I Just Know

E and I have a bedtime ritual. He takes a bubble bath with his sea animals, we brush his teeth with his battery powered Wall-E toothbrush and wild berry Spongebob Toothpaste, we read The Berenstein Bears and Too Much Junk Food, we say our prayers, and then every night I kiss him on the forehead and tuck him in. And if I forget any part of this ritual, or do any part of it differently than normal, E will let me know about it. The other night, I kissed his cheek, tucked him in, and began to walk out of the room only to hear,

"BUT I CAN'T GO TO SLEEP BECAUSE YOU DIDN'T KISS MY FOREHEAD."

*****************

In anticipation of the upcoming Julia Roberts film, Eat Pray Love, I have been re-reading my favorite author's memoir. If you haven't read "Eat, Pray, Love" by Elizabeth Gilbert, you should do so immediately. She is kind of my hero.

While doing this, I found a quote that I liked. "Everybody has a crack (or cracks). This is how the light of God gets in." I loved it when I read it, so yesterday I posted in on my facebook page. About an hour after I posted it, the little red notification bubble showed up on my mailbox. I went to my inbox and found a message from an old high school friend. This friend found my quote funny, because he has a dirty mind. I'll let you use your imagination on that one.

This friend has also been the source of many spiritual conversations over the years. This is the case, not because he is always so deep in thought (which he is), and not because he is a student of the Bible (which he is NOT), but because he is a self-proclaimed atheist. In high school, it was my mission to convert him to Christianity and save his burning soul. In college, we went on a few friendly dates, which again led to me trying to save him from himself. And in our adult lives, we have come to respect each other as "someone I will never agree with but whom I will always adore." It's a happy place for us, and the result of this mutual respect is a lot of witty facebook banter and an occasional reminder that "you are one of my favorite people."

Our spiritual conversations were always frustrating for me. He is someone who chooses not to believe in something that he can't see. In his eyes, science in no way supports evidence of a higher power, and he obviously can't SEE God, so his question for me was always, "how do you know God exists?" And after many failed attempts at demonstrating God's connection to the miracles of life and the universe in general, the conversation always ended with me huffing, "I just KNOW."

And I did just know. There has never been a time where I questioned the existence of a higher power. Now, over the years, my particular relationship with this higher power has been pulled and stretched like a piece of silly putty, but the relationship itself has never failed. In some form or fashion, I can always see God in my life. He's in my son, and every time E smiles, I'm reminded that God loves me. He's in my school work, and every day that I get closer to finishing this master's program, I'm reminded that He has a purpose for me. He's in my life, and every day that I find peace after the storms of recent years, I'm reminded that He rebuilds the things that are broken. So yes, when it comes to the question of the existence of God, I JUST KNOW is a sufficient answer for me.

But one night, when I was an RA in McCormack Hall at the college on the hill, something happened. I had recently moved to one of the coveted rooms by the elevator. These rooms were reserved for Resident Advisers, because they had a walk in closet space that was situated behind the elevator shaft, and (insert chorus of angels here) a sink in the room. This was a HUGE perk of being an RA, because in any of the other rooms in the dorm, you had to put on your robe and shower shoes and trek a mile down the hall to brush your teeth. The only drawback to this room at all was the fact that it did sit right by the elevators, so all night long you'd here dinging and clattering as drunk sorority girls made their way home. But I didn't care. I had closet space and a convenient teeth brushing experience. It was totally worth a little drunk girl clattering.

In recent weeks in this period in my life, I had been having a hard time sleeping. A lot of this was school stress, as I had come to discover I was most definitely majoring in something that I knew I would HATE. And also at this time, there was a boy that I was losing sleep over. Imagine that. So one night, I lay awake in my bed, and for no reason at all began to cry. And after a few moments, the crying led to praying. And then, something happened to me that I will never forget.

In the midst of my scattered prayer, I felt myself lifted out of the dim funk I was in. My eyes were seemingly glued shut, and at some point the words stopped flowing from my mouth. And in that moment, the spirit of God joined me, right there, beside the elevators, in the room with a sink. It wasn't that He was just there with me. He WAS INSIDE ME. His very energy and power ran through my veins where once there had been blood. His presence washed over me in such a way, that all noise and distraction melted away like hot butter. I ceased praying, because for the first time, a deeper level of communication was taking place. I wasn't talking TO God. I was talking WITH God. There was an intimate exchange between us of hearing the heart of the other. There were no words. There were no sounds. But I heard Him speaking to me. I felt the magnitude of his majesty. I tasted the goodness of His grace. I JUST KNEW.

After a moment, the energy began to soften, and slowly I was dropped back into my bed in the room beside the elevator with a sink in it. I looked at the clock. An hour had passed. Physically, I was completely exhausted, like I had been running up hill for miles, but spiritually I was peacefully still. I drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

Before that night, I believed in my relationship with God because I had had a Christian experience. After that night, I believe in my relationship with God because I have experienced HIM.

For my friend, who asks me "How do you know God exists?" I say, I just know, because one night, at the college on the hill, in McCormack Hall, in the room beside the elevator with the sink in it,

God kissed me on the forehead, and then He tucked me in.

Clutter

***In the last 5 days, I have been encouraged by two different readers of my blog to update this thing. It still amazes me, given my incredible insanity, that anyone dares to venture back to my little corner of the internet with any level of measurable interest. That said, this blog is dedicated to J and L. Thanks for coming back.***

I went to the first grade at a small country school house that was nested nicely between two cow pastures. Even without looking out of the window of the car on the morning ride, I could tell when we were almost to the school. There is nothing like the smell of a field of freshly deposited manure early in the morning to get you in the mood to do some learnin'. To this day, when the odor of a cow pasture wafts through my nostrils for even the briefest of moments, I am struck with the insatiable need to do addition in my head.

The first grade is a murky blur with the exception of two incidents. The first was the time that Mrs. Wheeler put my name on the board, because I failed to put my pencil down when she instructed the class to do so. This was emotionally scarring to me, because in all two years of my professional classroom experience I had not once gotten in trouble. For anything. And I SWEAR I DID NOT HEAR HER SAY TO PUT YOUR PENCILS DOWN. But that wasn't really a good explanation in her eyes, and the bitch went and scrawled my name on the board anyway, forever blemishing my record of excellence and thrusting me, pencil in hand, into the clutches of inadequacy. (I bet, if I try really, really hard, I can blame Big Mistake 2009 aka Divorce #2 on her. Later, in the privacy of my own head, I shall try this.)

The second incident happened in the middle of the year. Every week in the first grade, we would get back a packet of papers that she had graded. Worksheets, tests, and page upon page of wide ruled, recycled paper with sentences printed in my first grade handwriting. We were supposed to take these papers home to our parents to be relegated to either the refrigerator or the trash can, depending on the demonstrated level of achievement. However, I had a better idea. Of course. My plan was to store these packets in the bottom of my school desk chair. The goal, obviously, was to create a huge stack of old papers so that I could use them at home later when I played "office" on the piano bench. If I took them home, they would be thrown out. My mother was not one to put multiple pages of recycled, wide ruled paper on her refrigerator. I was simply saving my precious "office work" from the stinky old trash can. So I left them there in the bottom of my desk chair. For months. I was so proud. The stack piled higher and higher.

And I couldn't wait to take them home and turn them into important executive documents.

But then, Mrs. "Put Your Pencil Down" Wheeler, called me to her desk one day and told me I would have to stay in at recess and clean out my desk. "The papers have to be thrown out. Your desk is a cluttered mess."

I probably could have explained why I was saving this mess of papers. And if I had, she might have even let me take them home. But I didn't. I was 6 years old. And for what may possibly be the first time in my life, which obviously later would become one of my most damaging themes, I betrayed my own desires in order to make someone else happy. She stood over me as I sat on the floor and dug through 3 months of papers, placing them into the trash can she provided for me. Not once did I try to explain myself. Not for a single moment did I attempt to speak my mind. I just jumped through the hoop that she held out for me, and threw away something so seemingly simple that made me just as simply happy. And 23 years later, I still feel sorry for that little girl sitting on the floor by her desk, because I want so badly for her to have the courage to stand up for herself. And I know she won't.

All of this to say, that I have attempted to write multiple blogs in recent weeks, only to be stopped in my tracks by the worst case of writer's block that I have ever experienced. It took me a while to pinpoint why I was having such a hard time sharing my thoughts. Usually, they pour out of me like a steady flow of maple syrup. But lately, I have been having a hard time getting my fingers to peck out an entry that doesn't sound like I'm "trying." My writing has a distinctly different voice when I'm "trying" versus when I'm "inspired." The voice isn't real. It isn't me. And it isn't anything that deserves an infinite home in a corner of the internet.

I have realized that the reason that I haven't been able to blog is because my brain, like my school desk chair, is a cluttered mess. There are so many snippets of conversations and blogs stirring in my head all day, every day lately. The heights of introspection that I have climbed to in recent months are at nose bleed altitudes, and the swirls of issues, goals, and thoughts that have set up residency there have resulted in my ability to actually write or speak about them being undeniably crippled. The bright side to this is that I have applied for my handicapped decal, so in 4-6 weeks parking will be much easier.

In an effort to continue on in my goal of vulnerability with you all, here are some of the snippets:

How did I manage to get myself HERE. Divorced twice before my 30th birthday. My second chance wasted. How many chances do I get before God decides that I have simply wasted too much of his time? My brain knows God well enough to know that He will never give up on me. But my heart aches at the realization that deep down, I feel like if I were God I would have given up on me a long while ago. It's a good thing I'm not God. (The flip side to this is that if I WERE God...they would still be taping new episodes of FRIENDS.)

Why is love so damn disappointing? I have spent the whole of my 20's putting all of my effort and energy into men who were too childish in their emotions to put any of that effort and energy back into me. The result of this is that my best date ever has been with a pint of Ben and Jerry's. This is depressing. But it's REALLY good ice cream.

The amount of shame that makes its home on your shoulders when you find yourself in a spot like mine is HEAVY. I have discovered that it isn't so much about what I am afraid that others might think of me. The scarier truth lies within the belly of what I have come to realize I think about myself. Shame is a strange bedfellow. He takes up too much space. He hogs the covers. And He breathes foulness onto my countenance. And sadly, I feel stuck in this relationship with him. He climbs into bed with me every night, and every night I can hear him planning what we will do tomorrow.

I am confused by dating. It both excites me and nauseates me in the same instant. I do it, and I still feel naggingly unsatisfied. I think about not doing it, and I feel vaguely hopeless. Loneliness isn't a bedfellow that I care to invite into my room either. I avoid him by dating, but he always shows up like a squeaky third wheel anyway.

I'm tired of trying to make my family happy. It seems to be an impossible task that has culminated in complete emotional exhaustion. Regardless of what decision I make, someone disagrees that I should have made it. And hearing about it, or not hearing about it because I'm "in trouble," has made me tired. I want to live completely and totally for myself and E...yet I still feel the need to get my passport of approval stamped by my family of origin, and I have stood in customs waiting to enter Russia. That seemed easier...

I'm almost there. I know I'm almost there...wherever "there" is. I'm on the cusp of living God's purpose for my life. But some days "the cusp" just feels like loosing your footing and falling off the edge.

I'm not sure that "falling in love" can ever look like it did that first time. Now I know exactly how many pieces of my heart have to be picked up when it gets broken and exactly how much of my soul that requires. And once you know that, I'm not sure that you can "fall" with the same reckless abandon and the same wide eyed innocence. But how I wish you could! To allow my heart to seek out life and love the way it did before I knew just how much risk that involves is a naivety that I long for.

So there you have it, just a SMALL amount of the clutter sitting in the bottom of my brain like a stack of haphazardly collected papers. To many, it would seem time to clean house. Obviously this magnitude of clutter is screaming for some therapeutic intervention. And while this may well be true, I firmly believe that there is some value in everything firing in my brain at the moment. I am in this place for a reason, and I am experiencing these introspections because they have a purpose.

I may not have been strong enough to say it when I was 6, but to the Mrs. "Put Your Pencils Down" Wheelers of the world...

Back off Bitch...This mess is mine, and I'M DOING SOMETHING WITH IT.

The Sting of Cultural Submersion

***There's no life lesson or spiritual parallel in this entry....just thought I'd lighten this thing up a bit.***

A handful of years ago, when I was an undergraduate at the college on the hill, I was Super Christian! Ok, well, that's not true. But I WAS involved in a campus organization that was evangelical in nature, and I must say, a little bit like being in a cult. I don't say that to belittle their mission or anyone who works for this ministry, because it IS a ministry, and the staff are incredibly devoted to their cause. However, after several years of involvement with this group, I learned that they had their own way of doing things that differed from pretty much everyone else on campus. They had their own "language," and, in all honesty, if you didn't act or think like them, then you were labeled "carnal" and a group of them would gather to pray for your soul. I know this, because at different points during my college career, I was both in the group doing the praying...and in the carnal lot of souls being prayed for.

In the summer of 2002, before I was engulfed by my own carnality, I took part in an extended mission trip to Russia. A group of college students from several different universities all converged on the streets of Perm, and we took up residence in the Ural Hotel. Our mission was to work with Perm University students. We were there to wrestle as many of them to Christ as possible, shrouded under the clever rouse of teaching them English. Since many of the Russian students already spoke an impressive bit of English, and almost none of the American students spoke a single syllable of Russian, our disguise was comical to say the least. I think the cat was undeniably out of the bag as soon as any of us Americans tried to order food. We would stand at the counter, look helplessly at the overhead menu, and then sort of point and grunt until the clerk realized that we were, in fact, complete Russian illiterates. She would then take mercy on us, sometimes while rolling her eyes, and give us whatever food there was a picture of. I like to call this little maneuver the "American Point and Purchase."

We spent the next few weeks building relationships with the Russians, and I learned very quickly that while our lifestyles were very different, the heart of a woman remains the same regardless of her nationality. These young women struggled with how they looked, what boys thought of them, and what their futures held. They were, in many respects, just like me. And they had such an intense desire to show us the very depths and heart of their culture. We ate their food, accompanied them to their homes, learned some of their favorite hangouts, and took part in a traditional Russian experience that I will NEVER forget.

I had heard about Russian bath houses. Our group of American students had been talking about it the entire time we were in Perm. However, this concept was somewhat similar to the city of Atlantis. It was interesting to talk about....intriguing to imagine going there even....but I was certain I would never end up there.

I was wrong.

On a hot summer day, the young Russian women decided it was time to introduce us to the bath house, the pinnacle of cultural submersion. A Russian bath house is similar to an American group of women spending a day at the spa. Only different. At a Russian bath house, the men go in one side and the women go in the other, so you are safely sequestered there with only your same sex. The first room is a changing room. And what do you change into, you ask?

NOTHING.

That's right. You walk into a room full of 60 other people. Half of them are people you know, because they are your American or Russian friends. The other half, you don't so much know, but you CAN so much see their aged, sagging breasts tickling the floor tiles. And there, in front of God and the sagging breasts, you disrobe. Every stitch of clothing that you own comes off, and you stand in this room with all of your friends, who have also removed their clothing. And everyone collectively looks for a safe place to divert their eyeballs, because when you agreed to do ministry together, you didn't realize that meant getting up close and personal with the who-whos of your ministry partners.

From there, you walk into the shower room. This is a huge room, full of open shower stalls that continuously spew cool water. In a last ditch attempt at modesty, most of the American students had one hand placed firmly on their exposed breasts, and the other hand shielding the aforementioned who-who. The Russians are not so modest. Their breasts and who-whos are right there, out in the open, for anyone and everyone to see. Because there are many more people in the shower room than there are actual showers, you take turns standing under one of the shower heads and rinsing yourself with chilly water. The purpose of the bathhouse, or bano (pronounced bon-yo), isn't to scrub with soap. In fact, I don't recall there being a bar of soap anywhere in the shower room. The purpose, I was told by my naked, cone boobed, Russian friend, is to improve your circulation.

The next stage in the Russian bath house experience is to move from chilly shower water to the small room that is heated to what felt like 200 degrees. When you walk in to this heat, from the cool of the shower, your nose hairs literally feel like they have been set aflame, and it's honestly difficult to breathe. There was a long wooden bench in the hot room. I didn't sit down. All I could think of at this point was my father, who religiously wears his shower shoes in even the fanciest of hotels for fear of the funk that might be growing on the floor. I could only imagine how much respect he would lose for me if he knew that I had sat my buck naked ass on a sweaty wooden bench in a public bath house deep in the mountains of Russia. So I declined my Russian friends offer of a seat, and stood there trying to breathe through the heat and the steam and the sweat.

And that is when the old naked lady started beating me with sticks.

Apparently this is the part of the experience that is "good for the circulation." In the heat of the sauna, an old, stark naked, Russian grandmother, with deflated balloons for breasts, takes a bunch of sticks tied into a lot, and beats you with them.

ALL. OVER. YOUR. NAKED. BODY.

And these aren't special sticks. They aren't sticks that are designed for bath house use. They are in fact, twigs of green wood that someone gathered from the grounds outside the bath house, similar to what you used to go rip from a tree when your grandmother told you to "get a switch." They are strapped together, leaves still on them, and then used to beat any naked body and every naked body that enters that hot room. And my turn had come. This old lady snuck up behind me, seemingly from nowhere, and began beating me from my feet to my head, her saggy boobs flying to and fro with every lashing and leaves leaping off the angry twigs, sticking to my damp skin. I was too stunned to even protest, although I think my hands instinctively went to my face, as I endured...

the culturally appropriate lashing of my life.

After that the rest of the bath house experience is simply "Rinse and Repeat." I did partake in the "rinsing" part, because...well....I was covered in leaves...but I left the "repeating" to the Russians. I'm all for cultural submersion. In fact, I even encourage it, as it obviously leads to an educational and memorable experience. Eat their food! Drink their ale! Speak their language!

However...I draw the line at being beaten with sticks by a wet, naked, woman. Once was enough.

But maybe that's my carnality talking. I dunno. Pray for me.

The Real Deal

At 1AM in the morning, in the dorm room of my friend, in the Spring of 2002, I changed my undergraduate major. I realized, after nearly 3 years of classes, that I did not, in fact, wish to teach children how to read and write. So with all of the thought and consideration that one can muster at 1 in the morning, I hopped online and changed my major from Elementary Education to, of all things, Interior Design. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Looking back on it, I realize that this particular degree was about as useful as if I had never attended college at all.
But...well.....as we've firmly established recently, I don't always make the best decisions.

During the course of my Interior Design studies I took a class called "Fibers and Finishes." Stop laughing...I'm serious. Part of the course was to use a microscope to identify the various types of fibers, natural and man made. (Interesting Note: This skill actually came in handy a few years later when I was selling yellow pages, and working tirelessly to sell an ad to a carpet cleaner. He literally purchased a half page ad from me simply because I could intelligently speak of the differences between the fibers of a wool rug and one made of nylon. True Story.) Anyway, the most interesting part of this class was the timed test we had to take. We each had our own microscope and a sampling of fabric swatches. We had 10 minutes to use a pair of tweezers to pluck a single fiber from each swatch, place it under the microscope and identify it's origin. Rayon...nylon...wool...cotton. Then we attached the swatch to a piece of paper and wrote our answer underneath.


Do you want to know how to identify a wool fiber from a nylon fiber? WELL OF COURSE YOU DO!!!! I'm sure you have spent your whole life walking around thinking, "Wow...how long am I going to live on this earth before someone clears up this mind boggling question that nags daily at my soul?!?!" Well, good news, my friend. That day has come! A nylon fiber is perfectly smooth and round, because before it was a fiber, it was a liquid. The fibers are formed by being squeezed through a machine with tiny round holes. Therefore, under a microscope they look smooth and shiny and perfect. A wool fiber, however, looks disgusting. When you magnify a single wool fiber, you will see an abundance of tiny scales, each one wrapping itself around the next. It is not uniform. It is not smooth. It is not pretty. In fact, it looks rough, like the mangled bark of an aged tree.


What is the point?


I almost deleted my blog this week.


A lot of people use blogging to keep their families updated on the happenings of their kids, or as a general day in the life journal. My blog isn't really for that. It's my way of processing all of the things that are in my head. It's a release. It's me, being 100% transparent, behind the safety of my computer screen. And up to this point, that safety hasn't really ever been compromised. I know a lot of the people that read my blog make judgements about me. It's hard not to! But those of you that comment regularly, though I've never met some of you (and STILL owe others of you an introductory walk!) have been a real encouragement to me through this journey. If I never meet you on earth, I plan to know you in Heaven.


But this week someone, who chose to remain anonymous, left me a comment (which was not published) that basically boiled down to their judgement that I needed therapy. It was delivered in such a way that the tone didn't seem to be of a particularly helpful or encouraging nature...more of a "Good Lord You Are F****D Up!" judgement. It stung. And the result was the realization that there are mean people out there who will read some stranger's (at least I think we're strangers...) deepest heartache and feel it appropriate to point fingers, make judgements, and then share them without care or concern for others' feelings. And THEN, I realized that it's not just the mean people that do this....everyone does it. Whether they share their judgements with me or not...they are making them all the same. And suddenly, my little corner of the internet didn't feel so safe. So for about a day and a half, I decided to throw it away.


But the thought of deleting my blog made me cranky. And sad. And angry. So I didn't do it.


And here's why.


I already know I need therapy. Good lord, anyone who's ever read this thing knows I need therapy! Thank you, Captain Obvious! But I also know that my circumstances and the results of my bad decisions have absolutely no impact on the fact that God has a distinct purpose for me, and that He will use all of this....this time of rebuilding....this place of shame....this spirit of introspection....this season of confusion....for the good. Because He's just that kind of GOOD...and He's just that kind of GOD.


I have felt lately, more than ever, that I am under a microscope. Even though I'm the only one on this planet that is living my life, everyone seems to have an opinion about how I'm doing it. And granted, I've made it awfully easy for them to feel licensed to do so. I mean, honestly, I have made some REALLY BAD DECISIONS. And then I went and blogged about them.


What I've discovered during this period of intense scrutiny, is something that just doesn't look pretty. Me under a microscope looks an awful lot like a wool fiber. I'm not smooth or polished. I am rough around the edges, a scale to scale mess of imperfection. I look like something that needs to be stripped down to its core, because the appearance of what IS....just looks like it's come undone. It looks broken. It looks torn. It looks like it is in need of healing....like time and the tender hand of the seamstress have their work cut out for them.


But it's the very roughness, the very brokenness, of the wool fiber that sets it apart from it's man made nylon friend. Nylon isn't natural, which is why its fibers appear smooth and polished when held under intense magnification. Wool fibers, God made fibers, are easily identifiable...

because of their brokenness.

They are rough.

They are raw.

They are REAL.

Kind of like me.

The Bad Words

Recently, I gave E a bath, and in the middle of playing with his bubble covered sea animals, he stood up, buck naked and dripping cucumber melon suds, made a very loud proclamation.

"Mama....I am going to tell you ALL OF THE BAD WORDS, and you NOT put me in time out!"

He looked determined, so I sat in front of the tub hiding a smile and told him to go for it. And this is what he said...loudly...

"Well....STUPID IS NOT GOOOOOOOD......and BUTT IS NOT GOOOOOOOD.......and (lowering his voice to a whisper) what the hell is really not good (head shaking). "

I was trying really hard not to laugh at this point, but I asked, "are there any more?"

"Ummmm......I think Cowboy is not good.....but I don't know why."

At this point, I busted out laughing. He sat back down in the foamy water while I explained to him that cowboy was a perfectly acceptable word that he could say any old time he wanted. And then he went on playing with his sea animals.

I'm not really sure what inspired him to stand up and recite all of the words that his short little history has taught him get him a good finger pointing or a lengthy time out. But whatever spurred it on, it gave me a hearty laugh on an otherwise boring evening of watching Aladdin 4 times in a row.

After this exchange, I began thinking about the bad words. There are obvious ones...ones that I was brought up never to say, yet somehow they creep into my blog from time to time. But then there are the words that you don't realize are bad until you find yourself in the depths of their clutches. Words like defeat.....shame......hopelessness....and the one that I have been held captive by recently, obligation.

And then, as I have up to this point only painfully experienced, there is Obligation's more well dressed twin: Marriage.

About 6 years ago I entered into a legally and, what I believed to be a spiritually binding contractual agreement with The One. We got married. And then, for nearly the next 4 years, we, the sickly, ill-equipped pair of us, did everything in our power to suck every ounce of joy out of marriage that we possibly could, until all that was left was Obligation. And then, not even Obligation was a strong enough glue to seal the cracks within our union. And in the space of a couple of hours, life was thrown into an empty suitcase and The One became The First One....known to you as Ex. A mistake? Hard to say. A learning experience? Definitely. Crushingly painful both before and after that suitcase filled up? Ummm....yeah.

THEN.....after dating a bunch of free dinners, a couple of really nice guys that I treated like disposable contact lenses (ahem...sorry about that Super Man), and one REALLY BIG LOSER, I fell in love again. Recklessly, and wildly in love. In love so much so that I ignored, and, might I add, even obliterated EVERY SINGLE RED FLAG (and believe me there were MANY) waving insanely in my face, because it felt

so damn good to no longer feel like my insides were dying from the weight of crushing pain.

So I did the thing that seemed the most logical in my warped brain....I stood up on a hill and legally OBLIGATED myself to The One. It seemed like the only way to ensure immunity from the crushing pain of heartbreak and failure that I had experienced from the person who had previously proclaimed love for me.

However, we all know how the story goes. It was mere months into this fresh union that I looked at The One and thought, "I don't like you." It wasn't because I can't commit. It wasn't because I am even bad at the basics of marriage. In fact, and I know this sounds somewhat insane coming from the fingertips of the woman who has been divorced twice, but I would venture to say that I am a GOOD WIFE. It wasn't any of that.

It was because I slipped out of the reckless throws of passion as easily as I slipped into them...and found myself in the death grip of obligation. And this time, I was obligated to someone who exhibited VERY FEW redeeming qualities....qualities such as mutual respect and general regard for others that make obligation livable, if not enjoyable. I stayed for many months after my family started saying things like, "How long exactly are you going to live like this?" I stayed, because of a bad word...because I was obligated to stay....obligated to give it a fair shake....to hope for the best.....to do something besides tuck tail and run.

So all of this to say, obligation has left a bad taste in my mouth. And now, like "cowboy" it has made it to the list of bad words....even if I'm not quite sure it actually is one. When we begin to do things out of obligation as opposed to a genuine desire to serve someone else, or uphold the commitments that are so important to our integrity, WHY ARE WE REALLY DOING IT? In marriage, I have learned, that the place where you begin to continually function, day in and day out, solely because you obligated yourself to do so, is also the location of a very fine line. It's the line between the dreams you allowed yourself to have with your partner, and the possibilities that you begin to see you could have without them. A scary place to find yourself, to say the least, because once you have reached this very fine line, the life on either side of the crevice seems to leave something within you vaguely unsatisfied. I know this...because I have now fallen on both sides.

So the question becomes, at what point are you free from Obligation? At what point, after being introduced to the clammy hand of Obligation grasping your life, are you allowed to walk down the path that you willingly chose, with some degree of resolve about choosing it? For months in my second marriage, I struggled with this question. But as it turns out, there is a force out there that is stronger than Obligation. And at just the right moment that force, Self Respect, came seemingly from out of nowhere.

For me, Self Respect showed up just as the chewing tobacco can was whizzing past my face, hurled at my by The One.....who henceforth will be The One Who Shall No Longer Be Named. And in that instance, just after I got chewing tobacco in my eye...but just before The One Who Shall No Longer Be Named attempted repeatedly to bar my exit from my home, Self Respect kicked Obligation's sorry little (bad word alert!) ass....and I landed solidly on the side of the fence where possibilities run rampant.

I guess if it took two failed marriages for Self Respect to finally show up, then we can call it good. However, I can't help thinking that it would have been so much more convenient if Self Respect had also practiced punctuality, but I'm clinging to the belief that lessons learned will continually cancel out mistakes made.

Regardless of the pain and the shame, and regardless of the fact that Obligation has been my bedmate for many years now, Self Respect is decidedly the companion that I wish to invite along for this journey. This journey into, what can only be described as a

very good word...

the possibilities.

(Now if something will just come along and kick the ass of Impulsivity, I think my family and friends will rest a bit easier and be less likely to kill me.)

The Way It Is

I have always wanted a family. I grew up with desires to have a house full of kids...dogs...white picket fence....the whole nine. Obviously, if you have been reading ANY of my blog, you know that my life hasn't quite worked out that way. Instead, I am a single mom, who can now compare her divorce attorneys. (In case you're curious, the second one wins, hands down. He's so incredibly on the ball, AND he wears a kick-ass bow tie.) I have managed to carve out a life for myself that JUST. ISN'T. NORMAL.

But every now and then I get a teeny tiny moment that borders on "the way it was supposed to be."

Yesterday was E's first dentist appointment. Honestly, if I were a good parent, he would have gone to the dentist when he was two...but I'm merely mediocre, so I waited to make his first appointment until just before DCS got involved. And honestly, I was dreading it. I just KNEW E would clamp his mouth shut and refuse to let "the nice lady count his teeth." I just knew it. So earlier in the week I sent Ex a text letting him know I had made the appointment. Since the appointment was on one of Ex's custody days, I asked him to bring E to the dentist and meet me there. We generally try to do medical appointments together when possible, just because it keeps us on the same page, eliminates any confusion about E's health and well-being, and I think it makes us both feel a little less crappy for forcing E into such a shit situation in the first place. (Or it does for me anyway.)

When I pulled up to the dentist's office, Ex was getting E out of the car. I hugged him (E, not Ex) and took his hand as we walked in. I didn't know what kind of prep work Ex had done for this whole experience, so I tried to get E excited about what was about to happen. "Are you ready for them to count your teeth?!? It's going to be so great! They will make sure they are all healthy and then you will get a special new toothbrush and probably a sticker!!!!"

We walked in, handed over insurance cards, signed papers, and then they called us back. And then cool stuff just started happening. E was a total champ during the whole thing, only shaking one time when he saw them aim the little scraper tool at his face. Ex held his hand. I patted his leg. And he did awesome! Then they gave him two little red cars, and he played until the dentist came to do the final exam. And while he played, Ex and I chit chatted about his need to get his teeth worked on, my work, and just life in general. It was downright pleasant. In fact, until I told the dentist that E splits the week between us, she probably didn't even realize that we weren't one big happy family.

Because here's the deal. Ex and I were horrible at marriage. But we are FREAKING AWESOME at divorce. E has never seen us fight. He's never seen us be mean. He's never heard us say harsh things about the other one. We have worked really hard through the course of E's life, so that his security is affected as little as possible. We have a really important common goal of making sure that our son is happy, healthy, and loved. And, apparently that his teeth are clean.

We walked out of the dentist office, and I was very aware that although our situation isn't the happy little family that I had once envisioned, that we are very much a team. And I couldn't help but wonder if E in fact does feel secure. Does he feel safe and fulfilled even though he goes back and forth all the time? Does he know that he is loved? Does he ever feel torn between us?

Is he ok?

And then E answered my question. He put his left hand in Ex's and his right hand in mine, took a flying leap, and hollered, "Daddy, Mama, SWING ME!!!"

So Ex and I walked through the parking lot, swinging our cavity free child, who smiled and laughed, because he knew we wouldn't drop him. He knew that he could fly through the air and come back down safely...because Daddy was in one hand and Mama was in the other.

So I guess everything is just as it should be.

The One with the Blue Balloon

The internet has been finicky at my house lately, which means I am spending crazy, insane amounts of time at places that offer free wi-fi. Mocha Frappe' anyone? When E was with me the other day, I decided to take him to the only place in town that has both an indoor play place AND free wi-fi, which also just happened to give me a reprieve from McDonald's. The only indoor play place, free wi-fi enabled place in town happens to be Chick-Fil-A. Yep....we're classing it up in these parts.

I needed to log some time on my work's database, and well, facebook has just MISSED me. So I loaded E into the car, we ate chicken nuggets and waffle fries, and then he headed off into the play area while I got some "work" done. He had a blast, and played hard for a solid hour...so hard in fact that little beads of sweat formed on his little forehead. On the way out, the cashier stopped him and offered him his choice of a blue balloon or an orange one. He chose the blue one.

As we walked outside I told him to hold onto his balloon tightly so it wouldn't fly away. He agreed. Ok. Good plan. I opened the car door, and while he climbed into the car, I put my laptop back in my bag, completely oblivious to the trauma that was unfolding. Apparently E was oblivious as well, because when he got situated in his seat he looked at me and said, "Will you hand me my balloon now?"

Of course, I, having never actually had a hand on the balloon, looked at him, then into the car, and then....up into the sky....where there was a blue balloon frolicking farther and farther away from its little "shree year old." Oops. There I go again, being so highly competitive for "Mom of the Year."

INSERT SECOND STORY HERE

Ok, last year I blogged about my mom's dog, Bo. Bo was old and sick, and eventually had to be put down. E loved that dog. So my mom, knowing that the inevitable was fast approaching, began to prepare E by saying, "Bo is old and sick." And then when Bo died, Mom said, "Bo was old and sick, and he died." She tried to keep it simple. But then Ex picked E up one day, and when E said, "Daddy, Bo is old and sick and he died," Ex added to it by saying, "Yes, he's up in the sky in Heaven." AND THEN, E's other grandmother heard about Bo being "old and sick and he died and he's up in Heaven" and she added "with Jesus." Ok...you with me? So all year long E has talked about Bo. And whenever you ask him where Bo is, he ALWAYS says, "Up in the sky with Jesus."

OK...BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING....

We're in the parking lot of Chick Fil A and the rebel balloon has just escaped, virtually unnoticed, until E requests that I hand it to him. I realized what had just happened, and the following conversation took place....

Me: Oh baby, I'm sorry. Your balloon flew away!

E: (confused) where did it go?

Me: It's up in the sky.

E: (complete dismay) WITH BO AND JESUS?!?!?!?!?!

Me: (thinking that maybe life just threw me a bone here...) Yes...with Bo and Jesus. They will be glad to have a balloon.

E: (again with the dismay) THAT DOES NOT MAKE ME HAPPY!

Me: (oh.) Oh. I'm sorry. We'll get you another balloon next time.

E: (alligator tears and wailing) BUT I DIDN'T WANT BO AND JESUS TO PLAY WITH MY BALLOON!

Me: I'm sorry.

****five minutes down the road****

E: Mama, next time I want an orange balloon.

Me: Ok. I think we can do that.

E: And Bo and Jesus can't play with it!

Me: Fair enough.

****The next morning****

Me: Good morning! How are you?

E: I'm mad that Bo and Jesus have my balloon. They should say they are sorry. And next time I'm going to get an orange one...and they CAN'T HAVE IT!

Me: Ummm.....Ok. (My son is STILL mad at the dead dog and the Christ for "taking" his toy.)

And THAT is why the mom should ALWAYS HOLD THE BALLOON.

Ethan

To all prayer warriors out there, please say a prayer for Ethan. He is a little boy whose family is from my hometown. He has been battling brain cancer for over a year now, and this week the hospital sent him home with hospice. I only know of him, and my closest connection to this family is that I sat next to Ethan's uncle in Spanish I in 1997. But I have followed their journal, and they are in so much pain right now. Please pray for Ethan, his parents, Farris and Robin, and his older sister Lanna.

You can read his journal here:

http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/bibb

As a mom, there is just no greater gift than a healthy child. I am thanking God for mine...always...but especially today.

Dear E

Mother's Day came and went yesterday without much fanfare. There weren't any special gatherings we had to go to, or presents to open. There wasn't breakfast in bed or flowers. You didn't tell me Happy Mother's Day or paint your hand print on a rock for me to put in the flowerbed. In fact, from an outsider's perspective, it was just another day. Another day where you woke me up with your LOUD, but still so sweet, voice proclaiming, "It's MORNING!!! The SUN is OUT so it is MOOOORRRRNING!!!!" Oh sweet child...I really can't get enough of that at 5:59 AM.

To anyone else it would seem that we had a pretty drab Mother's Day. But they don't know what I know. They don't know that it was just me and you yesterday. They don't know that at the same time that I found myself absolutely exhausted by your energy, that I was also overcome by the joy of being the one you call Mommy. They don't know that each and every day I thank God for choosing me...because it means that I'm the mom to a child that owns my heart, that in the same breath you are someone who I want to live for and would not hesitate to die for. They don't know that when they see your sweet smile, or hear your sweet voice that they are a witness to my heart. They don't know that your kind spirit and zest for life make me spill over with zealous pride. They don't know that when you learn something new I feel like I have learned it all over again. They don't know that when your heart hurts that mine just absolutely shreds to bits of nothing. They don't know that sharing the same air with you makes life exceedingly more complicated but infinitely more rewarding. They don't know that when you smile, laugh, or crinkle your eyes, that my insides come alive. Sweet boy, they just don't know.

And they never will.

I have been given the most amazing gift from God, and I'm the only one on this earth who can claim it. I'm the only one who will ever be able to look at your sweet face and say,

Thank you, Lord, for letting me call him "son," and for letting me be the only one he calls, "mommy." If there were ever a reason to praise you, he is it.

My child, no one will ever know what it's like to be your mommy. But I have the gift of knowing. And that is what made this very quiet, very uneventful Mother's Day, the most amazing gift of all.

And for that, my son, I am all shades of thankful.

Liar, Liar

I am getting divorced.....again. In case anyone is keeping track, that's TWICE before I hit 30.

How do I get myself into these situations???

Years ago, before I began testing the true boundaries of social acceptance and the patience of my family and friends, I was a good kid. I hardly ever acted out. I rarely threw fits. And with the exception of that time in the second grade when I lied to my mom for a week straight about something that can only be described as S-T-O-O-P-I-D, I never really lied. The sing song mantra "Liar, Liar, pants on fire" was never really aimed at me.

And then I entered my twenties, and began lying to the worst possible person, myself. I told myself I had it all together. I told myself I was ready. I told myself I knew what I was doing. I told myself I was, ahem, stable. And now I think it's safe for the powers that be (along with my parents and the FAS) to all point their fingers and join in the chorus of....

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FIRE.

Because everything I once thought to be true about myself has recently been aired out as dirty laundry on the clothesline. My issues and my drama are once again a public spectacle, gossip fodder for facebook if you will. I have turned myself into a one woman "did you hear" water cooler conversation.

But truth be told, I'm ok with that.

Because I know things now. Granted, I know things that other people could probably grasp without having to actually experience it, but I've never been one for the easy route. So in honor of the new life that I'm (again) building for me and E....here's what I know for sure:

MY SON DESERVES PEACE IN HIS LIFE.

He deserves to be able to be 3 without the fear, consequences, and general wrath of someone who thinks that being 3 just isn't really good enough. So I know now, that in my home, and in the homes of all of the many that love him...He can be 3 in peace.

I DESERVE PEACE IN MY LIFE.

I deserve to be valued by anyone who enters my home. I have the right to hold onto my beliefs and the core of who I am without the criticism of someone who won't accept the core of who THEY are. My value and worth will not be compromised. Ever. Again.

IF YOU LOVE ME, PROVE IT.

Never again will I hear these words, and believe them without loving action. I believed them easily the first time I fell in love, and found myself picking up the pieces of a broken family. Because actions speak louder than words. And I believed them easily the second time I fell in love, and found myself fleeing my own home in the night out of sheer terror of staying put. Because actions speak louder than words. So to the next guy, I appreciate the sentiment...now prove it. Because actions speak louder than words.

I LIED TO MYSELF. I'M DONE NOW.

I wanted life to be a certain way, and when it wasn't, I forced the hand of the universe. To any of you out there who are contemplating doing this, IT DOESN'T EVER END WELL. I told myself that I could make it right, fix it, take it back, work hard enough, love strong enough, be good enough, fight long enough to overcome the bad stuff. And I told myself that I would be ok in the process. I LIED TO MYSELF. I'M DONE NOW. I can't make it right. I can't fix it. I can't take it back. I can't work hard enough or love strong enough, or be good enough or fight long enough to overcome the bad stuff. If the bad stuff is there, I will no longer know deep down that it is bad stuff, while I turn a blind eye and call it good. I am done now.

I AM LOVED.

There's a fairly long list of people in line to say "I told you so." They have every right. They knew I was lying to myself long before I did. So I can't blame them for pointing fingers...for being annoyed with the sheer determination I seem to have to see how many things I can possibly screw up and then blame it on "I was in my twenties." I really can't blame them for saying, "I told you so." But I JUST MUST BE LOVED. Because they haven't said it. (to me.) Instead they have said things like, "I'm here for you. I'm glad you're safe. I am proud of you for getting out. I believe in you. You deserve so much more. I understand. I LOVE YOU." So to Mom, Dad, Stace, Amy, Jenny, Kat, Lisa, Jennifer, Brandon, Steven, Jonathan, and Beth....Thanks. I love you too.

I WILL LISTEN

Dear God, I prayed for your voice. I HEARD your voice. And then I ignored your voice. Umm....sorry 'bout that. Any chance you might want to make something good out of this??? I thought you might. Knew I could count on you. And, for the record, I'm listening.

GRACE GETS GREATER

There's a pretty hefty possibility that even though I have a healthy grip on reality today, that tomorrow my fingers might slip. If history is any indication, I may let go altogether. (But I'm REALLY committed to not letting that happen, Dad! So tell the vein in your forehead to retreat.) I'm just saying, that even though I am on a better path today than I have been in a long time, I still lack the navigational skills to meander through this journey without messing up. So again, I am thankful that I intimately know THE ONE who shows up when I ask, with a REALLY GREAT MAP. And I'm thankful that He stockpiles Grace....because anyone who calls me His child....let's just be honest....He's gonna need it.

And to anyone else who may still be reading this, point fingers if you must.....

but I am moving on.