This is Worthwhile

24. Run, 25. Throw, & 26. Eat

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sun, 26 Feb 2012 17:00:00 +0000

20. Dog, 21. Sick, 22. Better, & 23. Fashion

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 17:21:00 +0000

17. Childhood memories, 18. Adult play, & 19. Wishful thinking

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 14:12:00 +0000

Top 5 reasons Valentine's Day can go fuck itself

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 14:38:00 +0000

The expectations. When you're coupled this is especially relevant. Nothing says romance like an industry pushing you to express it. At what point are your hopes of a grand romantic gesture (or a mini gesture) justified? After a week? A year? What if one of you forgets? And you're either into it or totally against it and wouldn't everyone enjoy something nice on a day "set aside" just for something like that? So all the people who hate it (yes, like me) would of course love something sweet, but we loathe having the expectation.
The contrivance. Are you feeling romantic towards someone? I remember a V Day in which I groaned outwardly at the dozen yellow rose my boyfriend gave me. I dumped him two weeks later after suffering through a stilted dinner for two.
The reminder. I know what my relationship life is like whether I'm in one or not. I don't really appreciate the magnifying glass in the middle of winter regardless of my status.
The gall of hijacking an entire day's activities. I'd like to do something where wearing red or the auspice of romance isn't involved. Really. Like hang out with someone I dig.
It's stupid. It just is.

Ok, so, I'm pissy - obviously - and it's not because I'm single or don't have anyone who cares about me (I'm sure I do, but that's not really the point). Today is so much more than just some stupid mid-winter holiday, but I can't seem to figure out how to shake its love-sappy shadow.

Today is the one year anniversary of passing my NCE (National Counselors Exam). It's the day that announces that I set a goal and achieved it, surpassed it with flying colors, and got the ticket to the rest of my life and career. But no, I have to be bombarded by a forest of red balloons and roses the second I walk through the grocery store doors if I want to buy another bottle of wine for my cozy night at home. Alone.

I am as romantic as the day is long, I swear it, but I like to keep things on the dl so things happen naturally and with easy flow. I like for niceties to come my way because the giver thoughtfully put it together in his own head, not because I was part of some passive national pressure. Thinking of this as NCE Day is immeasurably better than expecting a card from someone.

As a giver, I don't really mind the day, but as a receiver, I hate it. I'm sure someone did lots of nice things for me on Valentine's Day once, I'm certain of it, but for the life of me my anxiety over the whole day has clouded my memory. How is that even remotely cool?

I know a lot of you are probably thinking that I'm just bitter and I am. I'll own it. So what? But it's more than that, too, I guess. I suffer from a legacy of having stupidly high expectations and this is a day for rumination. I'm proud to say I've come down from my ivory tower in many, many ways, but it's a humbling experience nonetheless and therefore bittersweet.

I'm still gonna hate this idiotic "day for lovers" because honestly I wish every day could be a shade of expressing love and appreciation and sex, but I'm also gonna think about how I felt a year ago when I gave myself the best Valentine's Day present ever: a future. So, yeah, FUCK YOU, VALENTINE'S DAY.

sigh.

By the way, this is the shit:

♥ worth celebrating.

13. A moment

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 16:11:00 +0000

11. & 12. Dinosaurs and dinosaur cat

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 14:08:00 +0000

Digby has to be close to 20 by now and he seems perpetually uncomfortable. So, being the kind kitty mama that I am, I outfitted him with a sweater.

With a bone embroidered on it.

And safety pinned so his hind legs don't get stuck in it.

Never mind the basic hilarity and quiet indignation of it all.

You're welcome, Diggerboo!

9. & 10. Bubbles and Wars

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 22:39:00 +0000

8. Sleep would be nice

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 05:19:00 +0000

7. What'd you do tonight?

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 02:19:00 +0000

On our way to feed horses who weren't there, only to end up throwing carrots at some shy emus instead.

6. Worst part of being single

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 16:50:00 +0000

WTF am I supposed to do with this?

*sigh*

5. His father dressed him

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 23:37:00 +0000

Rooster said today he didn't feel like going back out to the garage to match socks with the clean laundry.

4. Detroit soul and a new friend

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 00:20:00 +0000

Hawk and I drove down to San Antonio today to meet a dear friend's new son. She usually lives in DC, so this is a special treat.

The baby ate mama juice and pooped like a champ and Hawk was all about all of it; watching, listening, contemplating is own past diaper-filling days.

It was pretty grand.

3. Jelly Bellys must be sorted

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 17:39:00 +0000

No one needs to experience the popcorn flavored ones. No one.

1 & 2. A day late

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 00:33:00 +0000

I take a picture pretty much every day anyway. Who cares if I'm a day behind this whole Pic-a-Day-in-February thing?

1. All 36 years of me. Word up, yo.

2. Chin chin.

I launched my private practice website yesterday. Now I hurry up and wait. It's built. I hope they come. I feel good. Fucking free. Relieved. Everything good imaginable.

My mom is in the hospital. She went in to get a tendon severed in her hip, stayed the night, then had difficulties breathing. She's doing a little better, but will likely be in the hospital another day or more. Terry and I have visited the past two days, Rooster is there with Hawk now. I have to say he's the best ex-son-in-law on the planet. They love him. I hope he loves them, too.

Ok, back to that glass of wine now in my fancy little glass I bought from World Market. I just lurv things with filigree on it.

I'm pretty sure Hawk has jumped the shark with the cuteness

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 19:42:00 +0000

He is sunshine.

Hawk is cute. Like crazy, omfgithurtsstopistopitstopit! cute. He's cute when he's pissed, he's cute when he's asleep, he's cute when he stinks. And I swear to God it's not just because I'm his mother that I say this. I have outside proof:

The kid is harassed the second we leave the house by every stranger we meet.

(Well, almost every stranger. I suppose we've passed a few blind people.)

The deeply rooted part of their brains that react to children's cuteness compels them to talk to him and try to get him to engage. I don't think people can help themselves. But what it really does is compel him to hide his face in my butt with a death grip around my legs. And then squeeze as if he'll disappear entirely.

Avoiding the stranger to his right who wanted to talk books.

I've tried explaining this to him without laughing; that I know it's a little weird that all these grown ups are always trying to touch him and get him to chat, but it's hard. So I give up trying to be serious and laugh anyway and say in the kindest, simplest way possible, "Baby, I know it makes you feel shy, but I promise some day -- hopefully, anyway -- you'll feel brave enough to talk back or maybe people will stop wanting your attention. It's the burden of being so damned cute."

He'll look at me with his giant blue eyes and blink. Nod. "Yeah," he'll answer, "It's just cuz I'm so cute."

I feel utterly ridiculous for saying this, but I'm pretty sure it's all true, and I like explaining the often mysterious behavioral patterns of adults to him. It's actually pretty fascinating shit. I mean, why do grownups think it's cool to touch a kid when they'd never think to touch the mother standing right there? Why do they always want the little kid's attention? Why do they act weird and stodgy sometimes?

I have never been that kind of adult to approach adorable kids. It's never really occurred to me. Maybe that's the shy child in me defending their little spaces retroactively. I dunno. It's just that it is a burden for a shy-ish kid to be ridiculously cute. They seem so approachable to some adults.

Glitter.

I'm not gonna jump at strangers and tell them to back off because I imagine their intentions are good, based on culture, and long-standing. I'd much rather help Hawk deal than change the way everyone comes at kids.

However, I will defend his right to hide in my butt all he wants. I know it's a developmental phase to be shy of strangers and it's a healthy one, but I will also encourage him to say things to strangers whenever he feels safe enough or brave enough to do so. I'm not in any rush. It ain't no thang.

But Jesus Christ, this boy has got it baaaad. The Cuteness, that is. And then the Shyness. Poor thing! I guess it's just another thing little kids have to go through. I've just never looked at it from a tiny person's perspective before.

My eyes are a little more open now to how it must feel to see nothing but thighs and hands of giants, have everything feet above your head, and somehow still be the center of attention everywhere you go. It's gotta be a little rough.

What do you guys do to help your kid deal with strangers, shyness, and unwanted attention?

His grandmother thinks she's so funny.

Afterlife and a 4 yo: Sparkles and stars (and robots)

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 11:00:00 +0000

A few weeks ago I had a very memorable chat with Hawk while he was on the potty. Pooping, naturally. It was Halloween time and he'd been fascinated with the blow-up creatures in all the yards, particularly a Dracula arising out of a coffin.

"What's a coffin?" soon followed.

"Well, it's what we put dead people in before we bury them underground."

"..."

Yeah, so that loop had been going on for several days. Add to it The Iron Giant to the movie mix (for those of you unfamiliar with this animated flick, Hogarth, the young protagonist, befriends a giant robot from outer space who happens to have a soul) and you get the potty question:

"Mommy? Where do we go after we're dead?"

I wasn't expecting this deep, beautiful, complex question yet. And certainly not in the bathroom. I was just thankful we were at home where this moment could be captured and held private.

"Well, we have these things inside of us called 'souls', and souls make us think and feel and wonder about things. Remember The Iron Giant and how Hogarth thought he had a soul?"

He nods.

"It's like that. And when we die, our bodies stop working and our souls sparkle up and out of us and fly up to mix with the stars with all the other souls."

He seemed to really love the idea. But he still wanted to make sure that there was absolutely no part of "us" that was buried under ground. I can't say that I blame him there.

I'm not religious, but I guess you could lump me in with the millions of others that now consider themselves spiritual. I've been in a church less than 20 times in my life and I'm pretty certain I'd burst into flames if I did. I'm not interested in dogma, archaic mythologies and ideals. I'd sooner subscribe to the church of Oprah than anything else. My views are really exactly what I just described.

When Dad died I was forced to confront my beliefs (or lack there of). The way I saw it, I could either a) Think finitely and scientifically: when a dude dies, he's dead, game over. Which would mean I had shit tons of unfinished business with my father and a lifetime of regret; or b) Think fluidly and magically: the second Dad died, he KNEW. I didn't have to explain anything else, worry about what was or wasn't said, or have a moment of regret over What If. I was good.

I opted for choice B.

I admit it serves me well, but honestly, it was always lingering there under the surface: do I or don't I believe? Belief in what, exactly, wasn't really the point. I just needed an anchor from which to pivot.

I hope that this is sufficient for Hawk. I had no guidance when it came to the afterlife or souls or anything like it growing up (I didn't even know my mother believed in Jesus Christ until I was 22). I want this kind of thing to be part of our lives and ongoing discussions. I want my baby to feel connected and protected and part of something bigger than himself. I want him to believe in the magic of robots with souls and in his own.

And the stars realigned and all was right with the world

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:28:00 +0000

My therapist told me not to think in ^those^ terms. I told him I couldn't help it.

The last week of 2011 was by far the best of the entire fucking horrible ass shitty year.

Hawk was on vacation from school. And, it was my custodial week.

Being a mother is a surreal, magical thing. You grow a human being inside of you, then, if you're lucky enough, you're solely responsible for this tiny creature's very survival for months on end, possibly even years, before he enters the world outside your front door.

The bond of being relied upon for nurturing and nourishing courses through our veins so deeply we can feel the loam lapping at our primordial selves. It's that intense. That real. That big of a damn deal.

I was ready to enroll Hawk in pre-school earlier this year on many levels, but due to the extenuating circumstances the separation from him hobbled me. I staggered around like a bombing victim with missing limbs for months. I'm not proud of it. But it happened.

I went from being with my son 100% of his life, down to about 85%, to 50%. In about 3 months. (Plus all that other horrible shit such as the end of my marriage, etc., etc.)

Eventually, I got a groove down; snuggled in with him whenever we were together and tried to hold it together whenever we were not. It became ok. Now it's better. And that last week in '11 was like a sweet caress to my heart. We were back to normal.

(Again, my shrink would object to that statement. But, again, fuck it.)

With the exception of one night where he stayed with my mom because of my volunteer schedule we spent every waking moment together. I got us out of the house every day, we did fun little projects, we played games, I read to him until his cheeks flushed with sleep and he began to drool. We talked. We reconnected. We loved. We played.

It just felt right.

The highlight of our time together had to have been how I spent New Year's Eve: with the one person I'd die for.

Earlier in the night I'd decided I'd take him to Red Lobster (I don't know why this was so funny to me, but it was). He eagerly asked, "Can I have crab legs??" Um. OK. You know what crab legs are? I thought. So, yeah, he got his crab legs and then we went home. I opened a bottle of champagne and sipped it until the ball dropped. I lit a fire, Hawk, in his fuzzy, footed-pajamas cuddled with me as we listened to June Christy serenade us and we just were.

Around 9:30 he asked if he could put his feet up on my lap. I said, "Sure." Five minutes later he was breathing deeply, fast asleep. I let him lay there until 10, basking in the brilliance of him at my side and peace in my heart.

You might be thinking: Shit, Jess, get it together. Move on. Your life is different now! And, well, you'd be right about that. But to be able to have a slice of my old life with my son back, that was heaven. It meant more to me than possibly anything else for the past 12 months; to be reminded of who I am in this world and what I'm capable of.

Being apart from him for such a large portion of the day and not having a 9 hour gig to consume my time preys on my psyche. I do my best to keep busy, look for work, build my professional network and skills, but it's still not enough. Simply put, it's not how I'm wired. I need even more.

And I'll be the first to admit that maybe that "more" is time. Maybe I just need more time to heal and bounce back from the erosion of my marriage and former life. I can do that much. I'm always telling my clients to cut themselves some slack, to give themselves permission to feel what it is they're feeling, to be kind.

So, here's to 2012 and all its promises. It can only get better. And I'll be the one looking for the little slices of heaven and saying nice things to myself.

My boy asked for a dress. And guess what? I bought him one.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 05:02:00 +0000

Twirling.

Tell me the above image isn't glorious. I dare you.

What does it bring to mind?'

Do you think I'm a goddamned hippie mother trying to prove a point? Do you think his father is a sissy? Do you think he shouldn't be allowed to wear "girls" clothes? Do you think I'm putting him in harm's way by subjecting him to public scrutiny?

Or do you think it's beautiful? Innocent and miraculous. A young boy experiencing the sensation of a full blown twirl?

I bet you can guess in which category I fall.

However, what you might not guess is that I struggled with this. Much like the Crocs debacle, this dress thing pressed my buttons -- and big time.

I've been open on this blog about my own sexuality and how I fall somewhere left of center (call me bisexual, if that makes you feel better), but apparently that doesn't predispose me to making this kind of thing easy. Not even a little bit.

I have a very left-leaning attitude towards sexuality, gender, and how it's all expressed. I've continuously avoided saying things like, "Do you like any girls?" instead asking simply, "Do you like any boys and/or girls?" I do assume his gender matches his genitals, but we'll tackle that issue if ever arises later. I think it's fair enough to be sex-neutral when talking about attraction without further complicating things with gender.

In any case, my point is: I'M A REALLY FREAKING OPEN-MINDED, HETERO-SENSITIVE, HOMO/WHATEVER-FRIENDLY MOTHER. And still, buying my son a dress was hard. Really freaking hard.

We were in Target with the purpose of getting him a garment. He was in the cart, cute as all hell in his little boy ensemble and his short hair and there I was holding up dresses. First a dark gray one.

"How do you like this, baby?"

"I like the pink one."

"Are you sure? This grey one's really nice."

"NO. I want the pink one." And this "pink" was like fire-engine fuchsia. I squirmed. And then I squirmed at my squirming. I said, "Ok," and tossed it into the cart.

"Are you sure you don't just want a tutu?" Somehow I felt that less fabric would be easier on me.

"NO. I want the pink dress."

I sighed and rounded the rack of clothes. That's when we spotted the same dress in lavender. I was strangely mollified when he said he'd rather have the purple. I swapped out the dresses, tossed in a matching purple tutu for good measure and wheeled to the register.

I was fascinated at my own reaction to this transaction. I was self-conscious as I discussed my son's dress color preference around the other shoppers. They kept looking at me, I was certain, like I was crazy/stupid/weird. But I pressed on. If only not to shame my son's desire to try wearing a piece of clothing he sees his best friends at school wearing (who happen to be girls).

Seriously. What's the big effing deal?? But wait - I don't want to get ahead of myself here.

We checked out with no incident. Not like the time I bought him sparkly red ballet flats. (And again, trust me, I tried my hardest to get him to pick the silver or black versions, but he wasn't to be dissuaded. UGH. WHERE IS THIS COMING FROM IN ME??)

That afternoon the checker was a 50-something woman with raisin-like skin and a hairdo that looked more tired than she was. She saw the shoes and saw the boy. Then looked at both twice again each for good measure. She looked at me questioningly, "Yeah, he's a boy." I answered her unspoken question. "And why can't a boy want sparkly shoes? It's not his fault they only cover girl shoes in glitter," I bit out before she could say another word.

She stammered and, I thought, recovered well enough to say, "Well, I guess you're right." I continued to glare at her for good measure.

Ok, so now we're back to Christmas Day, the day Hawk gets to open his skirted treasures. And guess what? He LOVED THEM.

At first he was shy and only wanted me and Rooster to see him in his dress. Then, the twirling began and he was begging PapaMimi to watch him. He wore that stupid dress over his footed pajamas for 8 yours. We practically had to peel it off of his little body.

Rooster and I talked about our feelings. Turns out he was surprised at his own confusion over it. He said he wished he wasn't so torn up about it, but refused to elaborate more on the subject. My mom, on the other hand, was more vocal about her worries.

"Are you gonna let him wear that to school??"

"Yes. Why wouldn't I? There's a little boy there who wore a Spiderman costume every day for almost the entire year. Why can't Hawk wear a dress?" (Clearly I think there's some sort of ranking for strange clothing for children.)

"Well," she pursed her lips, and let the sentence die on the vine. I bet I could fill in the rest, "... what will the kids say to him??"

So I went ahead and just answered, "I'll help him navigate that when it comes. I'd never send him to a situation without first telling him what he might expect from others. And if it's awful for him, we'd talk about it and go from there. But, really, [his school] is not going to be a place of judgement or ridicule."

And so there you have it: I defended his right to wear a dress all the while battling my own sense of discomfort with the whole thing; my confusion. What the fuck?? What's the big effing deal that my boy wants to wear a dress?? It means nothing. And it yet means everything, something. It's a visual representation of my love and support of him as well as a slap in the face of what we think should be. It's beautiful and weird and awesome and honest.

And I swear to God I will always support this kid's desires no matter how they challenge my antiquated notions. I swear.

Taking Mimi to bed.

Fancy(ass) Holiday Dinner Menu- Love on a plate

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 00:18:00 +0000

FOOD IS LOVE

I'm a cook. And a passionate one. I spend hours and hours mulling over flavor profiles and I've probably spent weeks of my life watching cooking shows. I am passionate about the art of food, its philosophies, magic, and truths. To cook is to live. To share this cooking is to pass on life, love, luxury.

This year I'm broke as hell and so traditional Christmas gifts didn't fit into my budget, therefore I decided I'd lay down a little cash for some Maine lobster tails from Lobster Gram and make my family a meal. A real meal.

Rooster and I used to order tails for our anniversary dinners every year (we got married on New Year's Eve of '05 and lobster always felt like the perfect New Year's Eve bite) and we were never disappointed by the quality and care we received from this little ME shop.

The tails from the Down East coast are unmatched. They'll arrive flash frozen on Christmas Eve and will be ripe for cooking the next day. I'm going to butter poach them and it will be like love on our tongues.

Here's the menu/email I just sent my mom and Terry and Rooster:

Frisée-thyme salad with warm toasted hazelnut goat-cheese medallions and pickled cherries
Parsnip and apple soup
Butter-poached lobster with tarragon and butternut squash risotto
Oven-roasted Brussels sprouts with bacon and lemon
Maple horseradish and sage glazed beets
Nutmeg ice cream and Turkish coffee

If anyone wants to volunteer drink pairings for the Salad, Soup, Dinner, and Dessert courses, be my guest!

I'm trying to weave the richer flavors with ribbons of acid all on a base of earthy notes.

The frisée salad starts the meal off with a high note of bitter greens and pickled cherries offset by a touch of rich hazelnut and creamy goat-cheese. The parsnip and apple soup is to transition us into a deeper flavor base with both sweet and tart. For the main dish itself, the risotto filled with aromatic tarragon and warm butternut squash is meant to highlight the burst of bright, buttery lobster in our mouths; tangy roasted Brussels sprouts will hopefully be balanced out by crisp and hearty bacon offset with lemon; and rounding out the main course is maple, horseradish and sage-glazed beets. The dessert is about the easiest thing I can think to do since it's my most feared course. And it's stupid easy.

This meal is love on a plate, but I'm open to suggestions and critiques. Do you have any better ideas/pairings/flavors to add??

Divorce and a 3 (& 4) year old: Tips, notes, and reflections

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:54:00 +0000

Hawk about a month before the split.

I originally started this post in August, a couple of months before Hawk turned 4. 2011 really kicked my ass, our asses (ohmyfuckinggodican'twaitforittobeover). I don't know how present I was through all of it. In hindsight, I wasn't capable of shielding Hawk from my own life 100%. I did well enough, I suppose, but I wish I'd done more.

I try not to ruminate on my own feelings about our days together (I don't know how he'll feel about this past year or how it will effect him in the long run - only time will tell). It's like a counseling session: I might feel like I was off my game and floundering, but the client might walk away feeling empowered, listened to, and like it was a meaningful hour. I can't translate the experience for anyone else but me. And so I look back on my impending divorce and my first year of single-mothering with as much objectivity as possible.

Here are my thoughts on handling separation and divorce with your 3 (& 4) year old:

Be developmentally appropriate
When Rooster and I split up - physically separated - Hawk was roughly 2 years and 9 months old. Just a wee little thing. Which meant he wasn't fully potty-trained, yet, he was only barely grasping the concept of yesterday, today, and tomorrow and was struggling with communicating his feelings through language, but he could feel. So that's what I addressed.

If I felt the loss, the strangeness, the sadness, the longing for my baby, wouldn't it follow that he would also feel something along those lines as well? He's a littler human, after all. I know his father was feeling it, too.

I spent a lot of time talking about my feelings and those of Hawk's. I gave voice to them and hoped I was close to the mark since I knew he couldn't conceptualize them on his own.

When he cried after a transition or after seeing his father I would say, "I know you love your daddy very much and it hurts to be apart from him." He'd nod agreement and cry some more. I tried to incorporate the visceral feeling of loss, too. "My heart hurts when I miss Daddy. I bet your heart hurts, too." I always ended chats like these with, "Don't worry, baby, it won't feel like this forever."

Be honest about the situation and realize you're not the only one who's living this new life
By acknowledging the suckiness of the situation and Hawk's initiation into a new palette of emotions I hoped to validate his experience of going back and forth and being separated from me (he was already used to separation from Rooster), and living with two parents who were struggling.

It fucking sucked. Why wouldn't I tell him I knew that and that we were (as a disjointed family) all going through it together?

I believe one of the most powerful things a parent can do is to show her humanity. When I feel sad or cranky I share my mood with Hawk, "Mommy is feeling really cranky right now and I'm sorry I've been short-tempered today." Which segues nicely whenever he's cranky and being a bear, "Wow, you seem to be having a rough day today. Is that true?" He's able to identify and relate in (hopefully) a meaningful way.

I wanted to show Hawk that I knew he was there, too. That he wasn't forgotten. That he was a real participant in our lives, too.

Forgive yourself and be strong
Ok, so your life isn't turning out as you wanted, but that doesn't mean shit. Not really. It's something I had to embrace when I realized I wasn't going to have more than one child. Accepting this new fragmented life seemed an easy extension of that. And my hope is that I'm modeling flexibility and strength.

Co-parent, co-parent, co-parent
I know not all relationships end like mine. Rooster and I have remained partners in all of this and for that I'm eternally grateful. So, if you can manage to have any kind of connection with your ex, do it. Keep anchoring routines as similar as possible, the language the same, the consequences. Every little thing that you two can do to keep the tumultuousness of the new life at bay, do it.

And if you can manage it, see your kids on off weeks for hugs and kisses.

Don't stop being the parent
So, here I am telling you to be open, honest, and human with your little one, but there's a balance. He's not your co-hort, though he's sharing this path with you. He's still your charge and not to be leaned upon. Don't cry to him, though a cry in front of him can be natural if not too alarming. I've cried in front of Hawk a handful of times and he was given the opportunity to come and pat me, inquire after my feelings -- a good exercise in compassion. I would tell him my heart hurt because I was a little sad, but that I would be ok and I was thankful for his hugs. You don't want to overwhelm your little ones with the force of your feelings.

Of course I'm no expert. These are just things that helped make me navigate this emotional time, rules I implemented so I didn't feel so goddamned lost. I also have no effing clue what my kid is gonna be like when he grows up; how he's going to view these first few years of his new life. He will never have a memory of his father and I living together. Never. And he still shares his wish that we all lived together, though I think it's more about convenience than a memory he might have.

Like I tell my kid, we're tough, he's tough, we're all tough, and we'll get through this. My fingers are crossed we're past the worst and I mostly believe that's true.

What do you guys think? Do you have any specific questions? Any other helpful suggestions?

Christmas tree logic according to a 4 year old

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 06 Dec 2011 04:04:00 +0000

4 year old's silhouette. He'll come at you like a ninja, apparently.

Rooster (in defense of not having a tree at his house): People celebrate Christmas different ways. Some people don't have trees.

Hawk: Well, when you have a kid, you have to go get a tree. I might have to call 911 and tell the police to tell you to go get a tree.

Honey, your boobs are in the way: Turkeys die virgin parents

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 18:17:00 +0000

My eyes are up here.

Not what you expected from me, is it? Well, you may not know this about me, but I'm a conscientious omnivore. It means I try to eat the meat from animals I know had a decent life (and death). I'm not always on top of it, I admit, but I do my best and I feel good about my efforts on most days.

When I heard this report on Marketplace the other day about how nearly 100% of the 40 million turkeys we'll eat this month are artificially inseminated I kind of freaked out; that doesn't sound like a very nice existence to me. And you know why they can't get their groove on? Because of their giant breasts. Which we've bred into them. Because we get boners for breast meat (personally, I like the dark meat, but I'm obviously in the minority).

I have no problem eating animals. I believe it's part of the food chain system, I get it. But wow. Breeding them for huge breasts to the point where they aren't even evolutionarily viable and can't participate in turkey-loving at least once in their little turkey lives?? All I have to say to that is a big, fat UGH. That's just Machiavellian (let's not even start to talk about their living conditions, which wasn't the point of the report or even my post).

The alternative is to buy local poultry (of any variety) or a heritage turkey (they get to get down, though you pay for it; $90+ per bird).

Anyway, just thought I'd share. I believe that education is the first step to revolution, and maybe next year we'll all be able to have a heritage turkey on our tables, golden brown and resplendent in its natural creation.

I vote for turkey sex! Do you?

Time, wishes, and raindrops

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sun, 09 Oct 2011 13:20:00 +0000

The Anniversary Clock that couldn't.

Today is Hawk's 4th birthday, which, to all you parents out there, is more than just a day of celebration. It's also a day of remembrance. Like, I'm sitting here at 7:49 am listening to the first rain in months and thinking, "Four years ago today I was in the hospital with Hawk nestled in my arms and happily latched onto my boob; Rooster was passed out from sheer exhaustion on the tiny little hospital bed to my left, his broad shoulders painfully folded in; nurses were coming in and out checking on my bleeding, asking me how I felt; and my heart and soul were realigning with the weight and honor of motherhood."

Yeah, so that's what I was doing on October 9th four years ago and today? Today I'm alone in a dark apartment. A massive rainstorm is bathing the parched ground outside and not a crack of sky is evident. I can hear birds calling and raindrops on rooftops, the ticking of my keyboard and the purring of the cat. But, I am alone.

Hawk is with his grandparents this morning. I just called to wish him a happy birthday on the speaker phone. Apparently, I woke up the whole house. "I can't talk right now because I'm too sleepy" he says in his Jersey accent. -- Goddamn, I love that little guy. -- But more importantly here, even if he weren't with PapaMimi, he'd be with Rooster. He'd be apart from me. On his birthday.

My life is so different from four years ago it seems almost unrecognizable. The last month or so has been more brutal than all the rest. I'm having a terrible time of reconciling my life today with my hopes from yesteryear. I don't regret the divorce, but I regret needing one. I wish that my life and my choices were the right ones for me and that my family were intact. That I could get all my needs met and still be a "party of 3", be with my baby whenever I wanted to be, and safe with someone.

I don't want the old life I had, but I'm in such a place of flux. I have no anchor, no base. I'm in a transition and could be for years.

For our first anniversary, my parents gave Rooster and me an Anniversary Clock (this thing that you wind once a year and its pendulum twists). The story goes that if it stops "ticking" then it's bad luck. I'll never forget the day it did just that. I laughed and said to my husband, "Oh my gawd! Does this mean we're going to get divorced?? Say it isn't so!" And he laughed warmly and said it was just a mechanical malfunction. We never did get that clock to go for an entire year.

And yet, I wouldn't trade anything for Hawk. I'll take all the broken clocks, the lonely mornings, the tears, the struggles and tribulations for one minute of knowing that kid. I have to consciously beat down thoughts of losing him and remember to live my life with him as if we'll make it to 70 and 102 together. The love and tenderness I feel for his little gassy, funny, precocious, sweet, thoughtful, and mercurial butt is all-consuming, all-defining.

Without trying to sound too dramatic, in some small way, motherhood is the negative space to my Me. It shapes me without being me. And so that makes today even more important because in a way I was born today, too. It's still Hawk's big day, but I will also take this quiet morning alone to open my own little present to myself: knowing him and loving him.

Being awesome requires eye protection.

D-Day: It happened

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 06 Sep 2011 13:30:00 +0000

I'd like to say I have no regrets, but that's just not true.

The divorce was final last Friday, the 2nd. The day before my birthday. I didn't make a big deal about it; I only called my mom, sister, and a friend or two after the fact; even less knew it was happening that day.

The entire thing took about 90 seconds. Rooster came with me and my lawyer because, as he put it, "I've been a part of everything else in this marriage. I should be a part of its ending, too."

He remained seated in the tiny courtroom, my lawyer and I stood in front of the presiding judge. My heart pounded and I yelled to myself to calm down and to remember to breathe.

I didn't cry.

When it was done, I turned around and walked back to Rooster. His face was fallen, his eyes searching. He quickly stood up and joined our exit. Now we had busy work: papers to file, streets to cross, more papers to file.

We shook hands with Rosemary on the corner outside the courthouse and she went right and Rooster and I went left. "Where'd you park?"

"Over there," I pointed across the park where a dozen homeless people were milling around beside a white-washed pavilion.

"Wow. That was surreal."

And my throat closed off and my eyes welled up. All I could do was nod. "Yes it was," I managed to squeak out. "See you tomorrow morning at the docks." We hugged and I lingered in his embrace for a moment longer than I needed. I'd see him tomorrow to go stand-up paddling. This wasn't a Big Goodbye.

"Hawk woke up this morning and said he missed you," he gently offered.

"Thanks. I needed to hear that."

And now I went left and he went right and as I walked by the homeless people at 9 am in 95 degree weather I noticed a rather large topless man with black underwear hanging out of his low-slung pants. His pale skin dewy with sweat visible from the sidewalk.

"No," I suddenly decided to text Rooster, "What's surreal is seeing a 300 lb, half-naked man glisten with sweat at 9 in the morning and being divorced."

He chortled back and I went and sat in my car for an hour and let hot tears leak down my face as I tried to untangle the vortex of emotions inside of me. Happy? Sad? Relieved? Numb?

Yep. Pretty much.

It's done. We're friends. We have Hawk. We survived.

Waiting

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Wed, 24 Aug 2011 01:39:00 +0000

Sunshine leaping into my arms.

In a few days I will be divorced.

It will either be the day before my birthday or just after.

I no longer feel things.

This really should've been written in Haiku. Divorce Haiku.

You hope beyond hope
Stars stutter your mind and heart
Wrong, pain, shit, stillness

My mother said something significant to me recently. She asked if I was sad about the divorce because she "couldn't tell."

The truth is I am a master at concealing my feelings -- and let's be honest, it's a whole lot easier to believe that someone is ok rather than it is to believe they're unraveling one slimy scale at a time -- and I don't even mean to be.

I don't try to deceive or misrepresent. I just can't share.

I've been loved and supported throughout this process and I have soaked it up like a desert-walker at a trough, but I only take what is offered. I don't ask. I simply cannot.

This divorce has murdered me. The Jessica that was is really no more. And I don't say that to be dramatic or to illicit sympathy. It really and truly just is. I'm sure Rooster could say the same thing, or anyone who's ever gone through a traumatic and significant shift in their life. It changes you.

I was changed after Dad died. I was changed after Hawk was born. And now I am changed again. Irreparably.

I have so much to say every day, but find that it's intense and sad. I should probably write more to get it the fuck out of me, but I am embarrassed by the immensity of it, its boringness. I read so many amazing blogs from people I really admire and I wish I could be more like them: pithy and bright, not dark and morose. But... fuck. I don't know what else to do.

I have a post planned about how to muddle through a divorce with a 3 year old. I think I have some really incredible tips, but I feel like such a failure (in life in general) that I haven't been able to muster the shell of self-acceptance needed to put it out there for public scrutiny.

I can't believe one person even still reads this.

But, here I am... tick-tacking away... doing my thing. I'm ashamed and not ashamed all at the same time. How can one human being be so goddamned conflicted anyway?? I'm exhausted.

Hawk is the light of my life. He asked for me to come over and play with him while he was at Rooster's house the other day and I about had a fit I was so excited. He's never done that before. When he opens my bedroom door in the mornings his face is split in two with a smile and he says magical things like, "Good morning, sunshine! Did you have good mommy-dreams? I'm still a giraffe-tiger!" What. the. fuck.

I'd like to say things will change around here, that the mood will get lighter, but that's a goddamned lie. I have no idea when that will happen (at least I'm confident it's a "when" and not an "if").

Rooster is still my closest ally through all of this and that's almost as painful as if he were my biggest adversary. We're as thoughtful and considerate in the shredding of our relationship as we were in the braiding of it. Ah, the irony.

And there go the dozen emotions in as many directions. I'm like a bomb that went off: shrapnel, broken bits, a splatter. Divorced.