Twenty gigantic minutes

We were under fluffy blankets and our bodies pushed into plush pillows yesterday afternoon as I read book after book after book. There was a little Dr. Seuss, some Shel Silverstein, the story of Library Lion, and the perennial favorite—H is for Homerun.

From there, we took our gloves, bats and balls to the park. There were pop flies, foul balls, and homeruns. There were fingers digging in the dirt, grounders, and dogs. It was a beautiful day and the sun was warm enough that we shed our jackets into a heap next to the dugout.

I managed to make dinner. I cut broccoli, ginger, onions, and garlic. I made brown rice. I fried tofu. I mixed and measured soy sauce and peanut butter, vinegar and molasses. I even sat at the table for three-point-five minutes as I inhaled the end result. I did all of those things, even though I knew it meant I would have to forgo a shower before dashing out the door for my hour-long drive to San Francisco for class.

Even though we did all those things, I still feel like I’ve failed because I wasn’t home at bedtime. I didn't read those stories at the right time of day. I didn’t pull up the blankets, smooth their hair back and touch my lips to their foreheads. I wasn’t there when they decided which moon phase to set the night light to. I wasn’t there to hear whether baby whale was welcome in bed or to hear C remind me to close the closet door because having it open is scary.

I missed those 20 minutes. Those crucial 20 minutes. And somehow it negates the hours that we spent together. I forget about the weight of R on my left and C on my right. I forget the constant, “Wait, wait, go back,” as one of them flips to the previous page to point out an inconspicuous frog in the illustrations. I forget about the 97 pitches I threw, the 39 balls I chased, the glorious dirt I brushed off of their pants, and the 284 smiles. I forget about the broccoli stalks both boys requested as I cut up dinner.

I missed those 20 minutes.

Classes will be done in May. As the endpoint approaches, the more I’m thinking about what I’ll gain when I’m done—Yes, a Master's degree. But more importantly, I'll get to put my kids to bed four nights a week instead of just two. As the endpoint approaches, I’m even more aware of what they’re missing, what they've missed. And I hope that there will be enough time to make up for all that I'm missing, all that I’ve missed.

I know that I have a lot of time with my kids. Quality time. Maybe because R is turning eight and C is turning five, I'm wondering how much longer I get to kiss them good night. How much longer they’ll sleep with stuffed animals. How much longer they’ll want to snuggle up and read the stories they love, the stories I’ve grown to love. Whatever the answer, it won't be long enough.

Welcome back, Love

For the first time in eight years, I thought more about love on February 14, than I did about sadness.

Sadness typically gets my attention because Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day coincides with Valentine’s Day (yes, on purpose, because of all the hearts). As a result, every year since Riley was born, heart defects have held my attention on February 14. I've written about it a lot too. I wrote about it here, here, here, here, and here.

But this year, even though sadness occasionally keeps me up at night, my Valentine's Day was filled with heart-shaped pancakes, flowers, a lunch date, making Valentine's cards for my kids, swimming lessons, friends, dancing, and the post-dancing ritual of dark chocolate dipped in peanut butter. I think part of the reason it's easier to focus on the good stuff is because Riley is stable and close to an important milestone. On his 8th birthday in April, he will be four years removed from his last operation. That’s half his life ago. But also, I’m settled and happy. It easier to focus on good stuff when surrounded by other good stuff.

The idea of combining Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day with Valentine’s Day is cleaver (yes, because of all the hearts). And it encourages people who don’t have CHD in their lives to think about it one day out of the year and possibly do something (if you really want to know, click one of those links above to find out what you can do). But for me, every single day is Congenital Heart Defect Awareness Day.

It was almost midnight before I thought about it. It wasn't a conscious choice. That doesn't mean I forgot about what we've been through or what is to come. But it was a gift to just enjoy my lovely and love-filled day. I think all the parents of kids with heart defects need a day to just be in love with their kids, in love with their friends, in love with their lovers. Valentine's Day seems like the perfect choice. So I'm letting go of CHD Awareness Day and I’m giving myself permission to keep February 14 as my day off. Indefinitely.

A time to remember

I thought this year would be different. My house is decorated and I sent holiday cards. We baked cookies and I’m hosting a small Christmas Eve soiree at which I will wear a mistletoe headband. There were end-of-semester dinners, a work party, and walks down Christmas Tree Lane with cups of hot chocolate. We delivered a sack of Matchbox cars to UCSF Children’s Hospital and I have five weeks of vacation from graduate school.

I’m happy. I’m busy. I’m in love. Yet, my stomach twists and gurgles and the minutes are long in the darkness of my room each night.

Maybe it has something to do with this time of year. Maybe it has something to do with separate houses, split accounts, and legal matters. Maybe it has something to do with the words pre-cancerous cells and the subsequent surgery I had last month to remove them. It might have something to do with the pages of medical records I thumbed through and the details I unearthed this semester that will make my book fuller, but make my heart tighten. It might have something to with the interviews I conducted and then painstakingly transcribed that rehash months in the hospital and remind of an uncertain future.

In the dark of my room, I have also thought about my grandparents' house, the one I went to every Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas for 18 years when I lived in Lockport, NY. And I wonder if my brother thinks about it too. I have thought about my 90-year-old grandmother, a woman I passed in the hallway at her nursing home because I didn’t recognize her. I have thought about my parents and their divorce. I have thought about the dogs I don’t have, the house I don’t live in, the years and circumstances that unraveled my marriage, and the family I no longer exchange presents with (or get Christmas cards from).

I have thought about fear, communication, transparency, respect, trust, following through, and walking away.

Fortunately the nights are offset by the days when I see him smile and hear his laugh as he decorates gingerbread cookies. I watch him as he continues reading long after the timer beeps and his 15 minutes are up. I hang his drawings of taxis and trains and baseball fields on his bedroom walls and admire how much his art has changed. I listen as he proudly plays Deck the Halls on the piano and smile as he unconsciously sings I hear those J.I.N.G.L.E. B.E double L.S. I radiate as I tuck him and his brother into the bed that they share after they tell me that they love me.

I have also thought about the future, as I wonder how long I get to have this life. And I wonder what I’ll look back on when I’m old. I hope I find that writing the book was worthwhile. And I hope I find the baking and singing and piano-playing and laughter are prominently featured and not all that other stuff that keeps me up at night.

In case of emergency

There wasn’t anything unusual about the white form attached to a gray clipboard at the doctor’s office. It was all very standard, you see, nothing out of the ordinary.

There were questions about my family medical history. My medical history. The first day of my last menstrual period. There were lots of boxes to check, things to circle, a lifetime of illness to disclose since it was the first time I visited that particular office. Then I landed on a question that evoked a physical response. My stomach quivered, my vision clouded, and I needed a deep breath to steady myself even though I was seated.

A blank line needed the name and telephone number of my emergency contact.

Stumped was how I felt, even though it was a question I’d answered dozens of times in the past 15 years. A question that never evoked any kind of response, outside of a slight hesitation as I wondered the street address of FIC's office.

I dug through my purse for a tissue, but ended up using the sleeve of my favorite sweatshirt to dab away that feeling that left a salty residue between my nose and cheek. My eyes shot a glance around the mostly empty waiting room to see if anyone caught my emotional response to the black on white of medical paperwork.

I thought I’d gotten through all the tears. I thought the hard part was over. All those decision … You keep the bunk beds, but I want the 80-pound wooden frog we saved from the trash in Westboro, Massachusetts in 1996. You get Rogue Wave concerts and I get the silver reindeer with the antlers that hold tea candles – that holiday decoration I always joked our grandchildren would make fun of. You get Easter, I get Thanksgiving, and we’ll alternate Halloween and Christmas. But clearly, I hadn’t dealt with all of the ramifications and emotions of divorce.

Then I shook it off and realized it’s just a name. It’s just another change I didn’t know needed to be made, sort of like my address with the DMV (still haven’t done that).

I penciled in my mother’s name, her out-out-state cell phone number, and was grateful that I have her helping out with my kids when I’m in school. When I need to go to the gynecologist. Even with her name on the paper, there was a sadness. I don’t think it was a longing for my marriage, but rather a longing for the stability that comes with a long-term relationship. Of knowing without a slight hesitation, who will be there if there’s an emergency.

Curb appeal

It’s the perfect street in San Carlos: It’s called Christmas Tree Lane come December. That’s the street we walk on our way to and from Riley’s school. It’s perfect with its sidewalks and picket fences and grand homes and handsome husbands and beautiful wives with fat diamonds. It’s perfect with its nuclear families that have 2.3 children and dogs that look like Lassie or Air Bud.

As a single mom, walking that street gives me an upset stomach.

I used to be in one of those so-called perfect families with the grand home and the handsome husband and the fat diamond, minus the picket fence. Perfect on the outside. But nothing is perfect. No family is perfect. No relationship is perfect. But when I walk down the street and I see the neat yards and the dogs and the arched front doors and the clean cars and the basketball nets here and the bikes leaning against the front porch there, it’s easy to believe that those marriages, their lives, are somehow better than my single status, my life.

But I don’t know anything about those families. I only know the shiny exteriors. There is probably depression, addiction, and divorce. There are probably failed marriages, loveless marriages, sexless marriages, affairs, and nontraditional families with step kids in there too, but there are no such labels on their mailboxes. I only see what is visible from the curb.

In this bedroom community, the single parent is rare like a strip mall without a Starbucks. Walking that street twice a day creates a longing in me, a longing to be settled in a way that I haven’t been in years. I want the security of a committed relationship, the comfort of waking up every day with my lover (who is also my best friend), the sense of peace that comes from sharing the minutia of cleaning up the kitchen together after putting the kids to bed, the wholeness of a routine that doesn’t include the words your days or my days, the simplicity of a relationship that doesn’t include ex-husbands and ex-wives.

After years of hating Disney and its princess franchise, I find myself wanting the fairy tale. I want the magic of Christmas that hangs from the trees on that street each December. I want it, even though I know that come January, it gets boxed up and forgotten until the following year. I want it, even though I know that Santa is just a dude in a fat suit. I want it, even though I know if I settle into a committed relationship, wake up in my lover's arms, and enjoy the little stuff together for decades to come, there will always be exes, different houses, custody schedules, and imperfections.

I also suspect, however, that when the things I crave are a reality, the houses and picket fences and seemingly-perfect families will be much less noticeable.

Surrender

There isn’t supposed to be any talking. Just bodies and the language of movement. But he bent down to whisper in my ear after our song ended, our bodies untangled. “You surrender so easily,” he said. I suspect he meant that I’m easy to dance with. That I’m good at knowing how to follow.

But I can’t seem to let it go. I’ve been thinking about what surrender means. Since I felt the warm breathe that planted those words in my ear, I’ve been searching my brain to identify other places where I surrender. Because I see the dance floor as a microcosm.

I watch and anticipate what comes next. I’m good at it--on the dance floor and elsewhere in life. I think it is part of being a parent. Anticipating what a child needs before they can speak. Anticipating others' needs is a worthy skill, up to a point anyway. Until anticipating my kids’ needs spiraled outward into other relationships and my identity was slowly scraped away like a heavily used piece of sidewalk chalk. Eventually all that was left of me was a drawing on the ground: you could see my outside, but on the inside, I was blank. I was completely defined by others. I had completely surrendered my own needs. I had to send myself to therapy last time that happened.

Things are better now. Being on my own for a year and a half has given me shape and substance. It forced me to figure out how to color inside that line, to define myself. I like dancing. I like taking pictures with my big camera. I like rollerskating in Golden Gate Park. I like indie music AND Top 40 dance music (and the latter doesn't make me a bad person). I pay my bills. I pack lunches and take my kids to school. I go to class and do my homework. I keep food in the fridge, toilet paper in the bathrooms, and gas in the car.

I sleep alone (most of the time).

I learned how to live on my own. I learned how to be by myself. I learned that it gets easier over time. I learned that it’s okay to cry a lot. I learned how to pick myself up and comfort myself. I learned that staying home is harder than going out. I learned that distracting myself doesn’t make a problem go away. I learned that going to the movies is a good thing to do by myself on a Friday night. I learned to forgive myself for being imperfect, for the mistakes I've made. I learned that I deserve to be happy. I learned that I’m pretty. I learned that I will not settle. I learned that whoever I end up with is a lucky man. I learned that sometimes I need to be selfish. I learned to love myself.

So if I’m all of those things, and I’ve grown so much, what does it mean that I surrender easily?

Even if his idea of surrender just applied to dance, it has prompted me to revisit the world I’ve created and the balance I believe I’m maintaining. As a result, I’m thinking about boundaries and the give and take in my relationships. It’s good to make sure I’m still taking care of myself and not drifting towards old, familiar habits. I guess I don't like the word surrender because it means giving up. And I have no plans to do that. In fact, I'm just getting started.

Senior year

-->

School started today. It was the first day of my second year of graduate school. I felt a lot of apprehension.

I don’t need graduate school for the same reasons I needed it last year. Last year, it was a focal point amidst chaos. It provided order with its schedules and assignments and deadlines and reliability. It was something to direct my attention to when I was flailing. When my marriage was crumbling. When I was living in with my kids part of the week and by myself in a little room near school part of the week. When I was alone and lonely. When I walked confidently along San Francisco’s streets even though my insides were wobbly.

It filled the time when I was away from my kids, my broken family.

But I’m not wobbly anymore. I’m not flailing. And while my family is different than it was last year, I don’t consider it broken.

So even though I don’t need graduate school to provide stability in my daily life anymore, it still has a reliable--ahem, substantial--amount of schedules and assignments and deadlines. While those things are worthy and valuable as I strive to finish my book, those things take time away from my kids, my friendships, and other extracurricular activities. Things I have the energy and desire to be fully engaged in, in a way I couldn't be last year.

My hope is that once I’m back in the routine of school, the apprehension I feel will fade. That I’ll embrace the familiarity and focus. If I manage to do that--and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I will--I suspect I’ll become a student consumed with regular thoughts, like the number of days until graduation.

A day of opposites

I stared at the ceiling today and thought about marriage.
And divorce.

I thought about sickness.
And health.

I thought about grief.
And joy.

I thought about seriousness.
And silliness.
Fortunately, I choose appropriately.

I thought about endings.
And beginnings.

I thought about expectations.
And reality.

I thought about hanging on.
And letting go.

I thought about what’s best for my kids.
And not what’s best for me.
Fortunately, I know the difference.

I will dream new dreams

I rolled onto your side of the bed last night. It was cold, empty. Why I still think of it as your side of the bed, I don’t know.

This isn’t your bed. You never occupied any side of this bed. Even now I’m looking at the space beside me, the blankets ruffled, the green sheets exposed and I can’t imagine your frame stretched beside me. Your slim body and scabbed up elbows and scarred knees. Your damp pillow.

For 14 years, this was my side and that was your side. Our giant bed with a ridge down the middle identifying two distinct spaces.

And while you’ve never been in this bed--or even this room in my little house--here you are, taking up space. If anything, it is Carter’s side of the bed or Riley’s side of the bed. It’s where they climb in on the mornings that they sleep at my house. Their little bodies, their pointy elbows and sharp knees.

Tonight will be different. I will close my eyes over there. I will sleep on that side. I will begin to dream from a new perspective. I will reclaim that space as my own.

The kite

With so many scenic streets to choose from, I didn’t realize I’d been avoiding Alamo Square.

It wasn’t until a friend wanted to see the San Francisco skyline from that famous hillside that I realized I’d been unconsciously walking along east and west alternatives. While I wanted to offer her a rational reason for skipping the view that day, mentioning a kite trapped in treetop didn’t seem like one such reason.

If I were to go there, no matter how hard I would try to avoid it, I knew I would have to look up to see if the kite was still there, still wrapped in the braches, around the branches. As soon as I thought of its black wingspan, I remembered the first time I saw it so many months ago. That day I wandered the city, trying to be loved by the buildings, the sidewalks, the storefronts, and cafés serving up company in a cup.

Even though it was just a wayward kite stuck in a tree in hilltop park, its presence punctured the ballooned-up emotion I discreetly carry around like a gut filled with gas. That kite is permanently trapped--like me--entangled with the distress of a single day that changed its course. I didn’t want to see it again, still there, still stuck, still dealing with the ramifications of the day the wind was too powerful or its owner was too careless.

While its nylon fabric has likely been brittled by the hours of a hundred sunrises and sunsets, what it meant to me remains solid, intact. My friend and I walked along Hayes Street instead that day. I'm sure I told her that I just didn't have the energy to climb the hill. I didn't tell her it was an emotional one.