The Man Who Came to Dinner

Robbie came for dinner last night. He'd called late afternoon to ask about getting the kids today to take them to the fair near his mom's house. They had talked of little else since he mentioned it to them on Saturday night. They were so excited to see him.

I knew his being away from them was breaking their hearts. Early Saturday morning Hayden came to me, teary-eyed and said, "Mommy, if Daddy is gone forever, and you go away forever, who is going to take care of us?". If ever I have felt like the world's worst mommy...it was right then.

Robbie called and we had a good conversation, not about "us" or the state of our marriage or any in depth analytical insights into what we've been going through. Just a basic "How was your day?" that was met with an honest answer. I knew the kids couldn't wait to spend some time with him, and I knew they deserved more than a few hours at the fair...so I invited him for dinner. I left it entirely up to him, it would be ready in an hour and a half, he was welcome to join us, sleep here and leave with the kids in the morning. He hesitated at first, and I told him to show up if he wanted to. If not, then we would see him in the morning.

I'd kinda hoped he show up. I didn't expect my heart to skip a beat when he walked through the door.

The kids were ecstatic, I was nervous. Dinner went well. We all watched "WallE", the boys vying for a spot on daddy's lap during the movie. Ice cream and jammies, then everyone tucked into bed.

I didn't bring up where he was sleeping, but when I came out of the bathroom--there he was, snuggled into his side of the bed (which had been my side of the bed since he left, but he doesn't need to know that). It's kind of hard to make small talk when you're trying to fall asleep in the same bed. We tried tiptoeing around the proverbial pink elephant in the room, but eventually we just started talking. Not too in depth, just enough for us to know that we both wanted to make our marriage work. We just needed to figure out how. We knew the destination, we just needed a better map.

I hadn't been sure that his moving back right away was a very good idea. In the few days he's been gone I've managed to hold it all together. I implemented morning routines to help keep all of us on track. Beds are made, the kids are responsible for their own toys, they help me clean up--they give me a full ten minutes of help and I give them the rest of the day to play. We've stuck to a schedule, and we talk nicer to each other. I've noticed lately that the kids (especially Tristan) have picked up a rather nasty little style of fighting. Ours. And it's pretty ugly. If that's the way it sounds coming from a child, I can't imagine it sounds any better coming from your parents. So no "mean" talking allowed anymore. Period. The words "shut up" have been firmly planted in the "bad word" pile. It's a no-no. For them and for me. Or "us" as the case may be. These aren't difficult rules to follow. If they can be done without daddy living in the house, then they can be done with daddy living in the house.

The fear of falling into old patterns if Robbie moved home right away was overshadowed by the joy on Hayden's face this morning as he climbed into bed between us. At first he just lay there, arms stretched out so he could touch both of us at the same time, like if he let go of one of us then that person would just disappear. Then he was happy just holding both of our hands. Eventually he joined our hands, and once his mommy and daddy were holding onto each other he put his little hands on ours, smiled and went back to sleep.

You don't need Freud to tell you that any good that we had gained from being apart was far outweighed by the pain it was causing our children. We kept on blaming each other for the other person's shortcomings, pointing out every slight--real and perceived, quick to find malice in what was probably just human err. What we failed to notice during all that yelling and finger pointing and blaming was that we, together, were causing our children a tremendous amount of heartache and fear. No child should have to live with that much stress. And we were throwing them in the deep end of it every single day.

I think making sure that my children are happy and feel loved and safe is far more important than making sure that Robbie thinks I'm right.

I've been reading a book, "Divorce Busting", that talks about how to communicate better with your spouse in order to build a better marriage. Even when one of you thinks the marriage is over. I wasn't sure that it was *over* per se, but I wanted to make it easier on the kids (yeah, right). I had already implemented the "you can't fight with someone who won't fight back" rule. I'd been following the rules that says "no contact! no pursuing! no relationship talks unless the other person starts them! Always say less than the other person--if they say seven words, you say six." As corny as it sounds, it must have worked. Here we are.

So this morning I put another one of the tools into play. "Don't focus on what's wrong--focus on what's right." Easier said than done. But basically it's putting your wants and needs in to terms the other person can grasp. It takes the "You don't ever listen to me!" and turns it into "I would be happy if I felt that you were listening to me", and then into, "I feel like you are really listening to me when you look at me and you don't roll your eyes."

Seems pretty simple, but it takes your partner from "WTF does that mean?" to "oh, okay--I can show her I'm listening by looking at her and not rolling my eyes when she speaks". I'm sure I've oversimplified it, but that is the example I give you from this morning. And it worked. He listened, I didn't make any blanket statements that made him feel like I think he's a complete jerk, and we had a really nice morning.

So the man who came for dinner last night will stay again tonight so we can start putting the pieces back together. And we both know it won't be easy. If love were the only thing you needed to make a marriage work then Robbie & I would have our "Happily Ever After". But those only exist in fairy tales. This is going to take hard work and will continue to take hard work to keep it going when we've put it back together again. Not "if"..."when".

"Divorce Busting" is available at your local library and at bookstores like Barnes & Noble. A $14 book that I've only gotten halfway through has helped me more than six months of marriage counseling. Unless you're lucky enough to be living in a fairy tale and don't need any help getting you"Happily Ever After", then it's worth the read.

Phoenix or bust...

The Phoenix sat atop it's perch, not bothering to gaze upon the beautiful and vast world that lay before it. It had seen it all before, and let's face it...it never really changed, now did it? A stifled yawn (do birds yawn?), a sigh that screamed of a complacency that bordered on contempt. It began it's daily foray into fantasy; one day it would be something else, a sparrow, perhaps. Or maybe a robin. It would be happy being a vulcher if it meant getting off the perch that it'd been tied to for so long.

A sudden flash of light, an intense heat and the Phoenix quickly found itself deep inside a smoldering pile of ashes.

"Well...shit."

It knew it happened sometimes, being devoured by an all consuming fireball...but to other Phoenix, not It! Come on, people! No one said it was going to burn like a mother f*&$%r. The Phoenix twisted and turned, trying to find some comfort in it's new pile of ash, but every movement just drove it further and further into the glowing embers that imprisoned it.

"Dammit! SonofamotherfarkingbitochwhatthefarkdoIdonow?"

Big. Ass. Sigh.

You see, we humans have all been led to believe that the Phoenix is a powerful and regal creature. That even when consumed by the fire, it lays ready to spring forth anew, stronger, more beautiful and inspiring than ever before. And we wait for it, waiting to behold it's breath-taking glory as it majestically flies gracefully and effortlessly towards the heavens, an eternal symbol of strength and courage and love and hope and whatever other metaphor you want to read into it.

Truth is, after the fire...the Phoenix just kind of sits there in stunned silence thinking, "What the hell was that? Where did THAT come from? Seriously, did anyone see that coming, because I sure as hell didn't! And by the way--that really freakin' hurts!!"

As we await it's imperial ascent towards the sun, it's sitting in a big pile of charred and smoking feathers feeling guilty, getting pissy and wondering what the next step is.

"Really? Are you freakin' kidding me? You know, I was getting bored up there on that perch, and I know that all I did was dream about getting from away from it, but I never actually thought it would happen. Wow. I feel so...sad. And lonely. And...lost. Oh, how I miss the stability of my perch. I really want my feathers back. Why can't I have my feathers back? Is it too late to get my beautiful feathers back? This cannot be happening. Good Lord, I wish there was just some nice eagle somewhere who would come and take me away from this mess."

So it is with a heavy heart and confused mind that the Phoenix really starts to look at it's spiral downward. It reads some self-help books. It talks to it's friends about it's situation. It even contemplates emailing Dr. Phil. It sits at the bottom of the pile and cries. For days at a time. Eating ice cream and Twinkies and drinking chocolate syrup straight from the can. It spends hours searching the Internet for other Phoenix (phoenixes? phoenii?) who have been in the same situation. It finds some, and they tell It there is no Eagle Prince to rescue It. They encourage It to open up about It's plume of feathers before they went up in a plume of smoke. They encourage It to accept It's share of the blame for not seeing this fireball coming.

"It's your flame," they tell It. "Own your inferno."

Not sure what the hell that even means, the Phoenix takes the first precarious steps towards healing. It knows that it can't control the flame, only It's response to the flame. Or...something like that. So It takes little baby Phoenix steps towards healing. It buys a new outfit, It gets a make-over, It even looks into starting those college courses it had been thinking of taking. Night classes, of course. These are just baby steps.

Then one day It notices that it kind of feels...good. Why, yes, yes it does feel good. Before It knows it, it's laughing again...and it feels really good. Pretty soon the pain of the pyre begins to fade, and with it the Phoenix's fears of flying. It knows it might be destroyed again. It knows there are no guarantees. And It knows that It can handle it. It is, after all, a Phoenix.

It raises it's head from the pile of soot that was it's former self and looks around. Sensing no real threat to it's new found wings, It rises. Slowly at first, it gets a feel for the sights and sounds of the real world, and it is just as It remembers; beautiful, fresh, even breathtaking. It's the same scenery as before, but It is just seeing it with a new appreciation, and new wisdom. It knows it can never take this world for granted again.

With that in mind, It bursts forth from the heap and rises triumphantly into the sky, free and beautiful and so much stronger than before. Of course we mere mortals do not see all of this turmoil. We don't know the inner conflict that spurred it's glorious ascent. All we know is that it's a Phoenix, that's what it's supposed to do.

Apparently the only one who doubted the rebirth of the Phoenix was the Phoenix.

There is a moral here, my mortal friends. When consumed by a flash over that destroys everything you thought you knew, you have two choices. You can either sit on your festering tail feathers in a smoldering pile of ash and wait for someone to tell you what to do...or you can spread your wings, free yourself from the mess that used to be your life, and fly high above it all, a little stronger and a little wiser.

Because let's be honest here, flying is a whole lot better than sitting on your ash wondering who is going to save you.

This is me...sitting here at the end of day four contemplating my pile of ashes.

Morning Has Broken...

On a very broken heart.

Several if you count the kids.

Robbie moved out yesterday.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. Which is hard to do considering the monster headache I woke up with this morning. Crying yourself to sleep is not as romantic as it sounds. It leaves your eyes puffy and your head throbbing. Like a nasty hangover...only I have the misfortune of remembering everything I did that got me here.

Or rather, what I didn't do. Like asking him to stay.

I miss my Robbie. The one I married almost nine years ago, not the person who left yesterday. I don't know who that person is. He doesn't understand that statement at all. Nor does he understand when I tell him that I do love him...but he has made it impossible to like him. He's been so angry for so long that he doesn't even bother to try to hide it anymore. Not from me, not from the kids, not even from our parents when they visit--which they'd stopped doing over the past few months just because the stress was too much.

I miss the man who used to care what I thought and felt. The one who used to write me poems or cuddle up to me while watching TV. The one who used to hold my hand while we drove somewhere. I don't know what happened to him. I don't know why he left...and I don't know why he left this person who seems to harbor so much anger and resentment towards me in his place. An anger, I'm sure, I will never fully understand the origins of.

Yesterday wasn't about breaking up as much as it was an exorcism of sorts. I wanted the Robbie who didn't like me to leave...forever. But he took my husband with him. My best friend is buried somewhere in there. Maybe he's looking for a way back. Or ,maybe he's already dead and gone, leaving this Robbie-who-hates-me in his place. And this is the saddest and most painful loss I've ever known.

I wish I'd gotten the chance to say "Goodbye" instead of just "...get out".

It's no surprise that divorce feels like a funeral.

Mourning has broken.

Breathing New Life Into An Old Blog...

or..."How Michelle Got Her Booger Mojo Back"

I've been asked a few times where the blog went. Or rather, where'd my ideas, energy, wit and whimsy all disappear to? Truth be told...I just got really tired. Exhausted, actually. The more I heard "Hey! I read your blog!", the more nervous I became. What if people I knew started to read it & see the real me I'd poured into the early entries? What if they saw themselves in my early entries? What if *gasp!* they figured out that my life wasn't...perfect???

Dun-du-duhhhhhh!!

Suddenly I felt the pressure to candy coat every entry, to make every moment of my life look like a greeting card commercial. Happy, shiny, and nothing but glossy gooey joy all around...oh look, my kids are perfectly behaved and brilliant and handsome and my house is sparkling and fresh smelling and my husband is kind and helpful and hot (in bed! gigglegigglegiggle!!).

Oh puke.

Okay, so I do think Robbie is pretty hot, especially when he's not pissing me off...but the rest of it? Please. Either I had to be on some incredibly good happy pills to keep writing like that, or you, my dear readers, would have to be incredibly stupid. And since neither of those is a possibility...I just stopped. Trust me, I would have loved to have kept up the charade, but it's exhausting trying to fake perfection!

So here is the truth...I can't control much of my life right now. I love my kids, but I probably let them walk all over me too much. And then I feel guilty if I try to discipline them, so I'm pretty much teaching them to manipulate me. My house is a mess because I'm usually chasing them around too much to get anything accomplished--and when I do get a break I'd rather escape to Mafia Wars than go scrub a toilet. Seriously...have you played? It's so much more fun to *ice* your opponent than it is to clean out the goo trap at the bottom of the dish washer. Bills, work, money, cooking, budget, kids, housework, fatass (mine), thickhead (guess)--and that's just within the confines of this itty bitty condo.

Add in the rest of the world, and ugh....I'd really like some of those happy pills right about now. But I'm not getting any, and I'm guessing that you're not stupid enough to believe that my every day is full of bluebirds eating from my hands and small mice who do my housework for me while I sing lilting little tunes about sunbeams and rainbows and some dude whose Hippie Queen mother named him Charming. Not unless you'd gotten into my stash of happy pills, too, that is.

So today is when this blog, and my writing, get back to real life. The real life that includes headaches, heartbreaks, outbursts and the occasional projectile bodily excrement. If you can hang with that, then welcome back.

If that just sounds like way too much reality for you...then might I suggest the Warm & Fuzzy Movie marathon on WE TV? Because this monster mama has a house to clean, kids to raise and some boogers to clean up.

Who's still with me?

Anyone?

Hello???

*sigh*

15 months and one day...

Rylan was 15 months old yesterday.

yea!! He went to the doctor for his checkup, he weighs 18 lbs and 5 oz and is 29 1/2 inches long. It's really *barely* in the bottom 3% on the growth chart...but he's finally ON the growth chart, so I'm not going to complain.

Poor baby has had a terrible diaper rash this week. I'm not sure why his poopy schedule got messed up (pun not intended), but he's been pooping at night while he's asleep and then laying in it all night. Poor little man. He just popped four molars, so that is 12 teeth in all. The only thing I can think is that he's teething even more. He has been chewing on everything lately. I hope it stops affecting his BMs...that little boofer is so tender.

He is walking all the time now. He is even trying to run, but he only manages a few steps before he topples over. He also has a thing about climbing on everything. Everything. I found him on the dining room table yesterday. Tristan did the same thing. I'm bracing myself. lol!

He gives great hugs now. Tight squeezes with those little arms wrapped around your neck, he even goes, "mmmmmmm" when he's hugging you. And kisses...he's so cute giving kisses. He doesn't really *kiss* you as much as he leans his face in close to your mouth so you can kiss him.

He is so funny, and so sweet, and so patient. He'll just sit back and watch the chaos around him, taking it all in, not missing a thing. But when he wants something...held...fed...just paid attention to...he will loudly let you know. He will not let you overlook him or ignore him, no way.

He sat on my lap tonight while we all had cocoa. Tristan was going on about something, Hayden was dunking his marshmallows, and Rylan was sitting on my lap. I looked at him and tried to imagine him not being here. The giant hole that would leave in our family. In my heart.

I always knew he was out there. I always knew there was one more meant for us, meant to be part of our family. I'm so glad I listened to my heart instead of any one person who questioned our financial situation, who questioned bedroom space or car seat logistics. Or brought up any one legitimate and reasonable excuse why Robbie and I should not have welcomed another one into our little family. I couldn't worry about car seats when I knew there was another baby waiting to to give me hugs and kisses and call me mama.

We may not have a lot of money. We may have to work to make ends meet . And then pull and tug and stretch them until those ends actually touch. But every smile from those little faces is worth it.

And every hug.

And every slobbery almost kiss.



So to you, yes you--you know I'm talking right to you...fight for this with everything you've got. Don't give up...ever. Whether it's to you or through you, I know your baby is out there waiting to find you, to give you squeezes. To call you mama. To put his sweet little nose to your mouth in hopes of getting a kiss from his mommy. He's not giving up...don't you. I love you. And you know who you are.

Trick or Treat!!

Just a couple pictures from Trick or Treat. It was the first time in several years it wasn't freezing cold or raining. You can see Tristan the Ninja, family friend Jake as Darth Vader, Hayden as Batman, and Rylan as a little mohawked motorcycle man.

We had a lot of fun, came home, carved some pumpkins, ate some candy, bounced off the walls, and went to bed. Can't wait to do it again next year, when Rylan will actually be able to go with us and enjoy some candy, himself.



By the way...just a thought here. If you are old enough to be on birth control and smoke cigarettes while trick or treating...then you are probably TOO OLD to be trick or treating.

Just sayin'.

My Sweet Christmas Boy

Christmas is coming. And that means the closer we get, the more my kids seem to want. Every commercial, every flyer from Toys R Us, every gadget they see in the hands of their friends becomes the most coveted item on the face of the earth. At least until the next commercial. But the leverage is fantastic when you want them to behave.

But every once in awhile they surprise you. And they act like perfect little angels...just because that's what they really are.

Tonight after dinner Robbie and I were cleaning up and talking about my desire for a NuWave Oven for Christmas. Maybe. Robbie doesn't care what he gets. That started the discussion about money, or lack of it, and how it was more important for the kids to have a nice Christmas. We really don't need anything else.

The truth of the matter is, I start shopping early. Really early. I'm almost done with Hayden. I'm half done with Tristan. I will make sure they have a nice Christmas if it takes me all year to pull it off. Christmas is, in our opinion, all about the kids...and they are always our first priority.

We thought we were talking very quietly while the boys finished dinner. But Mr. Super-Sonic-Hearing Tristan heard the word *Christmas* and honed right in on that conversation. He has recently realized that Santa Claus lives under the same roof with him. We have sworn him to secrecy, made him promise not to ruin the fun for the other kids who don't know yet. So far he's doing pretty good. But tonight he heard his parents talking about making sure the *boys* have a nice Christmas and he just had to get his two cents in.

He brought his plate over to me at the sink, motioned me to lean close to him and whispered...


"Mommy, I heard you talking about Christmas. I really only want a few things. I don't need that much if you want to buy more stuff for Hayden and Rylan."


I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I assured him he was going to have a great Christmas and that Santa (our little inside joke now) would be leaving him lots of presents. He grinned that big, toothless grin and went to work on his dessert.

My Christmas Angel showed up in the middle of October in the form of my seven year old son.

Scratch the NuWave Oven...I've got everything I'll ever need.

School's Back In!!!

Thank the Lord!!

What an incredibly long summer it was. The last month has been especially long and busy.

Let me try to fill you in...

I did, in fact, go to my class reunion. And I was, in fact, the fattest one in my class. Oh well. Here is a picture of me at the reunion. My friend Nina was in it as well, I just didn't think she'd want her picture plastered all over my blog without her permission.

*

We had a really good time, I saw a lot of faces I recognized, and I few I didn't recognize. All of them smiling. Brant's Bistro was just wonderful. Owned and operated by a former classmate, they rolled out the red carpet and pretty much let us take over. Poor Chuck (the owner) didn't sit down all night.

I think the highlight was the video link they put up of Brent Allen...one of my best buds in high school who is currently serving in Iraq. Even though it was 2:30 am there, he managed to join us for our 20th reunion. It was one of the first times I've seen Brent in probably close to 20 years, and I didn't expect to tear up the way I did during those brief few seconds that the video link held. It made me realize that I had really missed my friend.

We have another classmate, Tim Smail who is going back over very shortly. Although now it's Captain-Major-General-something Tim Smail. You will have to forgive me, boot camp was a very long time ago & I just never bothered to remember all the ranks. (Sorry Tim). Anyhoo...Tim is now a pilot and is going to serve another tour. I gave him a little hug as we were leaving the reunion, and promised that I'd keep him in my prayers. Then I added that I might even hang two little American flags in a window in his and Brent's honor until they both came home safely.

I'm sure he thought me to be a big dork.

And although he'd be right, it's still something that's important to me.

So if you are saying prayers tonight, please keep Brent and Tim in yours. They have left their families behind in order to protect ours.

(And please, have whatever opinions you like about the war, but this really isn't the place for debating it. Please respect the troops on this blog.)

*

The older kids are back in school, my house is slowly getting organized again, Robbie is considering getting a part time job somewhere (I guess being a stay at home parent really is hard work! Who Knew???), and I am preparing for my registry exams. Well, the clinical simulation part of it anyway. It's the only part left to pass and seeing as how the board is mandating that everyone pass it now (or retake the CRT {at $200 a pop} every three years!!), I've decided to do it. Wish me luck.

*

Hmmm...that doesn't seem like much of an update. How could I have been so busy & have nothing else to say? Mark it down on your calenders...I've offically run out of things to talk about. Oh well...there's always tomorrow. lol!

*

Oh yeah...today is my mother's birthday. Call her and wish her a happy 39th birthday.

*

bwuahahahahahahaha!!!

Happy Birthday, Rylan!!!

One year ago today my perfect little boy made his debut.
I am so proud of him, and I love him so much




Mommy will always remember the day you were born, little man.
Even, apparently, if no one else does.

My 20th High School Renion...

My high school reunion is coming up. I'm going. But...

I have to tell you that I am getting just a little nervous about going. If my really good friend hadn't threatened me with bodily harm I might have just graciously backed out. But she will track me down. I'm not sure why it is so important for her to go, she was at OHS for our Sr. yr. only--but she has been after me since the last one about this one...and I love my friend too much to say no.

But my stomach is in a knot. Several...knots. The women who have put this together have worked so hard on this--I'd hate for them to know that I'm about to have my first anxiety attack over it.

(And yet here I am--putting it on my blog for all to read.

I never was any good at playing my hand close to my vest. Cards on table, heart on sleeve--that's me.)

Sigh

So why am I, the person who can talk to damn near anyone, the one who puts her life out here for all to read, so nervous about seeing a group of people--most of whom I haven't seen in twenty years? 20 years. Can you even imagine? There were a few people I saw when I was going to clubs and partying and having a good time being bad. lol...The girls you'd see and roll your eyes because, "OMG, That b**** was so nasty to me when we had social studies together!!" But back then, that social studies class had only been a three years earlier. Not 23.

Now I hardly even remember I took social studies.

Hell, I'm lucky if I remember all three of my kids when I leave the store.

Who has time to harbor 20 and 30 year old grudges?

Apparently someone does.


A former classmate, an OHS alum, lives literally around the corner from me. We live in the same condo development, she is just *thisclose* to me. I saw her when I first moved in a couple of years ago--she was walking with her mom. I recognized her immediately, smiled big and said "Well hi there!". She said "Hi" and kept right on walking. So I thought maybe she didn't realize that she did, in fact, know me. So the next time I saw her walking I said, "Hi, Lucy! How are you?". She forced a smile, grunted a "hmm"...and kept walking.

I don't think it's because she was that dedicated to her exercise regimen.

The third time I was walking with my mom and the kids and saw her out walking again. This time she nearly herniated a disk straining her neck so hard to look the other way.

Really? What on earth could make someone act like that after 20 years? I don't remember really even interacting with her after Jr. High--and it's not like we were friends before that, either. So how does an adult lose the ability to even *pretend* that they are mature enough to make small talk for all of 30 seconds?

Betsy Boofer did the same thing last year at the Subway in Walmart. I smiled, said hello, used her name--all those things the etiquette books deem proper. She looked at me as though I might nab her purse and run off with her footlongs.

WTF?

So the closer I get to this, the more I'm starting to wonder if it was just *them*, or are there more people from our class who have the social skills of turnips and continue to hold grudges--real and imagined?


But more importantly--it's starting to make me nervous.

And please, any thoughts, ideas, or words of advice would be really very welcome right now.

(The above incidents are 100% accurate. I did change the names to protect them from becoming unwilling participants in this blog.)