Between past and present

I woke up in my old house on the hill the other day. It was familiar like the shape of my toes and also confusing, like trying to identify the vegetarian options on a menu etched in foreign words in an especially carnivorous country.

I haven’t lived in that house in seven years.

For a split second, an entire world existed. I was married to my high school sweetheart. I typed in a red-walled office. I had two babies. With my eyes yet to open in the morning glow, I could see the way the light sliced through the vertical blinds and landed on the dresser. I could anticipate the sponginess of the carpeting if I’d pushed myself towards the bathroom. I could hear static from the baby monitor.

There was heaviness with each inhale. There was the ache of a strained marriage. There was the uncertainty of hospitals that cinched my world for four-and-a-half years. It was so real and yet, it felt wrong. 

That’s because it wasn't real.

And as quickly as it sprung up, that world vanished. Once I opened my eyes, I was in my current house, married to a different man. My world that includes four kids and two chickens and a rescue dog appeared and relaxed me.

I teeter between these worlds consciously and regularly as I polish my manuscript.

During the day as I write, I live in that house on the hill with the trumpet flowers that line the fence. I am married to the man I made babies with. We trek to the hospital and doctor appointments and blood tests. Our relationship slowly disintegrates as each of us learns to accept our son’s medical diagnosis and physical limitations.

And when I stop typing and editing and shaping that story for the day, I am married to a different man. We help our kids with homework, drive them to swimming lessons, and read Lemony Snicket before bed. And our marriage is new, strong, and brimming with communication, intimacy, and love. We proactively see a family therapist to keep it that way.

I haven't decided if this teetering is healthy or unhealthy, good or bad. But it’s real. And some days, like the other day, it’s very confusing. Straddling these two worlds isn’t forever, but some days I wish the past was just the past.

In the arms of a stranger

There are no more days where I get to hold little boys in overalls. My littlest boy is six, and while he likes me to tickle him endlessly, he is not really a little boy. He reads books with words like veterinarian and consequently. He ties his own shoes. He likes spinach salad with balsamic vinegar and olive oil, just like his big brother. My big kid has reached an age where he rolls his eyes at me, rarely holds my hand, and finds making bruschetta and drawing maps much more interesting than reading Richard Scarry together. Thankfully both of my kids still like that I read to them before bed. We’re currently engrossed in “A Series of Unfortunate Events.”

So since I no longer have little boys in overalls, yesterday was all that more wonderful and perplexing.

After school, a friend and I (and our combined four kids) acquired treats from a bakery in Hayes Valley and then wandered to a lovely San Francisco park across the street. A variety of kids and their families came and went while we relished the warm, breezeless October afternoon on benches adjacent to the play structure. The kids played tag. They climbed and swung. They tossed a coveted bottle cap and had elaborate rules to support their improvised games.

Maybe an hour into our adventure, a dad with his little boy arrived at the park. The little boy was in blue and white striped overalls—identical to ones R wore when he was about two years old. This little boy had curly blond wisps covering head and he ran and climbed as well as the bigger kids. Before we left, I hoisted myself into the rope structure so that my friend could take a couple of snapshots of me and my boys. The little boy in overalls wanted to be part of our photo. He hustled up the structure and directly into my lap.

His dad tried to retrieve him, but he clung to me. I said I didn’t mind if he was in our family picture, so he stayed perched on my lap. I was reminded of what it felt like to have a little boy. When the shots were taken, I peeled him off of my lap and handed him down to his dad. He reached for me like a child does when it seeks the attention of the other parent—both arms outstretched and body leaning towards the desired torso. I took him and he clung to me, a stranger. As I held him, I told him about how R used to have the same overalls that he was wearing. Then I said we had to leave and gave him back to his dad.

He took my hand and said he wanted to go with me. I said maybe we’d see him again at the park another day. He didn’t want to let go of my hand. When his dad tried to pick him up, he ran ahead yelling, “No, no, no. I go too.”

As lovely as it was to have a little boy’s body in my arms, clinging to me, wanting to hold my hand, sit on my lap, reminding me of something lost through the accumulation of time, I felt bad for the dad. I have no idea where his mom was, but I can’t help but wonder if he lives with her all the time or part of the time or none of the time. It made me think about my own kids. C was younger than that boy when my ex and I split, and even now, almost four years later, my kids still ask me why Dad and I had to get divorced.

The giant house we'll never have

Car rides offer a time to talk about important world matters. Especially those matters that are of particular importance to little boys. On our way home from a friend’s house one evening, C started talking about marriage… something to do with Justin Beiber… something he had heard in kindergarten. Then he started giggling. I knew he wanted to say something more, but he hesitated. I urged him to speak.

“Wouldn’t it be great if you and A got married and Dad and S got married?” He giggled some more, and after a minute, I asked, “Would you like that?” He said yes. Then R chimed in excitedly. “No, no, wouldn’t it be great if Mom and Dad got married!?” I opened the window, tilted my face towards the breeze, and took a long drag of fresh air before answering.

“Mom and Dad used to be married. That’s how we got you two,” I said. I couldn’t see his face in the backseat, but I could hear his expression. He went from jubilation to a pout.

“So why aren’t you married anymore?” It was an accusation, more than a question. I said that grown-up relationships are complicated, and that mom and dad love them both very much.

Whether you're divorced, married, or in a committed relationship, grown-up relationships are complicated. They are even more complicated when there are children. Kids don't care about any of that grown-up stuff. What they do care about is that parents have complicated their lives, too. They end up with two houses and two sets of clothing and they get shuttled back and forth.

My kids love S and A and A’s kids. All of those extra people have become part of my kids’ family. I'm pretty sure that C doesn't remember a time before A or S. R does. And while R likes the idea of his parents getting back together, I suspect he also knows that if his dad and I got back together (and that’s not happening), he would lose those other people that he has come to love, too.

I’m sure what he’d really like is for all of us to live in one giant house together. Since that will never happen, no matter where I live or who else is in their lives, I will keep encouraging my kids to speak when they hesitate and try to make sure that my house, my car, and my arms are always a safe place to say all the things that can and should be talked about.

The unsung mother

A year ago on Mother’s Day, I came across a picture of my kids online. It was not a picture I had taken. It wasn’t a moment we shared together. And it was then that I realized that my kids have a life that I am not a part of. Intellectually, I had known that for a long time. They go to school without me. They have playdates without me. They have visited their grandparents 2,500-miles away without me. They live in another house half the week. Without me.

But that photo wasn’t just a snapshot of them at the park or at the beach or at a restaurant. It was a picture of my kids snuggled up with my ex-husband’s girlfriend. The picture was taken on Mother’s Day. I knew that because R wore his sweatshirt printed with cars, and C wore his Giants’ tee shirt—the clothes they were wearing when I dropped them off earlier that day. And I saw that picture because the girlfriend and I have some mutual friends on Facebook and it showed up in my newsfeed.

At the time, that picture felt like a kick in the stomach. Who exactly was that woman cuddled up on the couch with my boys? I knew a little about her because my kids talked about her and her dog and cats. But she was a stranger to me. At the same time, she is someone who spent lots of time with my kids. They are comfortable around her. They get excited when they see her car parked outside their dad's house. They ask if they will get to see her over the weekend. They like her. A lot.

After seeing that picture, I spent a bit of time struggling with my feelings. I wanted my kids to like her because if they didn’t, well, that would be bad. But I didn’t want them to like her too much because, well, I’m their mom.

A few months later the universe did me a huge favor. It gave me a friend who helped me see things from the other side—as in, from the girlfriend’s perspective. My friend had fallen in love with and married a man with two young children. Those kids are about to graduate from high school now, but she helped raise them. She helped make their lunches and drive them to school and comfort them in the middle of the night. For fifty percent of their lives, she was their mother too.

From the time they were six years old, she was just as much a part of their lives as their biological mother. She loves them as her own and refers to them as her bonus kids, because step kids seems too impersonal. Years from now, I suspect my kids won’t remember a time before their bonus mom, just as they won’t remember a time before their bonus grandparent. He came into our lives when R was an infant.

I feel fortunate that my ex chose someone who has welcomed my kids into her life. I feel relief that my kids want to spend time with her. I feel lucky that there is another person who loves my kids and wants to be a part of their lives everyday, and especially, on Mother’s Day. Because there could never be too many people loving my kids. Bonus parent. How lucky. For all of us.

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

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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.

Lucky 13

The bitter wind slaps me in the face and a chain link fence obstructs my view of the city. The rusty links start at the sidewalk and launch about 10 feet up before arching over my head. It looks like a wave about to crash on me. I shutter at the thought of being crushed under a wave. I look towards San Francisco and the wind is relentless. I see the Transamerica Pyramid, the Bay Bridge, Coit Tower. My pants ripple, my fingers burn through my thin blue gloves, and I feel my legs pinched with cold. That fence covers my view with a thousand rust-covered diamonds. I lean into it so that my eyes can see through the fence, past the diamonds. Then I have to turn away because I want to feel something besides trapped. That fence is making me feel trapped.

With my back to the city, see the ocean, the Marin Headlands and the gray clouds that graze the peaks. While I’ve seen this view countless times, on this morning I want to see something different. To feel something different, a change. I want my brain to roll over the way the water does when the tide shifts from going into to heading out. I want to feel something powerful, something profound. I want a sign that signifies that 2010 is going to be different. I wait for inspiration. My eyes shift from the water and the lone boat heading into the Pacific Ocean to the cars on the bridge. Black van heading south. White convertible with the top up heading north. Blue Honda heading south. Turquoise pickup truck with the dog in the back heading north. Red Prius heading south. Black taxi truck with a Christmas bow on the front grail heading north. My gaze follows each vehicle as it crosses the span, my head swinging back and forth like a pendulum. I wait. It’s hypnotic.

I’m standing 169 steps past the threshold of where the Golden Gate Bridge begins and where the city ends. I took 13 steps 13 times. Thirteen steps for each of the years I’ve lived in the Bay Area. I’m convinced that this is the spot where I’ll realize that everything is going to be okay. That my life will be okay. That I’ll be okay. When I moved to San Francisco in 1996, I was 22 years old. I had just graduated from college. I was bright-eyed, optimistic, and eager to build a successful journalism career, a partnership with my long-time boyfriend, a life that would include the words happily ever after. But there have been many unexpected turns on this journey, so many ups and downs: a marriage, a divorce; a birth, so many near-deaths; promises, broken promises. For 20 minutes, I stay in this spot.

As I watch the cars and trucks and buses move in both directions, I notice the sound as they pass over a grate that spans all lanes: Ribbit, ribbit, ribbit. And then I notice the white bumps that serve as lane dividers. They are like lily pads resting on an asphalt lake, and for a moment I feel like I’m in a human-sized game of Frogger. Red Chrysler heading north. Red van heading south. Yellow mustang heading north. Silver Audi heading south. The San Francisco tour bus heading north. I imagine I’m holding a joystick and I wonder if I would make it across. I used to be good at Frogger.

It’s been 13 years since I first walked over the Golden Gate Bridge. And it’s possible that I haven’t walked over it since. I’ve driven over the 887,000-ton bridge countless times. I know that it’s not really golden, but more of a burnt orange. I know its official color is called orange vermillion. I don’t know why I know that. Thirteen is going to be my lucky number.

I wait some more. Pelican flying. Bridge vibrating. Clouds billowing. Cars rushing. Waves pressing against rocks. Boat passing. No people walking. It’s just me out here on this windy, 42-degree morning. One bike heading north. Another bike heading north. Nose dripping, but no tissue. I brave the wind and pirouette back towards the city. My eyes start to water as I look down at the parking lot below. It’s mostly empty this morning. I see the pattern of the parking spots, the diagonal lines waiting to offer silent guidance to any approaching cars. I see words painted on the ground directing drivers: “No parking,” “Only van tour,” “Only bus. Only bus.” So much instruction. I look around for my instructions. Where are my instructions? Where is my sign telling me what to do next? How to proceed? I look around. A metal sign bolted to the bridge says: “Any person who willfully drops or throws any object or missile from any toll bridge is guilty of a misdemeanor.” Another sign say: “Sidewalk under surveillance.” I look around for the cameras and wonder if I should wave. Then I notice a sticker that someone stuck to one of the poles. It says: “Hello my name is GROSS.” Those signs don’t mean anything to me.

Golden Gate Transit No. 70 bus heading north. White minivan heading south. Silver Toyota heading north. Gray Nissan heading south.

There are no sailboats. There are no cargo ships. There is just one fishing boat heading west, one Ferry heading towards Tiburon. One jogger heads towards the city, black shiny pants clinging to his legs. Yellow tow truck heading north. Black motorcycle heading south.

It’s time to go. As I walk the 169 steps back to the threshold, a large crow, the color of ink, glides just a few feet above my head. It caws. I see its beak open, and I think I see its pointed tongue inside. Its wingspan is impressive, majestic for a crow. It caws again. I wonder if it’s trying to tell me something. But I remind myself it’s just a bird. Nothing more, nothing less. And I’m just a human being. Nothing more, nothing less. Not a perfect human being. Just one trying to figure out how to get through the day, through the week, through this year of change. So much change. A lifetime of change in 13 years. I run my fingers along the rusty fence for a second and concentrate on the sensation of the metal bumping against my numb finger tips. Momentarily I wonder what change will come during the next 13 years. Mid-thought, I stop myself. I’m going to worry about this week, this month. I don’t need to know all the answers today.

Lonely vs. Alone

Someone asked me the other day if I was lonely. I said: "I'm alone, but I'm not lonely. There's a difference." I smiled a convincing smile and turned my attention back to the Christmas tunes the jazz musicians were playing at Club Deluxe in San Francisco.

It didn't take more than a minute before I realized that I had lied. I'm alone and I'm lonely. But I gave the company line because I said what I wanted to be true. I want to believe that just because I'm single doesn't mean I'm lonely. And honestly, it's hard to believe that I have time to feel anything but busy. I'm in graduate school. I've got two young boys. I'm writing a book. I've been packing and organizing and purging clutter in preparation for my upcoming move. On January 1, I'm moving out of my San Francisco apartment AND out of the house I share with my ex and into my very own house. It will be the first time I've ever had my own place without roommates. Ever. Yes, the boys will live there half the week with me, but it will be my very own place with all my very own stuff.

But even with all that busyness, my brain still finds time to feel a bit of loneliness as well. Especially this time of year. Especially this time of year this year. Even though I'm often with people--my kids, friends, schoolmates, visiting family from out of town, with a date--they can't replace the comfort of having a significant other. I love and adore my kids, my friends, my family. But they can't provide that special feeling that makes my stomach flip, that makes me smile to myself, that equals comfort and the security of not wondering if I'll be solo on a Saturday night.

It's not that I'm not happy. I am happy. Really, honestly, and truly! I swear! I have so many things to be happy about. And I have so many wonderful people in my life to be grateful for. But like so many singles out there, I'd like a companion. A special friend. There is something to be said for waking up in proximity of someone you care about, who cares about you. There is something to be said for sitting next to someone while you hold hands under the table. There is something to be said for giggling on the sofa while your boyfriend tells you a story that you never heard before.

Sure, I can wake up alone in my bed and feel good. Yes, I can go to out by myself on Saturday nights. Yes, I can sit on my sofa and giggle while Therapist Friend tells me about her crazy adventures with her former colleagues.

I can do those things. I'm capable. But I'd prefer the first version. I guess I don't want to be lonely or alone.

A little off

Everything seems to be a little off this year.

Tomorrow is the first Thanksgiving that we will not been together as a family. It's the first Thanksgiving that we will not be together as a family since Carter was born. He was born in 2006. It's the first Thanksgiving that we will not be together as a family since Riley was born. He was born in 2003. Tomorrow is the first Thanksgiving that we will not been together as a couple since we moved to California together in 1996.

Everything seems to be a little off this year. And that would probably be an understatement. My stomach just did a little flip-flop. I know that this is just another one of those milestones that I will now pass on my own. Without him. I suspect each one gets a little easier. A little more normal. A little less profound. I little less noticeable. Until I stop noticing them altogether.

A sweet, empty dream

It’s so hard when you think that you are on the same page as someone else in your life. And then you aren’t. And instead of wanting to accept that realization, it’s easier to go back to sleep. To not think about it. To forget for just a little while. I wish I was still in bed not thinking about it right now.

For years and years I was on the same page as my significant other. We finished each other’s sentences. We solved each other’s Pictionary drawings when only one line had been drawn: Pilot! Aardvark! We always seemed to know what the other was thinking. What the other was feeling. Until we didn’t anymore. We stopped paying attention. We stopped caring to look, to feel, to wonder. We were no longer in tune with the other person. Then we just let go.

I climbed into my bed that rests on the floor of my San Francisco apartment at 6:30 last night and I slept for three hours. From there, I wasted a bunch of time on Facebook and got text messages from the architect who broke my heart this past summer. “Leave me alone” was all I responded to him. His messages came on the worst day in the hardest week. I was feeling so vulnerable last night and it was tempting to reconnect with him. Not really. Well, maybe just a little bit. But I just ignored him. Leave me alone. Alone.

A couple of days ago, I looked at a house. A house that I’m likely to rent. It will be my house. My stuff. Not our house. Not our stuff. It’s terrifying, even though I have known for many months that Ken and I would eventually not share a house. Moving into my own house is just so much more official than not cohabitating. Even when he’s not in the house where our kids live seven days a week, he’s there. His stuff is there. His picture is there. Our family photos cover the walls. His essence is there. Even if he isn’t physically there at the same time I’m there.

After ignoring the architect, I had a bowl of Moroccan stew and went back to sleep. It was about 11 pm. I didn’t get out of bed until 11 am this morning. That’s 16 ½ hours of being in bed, most of it asleep. And honestly, I could have kept sleeping. I really wanted to keep sleeping. Those hours of denial are so appealing. I think I might also be coming down with something. Or that’s what I’m going to tell myself because that’s easier to accept as the reason of craving hours of nothingness. A sweet, dark dream of nothingness.

But I have a 15-page paper that due tonight. So I should be working on schoolwork. But this has been one of the hardest weeks for me since Ken and I split up in April. My emotions have whipped across the spectrum, like an erratic kite in the sky. And schoolwork is the last thing I seem to be able to manage right now. Because I’m writing about Riley’s early days in the hospital. His first surgery. And that means visiting really dark places. And thinking about what that was like. And wondering about who was there to hold my head as I cried. From there, I wonder who will hold me next time I need to lean against someone in the hospital waiting room.

I wish I was writing about puppies. Or rainbows.

She just doesn’t love me

I tried to love the city yesterday and she didn’t love me back the way I needed to be loved. I put on a long, flowing skirt that sat below my belly button, comfortable shoes, a little lipstick, and one of my favorite hats. And once I was spruced up, I walked down her streets. I wanted her to notice me. I wanted her to like my company and wanted her to cheer me up and remove the bit of sadness I woke up with.

I walked from my apartment on Grove Street to Divisadero, up and over Pacific Heights, through the Marina, and along Chrissy Field. Occasionally, I grabbed onto a light pole and spun around it like I was in a movie. I sung softly as I walked. The sun was bright, and the breeze licked my skin. I watched dogs jump after balls in the ocean. I saw troupes of exercisers with weights and colorful resistant bands. Then I climbed back over the hill and went to Mojo Bicycle Café to satisfy my stomach. From there, I walked to Alamo Square. I nestled down in the cold grass and stared at the sky. I tried to feel each blade on my arms, my shoulders, the back of my neck, my ankles—anywhere without clothing.

I wanted all that sky and air and grass to make me feel loved. Caressed. I wanted to feel wanted by something that I love.

And I love San Francisco.

I love the old Victorian houses. I love rollerskating in Golden Gate Park when the streets are shut down to traffic on Sundays. I love the vegetarian restaurants. I love that all cafes have soy milk. I love that if I find the energy to climb a hill, I can see the ocean and bridges and mountains in the distance. I love that on any given day you can go see bellydancers or smoke hookas. I love that you can get Ethiopian, Mexican, Indian, Italian, BBQ, Vegan, or Thai in my neighborhood and then go see live music at the Independent.

I want to be scooped up by the city’s branches like the little boy in The Giving Tree. It gives me a lot, but the city cannot love me the way I need to be loved. It can’t kiss the nape of my neck. It can’t hold my hands. Or look into my eyes. It can’t snuggle up with me or talk about NPR.

After lying in the grass for a while, instead of feeling the joy I’d hoped for, I just felt alone on the hillside. Then I started thinking about the loves of my life – it’s a very short list – and I wished that they had been able to love me the way I needed to be loved. But it didn’t work out that way. And I know I’m partially to blame. Letting a relationship die takes two people, just as keeping a relationship alive takes two people.

And then I started thinking about the men I’ve kissed. The men whose mouths have grazed my neck. Whose hands have held the nape of my neck. I thought about the few men that wanted me to love them that I didn’t love. That I couldn’t love. I thought about the few whose hands have touched the small of my back, the curve of my breast. They might have wanted to fuck me, but they didn’t love me.

This is the part of the story where I’m supposed to have some realization about the joy of solitude or the happiness of just being in the moment. Where I remind myself how much I enjoy my solitude. How I like my own company. How I am happy to have time to myself after so many years without it. Because those things are all true. But it just didn't work today. I just felt sad, even with the sky and the grass and the old houses and vegetarian restaurants.

As I walked back to my apartment, a man said, “Hey, how you doin’ suga” as I passed him on the street. That made me smile for a few minutes. But after I unlocked my apartment and went inside, I was still alone. Still feeling sad. I guess some days are just like that.

A brave, new me

Just two days before what would have been my 11-year wedding anniversary, my life is barely recognizable to the life I had five months ago. I'm in graduate school. I live in San Francisco half of the week. I live with my kids on the Peninsula half of the week. I'm getting divorced.

While the decision is mutual and we are amicable, a transition of this magnitude has altered every part of my life, of his life, of our kids' lives. It has changed who I am, who I thought I was, the woman and mother I want to be. It is also shaping me and will affect the person and partner I hope to become at some point down the road.

It is now my future and his future. There still is a version of our relationship, of our future as it pertains to our kids and to the house we each live in part of the week. But the future that was pronounced with the words “as long as we both shall live,” and sealed with a kiss in that country church filled with 97 family members and friends nearly 11 years ago, has been permanently altered. For better or for worse, I cannot say. For richer or for poorer and for sickness and in health, those are things that will now be determined separately.

Wondering about the future is a luxury I have not allowed myself during many of the last six years because of our son's heart defect. I’ve lived in the moment surrounded by ambiguity and uncertainty. Thinking of what is to come is too painful. The reality is too painful. My son's single ventricle heart too primitive to allow him to reach adulthood. His condition to too rare, too serious. How much time we have before a heart transplant is unknown. The knowledge of what is to come lingers in my daily thoughts the way that the name of someone I have forgotten can linger on the tip of my tongue.

But now I am forced to think of the future. That unknown world. I need to think of where I will live. Of how I will support myself. Of how I will be a single parent. I need to think about health insurance and car insurance and homeowners insurance. I need to think of bank statements and credit cards and my Toyota’s registration. I need to remember which day of the week is garbage day. And I wonder how we will manage our son's next surgery together and separately.

I remember reading somewhere after my son was born that couples that have kids with massive health problems have a higher chance of divorce compared to the general population. I never believed that. I never believed that could be us. But here we were. Another statistic. Another couple letting their legal union disappear as chalk drawings do in the rain.

M is for Moderation

My kids cried today because no babysitter was coming over and they would be stuck with just me.

I wasn't annoyed at them for wanting someone else. I felt a sense of relief that over the years, I have brought other people into their lives. To add depth. To add variety. To add another layer of security and joy for them. How could I be upset that they cried for Daddy last week when they were stuck with me? The fact that they want other people and not just me all the time is a gift. Because I can't always be with them.

There was a time when I had a hard time letting other people parent my kids. I was paranoid about the mistakes that people might make around my kids (like giving the wrong dose of medicine) or offering them a viewpoint that I disagree with (Hummers are great!), or just that it was wrong for me to be off doing things for myself or by myself (because somehow being a parent meant that I was to sacrifice everything in my life for the creatures that grew within me). So I was with my kids every day. I dragged them to the store and was frustrated with them when they demanded my attention when what really needed was some alone time. A chance to reflect on the changes that took place within me as I transitioned from a woman with dogs and a writing career to a lactating, over-tired mother with little sense of direction.

But eventually I did hire childcare, drop my kids at the daycare at the gym, and get sitters so that I could go learn salsa or drive to a concert at the beach. I slowly learned that my kids would be okay if other people took care of them, changed their diapers, made their dinners, read them books and tucked them into bed. Letting someone else do those things does not mean that I love my children any less. Although there certainly have been times when I've questioned my love for them. But I do love them, especially when I don't spend all of my time with them.

It seems silly to have taken six years to learn all of this -- and it's remarkably obvious -- but I now know that it really is quality and not quantity.

I had the best Mother's Day ever this year. I was without kids, I slept in, and had brunch with one of my best friends. It was a joy and there wasn't any guilt at all. I've realized that guilt serves no purpose in parenting or in other types of human relationships. The only thing it does is make us feel inadequate, as if we've fallen short of some expectation (set by whom exactly?), and takes up time as we wonder how we could have done things differently.

And after time away from them, I look forward to playing games with them, playing baseball in the yard, to creating bubbles with giant wands and large, soap-filled bowls.

I don't have the time, the energy, or the desire to second-guess every choice I make as a parent or as a person. But as our lives evolve and schedules change and relationships wander down different paths, I'm grateful that my kids like me in moderate doses. The feeling is mutual.