down, left, right, real.

The butt end of roast beef. Where it is super well done, and all the taste is super-nitro concentrated. Aw yeaaah.

The test caught it. And I’m ok.

Warm children. Who take up too much bed and have terrible morning breath and make my heart explode every day.

Knock on wood, but no god damn head lice.

That someone had the grapes to finally declare an end to a not good marriage. Even if it wasn’t me.

Red wine. Specifically, anything by the Australians. Who intuited that I was tired of worrying about whether or not I would have a corkscrew with me.

The friend who nearly always has a corkscrew with her.

My nieces and my nephews. That there are plural of them. That I got to watch them mix with my babies this summer. That I have seen all my sisters and my brother in the past year. That I have them all to miss.

That, after assuming it would never happen to me, I get to see what smitten looks like. That nearly every day, it’s there, looking at me as soon as I open my eyes.

Actually, everything, all of it, really.

A Letter to My Child’s Teacher, Whom I Suspect is a Sadist: Revisited

This post originally appeared waaaay back in 2009, my first kick at the can that is school supply shopping. In 2010, it was a non-event, with lowered standards, and a wee bit more savvy, on my part.

2011 was a guerilla affair. A free afternoon and a “let’s get this shit over with” attitude.  The option of a pre-packaged bunch of supplies, through the kids’ school was offered to me. And the masochist in me teamed up with my swiss-cheese brain to deny me that option.

So today, I dove in, list in hand.  I was doing well, not being a slave to the list, making flexibility my watch word.  Until I got to this item:

“1 – exercise book (40 pg) – Redi tabs with tabs (4 per pak)”

WHAT INTO THE FUCK IS THAT???  Books with tabs?  One book with 4 tabs, but a pack of 4 of them?

I called my go-to friend for these situations.  (I have no idea why she still takes my calls, this time of year.)  Even she came up flummoxed.

And as I felt a struggle coming on, I was rewarded.

With my very own personal shopper.

No kidding.  One of the guys at the big box stationery store (rhymes with Maples) asked me if he could help.  We joked about the screening process for children who didn’t show up with the right size glue stick

(“You brought the 21g size?  You were specifically asked for the 40g.  No third grade for you this year, Smith!  Hit the bricks!”)  Sensing he was one of the good guys, I enlisted him to help with the exercise book conundrum.  And he did.   And then he just kind of took my list and did my shopping.

 

I think I saw god. 

 

Anywho, just in case you forgot, here’s what it was like (but only sort of) the first time around:

 

Dear Mrs. X:

 

In just over a week, you will be my son’s Grade 1 teacher.  He is ever so excited to be under your tutelage.  Why, since the last day of kindergarten, entering your class was all he could talk about.  He gleefully thrust a piece of paper into my hand on that June afternoon, and said, “Here’s  a list of the stuff I need for school next September!”

 

And I have to admit, I, too, was excited.  I’m a school supplies geek from way back.  And so, in early August, I set out to buy the items you’d listed.

 

It was on my fourth store that the realization began to sink in.

 

You’re a crafty bitch, aren’t you?

 

This list was a thinly disguised test.  Could I find the items, exactly as you’d prescribed?  Because if not, my son would be That Kid, the one with the Problem Mother, Who Can’t Follow Directions.

 

For example, the glue sticks you requested.  In the 40 gram size.  Three of the little buggers.  (What kind of massive, sticky project you’ve got planned for the first day of school that would require the students to bring all this glue, I cannot imagine.)  But the 40 gram size doesn’t come in a convenient 3-pack.  The 30 gram size does.  But clearly, those would be wildly inappropriate.  So I got the individually priced 40′s, as per your instructions.

 

Another bit of fun was your request for 2 packs of 8 Crayola crayons (basic colors).  The 24 packs, with their 24 different colors, sat there, on sale.  I could have purchased three of the 24 packs for the price I had to pay for the 8 packs.  (Clearly, you’ll not be teaching the youngsters any sort of economics lessons this year.)  Even the cashier looked at me, as if to say, “Pardon me, ma’am, but are you slow?” as I purchased these non-bargain crayons.  But that’s what the list said.  And I was committed to following the list.

 

But the last item, well, now, you saved your malice up for that one, didn’t you?  “8 mm ruled notebooks”, you asked for.  Simple enough.  Except the standard size is seven millimetres.  One.  Millimetre.  Difference.  Do you realize, Mrs. X., exactly how infinitesimal the difference between 7 mm ruling and 8 mm ruling is?  Pretty small, I assure you.  The thickness of a fingernail, approximately.  But that millimetre, that small bit of nothingness, made me drive to four different stores, over the course of three sweaty August hours.  And when I finally, finally found the last remaining 8 mm notebooks, I took no pleasure in my victory.  I merely shifted my focus.  To you, Mrs. X.

 

You wanna dance, lady?  Let’s dance.

 

Because I am just batshit crazy enough to play your games.  And, in turn, come up with some of my own.

 

On show and share day, my son will be bringing the video of his birth.  It will be labelled, “Ben’s First Puppy.”  Enjoy.

 

He will be given a list of words, and daily, he will ask you what they mean.  Words such as, “pedophile”, “anti-semite”, and “skank”.  Good luck with those.

 

At some point, you will attempt to teach him mathematics.  And I’m quite sure that, like most of your ilk, you will require my son to “show his work”.  And he will.

 

Through interpretive dance.

 

Because that is who you’ve chosen to tangle with, toots.  A stay at home mom who is not entirely balanced, and has altogether too much time on her hands.  But is, most certainly, A Mother Who Can Follow Directions.

 

Sincerely,

 

Ginny

 

What the Well-Heeled Hobo Will Be Sporting, This Fall

As I culled his closet, and packed up the cast-offs for donation to charities, I couldn’t help but be a little wistful.

Wistful that I would probably never get to see the look of “Whatever in the fuck shall I do with these?” on the face of the down-on-his-luck gentleman who was handed a pair of golf sandals.

I Don’t Want to Buy It, I Just Want to HAVE It

Scene: flourescent lit department store.
Night before trip, zero-hour, attempting to procure a swim suit.

STORE CLERK (who I thought I could avoid simply by denying her eye contact, but was proven wrong): Hi! How can I help you?

ME: Not a reflection on your talents, but I don’t think you can.

STORE CLERK (undaunted): You’re looking for a new suit?

ME: Yup.

STORE CLERK: What sort of features are you looking for? Underwire? Ruching? Halter or tank straps?

ME: Have you seen the Harry Potter movies?

STORE CLERK(with the faintest glimmer that this may be going off the rails): Yes….

ME: So you remember the Invisibilty Cloak?

STORE CLERK: Yes?

ME: Yeah, what have you got in that material?

STORE CLERK:

ME (eyes downcast): Just bring me something black.