This is Worthwhile

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.

9:15 am: Morning sweetness

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 26 Jul 2011 14:18:00 +0000

Signing my love letter.

My broke ass cheated on my stylist

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 18:00:00 +0000

I love my stylist. She's brilliant, funny, open, and really, really talented. I tell everyone I know to go to her (if you're in Austin go to Keith Kristopher Salon and book Deanne -- see? Now I really just told everyone I know). She's a colorist guru and a whiz with the scissors.

However, after tip, I will have spent nearly $200 on a cut and a color. Definitely worth every penny, but when you're on a budget as tight as mine there's really no way of reconciling the expense. -- In fact, it's a testament to her coloring genius that even after 7 months, my new growth color gently fades into the work she did. People pay mega bucks to get this ombré look she gave me naturally. -- Brilliant or not, I simply can't see her, yet. She'll be the first thing I do for myself after I get a job.

The last few weeks my hair has almost reached what I call "stripper hair" length. I cocktailed in a titty bar for a few months in my early 20s (lawd, the stories I could tell you!) and I noticed that at least half the dancers had Lady Godiva hair. They used their locks for false modesty while parading around the tables of men and as organic props on stage. So yeah, anyway, my hair is almost that long. And it's screaming for some help.

I look like a washed up stripper on a bad day: ends frayed and splitting; like Yulia Tymoshenko on a good day (she's the Ukrainian prime minister, in case you didn't know): hair up in braids in some fashion to hide the secret stripper lurking beneath the surface.

Today, I did what I've been dreading for weeks now: I cheated on Deanne. I went to a different stylist.

I was racked with guilt as I sat in the barber's chair and even told the orange-haired stylist as much. But I simply can't turn down a $27 hair cut. I can't.

And so another woman's hands were on my head and her stylistic impressions were made on my hair. I have no idea if Deanne will look at her work in a few months and know what I did. I feel so dirty! So guilty! So wrong!!

Finding a stylist you trust and can rely on is almost as hard as finding a decent relationship. He or she holds in their hands the power of esteem and beauty. One misstep and your superficial life can be ruined (I once passed up free Pearl Jam tickets because I was busy sobbing over a mullet I got when I was 19. God, that was horrible.). It's a big fucking deal to form a lasting business/personal relationship with this person. Maybe I seem silly, but I don't care.

So, yeah, the split ends are gone, the stripper hair is beaten back, and feel like I'm taking care of myself, but I also feel like sending Deanne a bouquet of "I'm Sorry, Please Forgive Me. It's Just I'm Really, Really Broke" flowers.

At least I refuse to use a box o' color. I draw the line of frugality there. I'll grow all my hair out to its natural color before I destroy it with a DIY attitude.

About a year later

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 16:00:00 +0000

I just realized it's been about a year since I first announced to the world that Rooster and I were splitting up.

And this morning I found my first grey hairs ever.

Coincidence? Mebbe.

I haven't colored my hair in 7 months in order to cut costs, so they've finally had the freedom to blossom among the dark wheat colored strands on my head --the little bastards -- but I'm certain they'd be there regardless.

Honestly, I don't really care. This past year has proven my mettle beyond a shadow of a doubt and I'm proud of myself.

Let me repeat that: I'M PROUD OF MYSELF.

I made the tough decisions, I strove forward, I didn't settle; I did the opposite of all those things when it would've been ridiculously easy to do so. Freakishly easy.

Some might think I gave up on my marriage, but the truth is I reinvested in myself and Hawk. I didn't want to suffer in that relationship for another 40 years and show my baby that misery and malcontent were acceptable in a longterm relationship. That was simply unacceptable to me.

Rooster wasn't happy. I wasn't happy. And though we talked endlessly, burned holes in couches in therapy for a year, cried buckets, and still loved each other, we decided reconfiguring our partnership was the best thing for all of us.

We earned the right to re-write our lives. We were never idle participants.

So wow. A year later. I can't believe it. And I can truly say, "I have the grey hair to prove it."

No air

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 00:55:00 +0000

After two and a half hours of laborious attention to detail there is a heavy silence in the room. The voices have stilled.

I have just agreed to the final stipulation.

It is a heavy, vibrating space. My mind blank and rustling in the breeze of the previous emotion; a shivering leaf in the moment before the heavens bear down.

My lawyer looks at me. "Are you ok?"

"Yes," I answer with stolen breath.

She looks at Rooster. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Ok," her mouth moves. And in a moment that lasts an eternity later I hear:

"It's done."

A giant, silent gavel slams down with thunderous finality sucking the oxygen out of the well-lit and sparsely decorated room. Like a vacuum on the cavity of my body all breath is whipped from me; snatched like a baby in harm's way.

"It's done" echos through the remains; rattles in the cage of my heart; tells me to fuck off.

I can't breathe. I fight tears. Her face is kind, sorrow-filled. Rooster is calm, enviously still.

I struggle to compose myself, busy myself with papers, a drink of water. They begin to talk. My eyes fill with salty tears. I lose one down my hot cheek. Perhaps two.

I focus on their voices, the timbres, the syllables. One, two, two, three, pause, etc. Lilting noise keeps me anchored lest I fly away in a swirl of regret and pain and bullshit.

I can do this: I will not feel.

I will not.

Later.

Maybe.

maybe.

Put me back together again

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 12 Jul 2011 20:41:00 +0000

All the king's horses and all the king's men 

couldn't put Humpty together again.

I don't feel as despondent as ol' Humpty, but I definitely feel as though I'm on a wall and I'm a big, giant, awkwardly shaped fellow about to teeter one way or the other.

The job market is dire.
My divorce decree is *this* close to submission.
I've been separated from Hawk for almost two weeks straight.
I have no money.
I am wrecked. Wrecked, wrecked, wrecked.

It's a lot. I told my mom that I need to by a Lotto ticket so at least that way it'd be one thing I didn't have to worry about. Her erudite response was, "Why don't you want to work on the other things, too?"

My answer? "Mom, I can't buy a ticket somewhere that will solve my [job, divorce, broken-heart] problems, but I can buy a ticket that'll fix my money ones."

Still haven't bought that ticket.

I've been stuck in an eddy of self-doubt and reproach the last few weeks, but particularly this last one. It took my sister calling on Saturday (July 9th) to give me a clue as to why.

"It's Grandma's birthday today. I just remembered. And 5 years since Dad died yesterday."

"Holy shit. I totally forgot." Though in reality, I don't think I forgot at all.

Our bodies do mysterious things. We absorb every experience we ever have into our cells, our memories, our very fibers. Consciously, I've been preoccupied with my here and now and my scary future, but my core... it knew. It remembered. We can ignore, deny, or even be so little as to not even have the language to understand, but still, experience is housed inside of all of us.

I've felt a lot of relief since identifying this particular rapid. I can at least navigate it better now, face it head on, whereas before I had no idea how I'd gotten stuck in that eddy. It's helped me feel stronger, more focused, less out of control and depleted.

But it's still hard.

I'm not going to say it's the hardest thing I've ever gone through, but it's very well tied. And sometimes I wonder that maybe it's not more painful because I refuse to let myself go there - I really don't know. Last time I felt this level of grief I was a newlywed, not a mother. My guard is up. High.

After I realized I'd missed Dad's anniversary I called Rooster in tears. He's still the only person whom I truly trust with my feelings about my father; he was with me every step of the way and helped guide me through the haze of putting myself back together that year. And, true to form, he was there for me again. Listening and supporting and letting me cry my jagged little cry on the phone making no sense whatsoever.

So maybe I really have fallen off the wall and cracked and now is the time for piecing my shit back together again. I can only see a new Me right now, not the old. That woman doesn't exist anymore. Only the new and improved Humpty is around here. I guess I better get rolling...

How do I make money??

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 16:41:00 +0000

I played trivia with friends last night. Bought a $2 Lone Star, tipped a buck, then our team won and my share was $4. So, essentially, I made $1 last night. So now who's a bad ass?

This is a question I pretty much have on my mind 24/7. It's difficult to figure out the exact equation for job:loss ratio. I mean, at what point is a $10/hour job worth it? Should I get "just anything"? When I was nannying for friends a few months go they paid me $12/hour, but I doubled my gas bill and was literally so exhausted at the end of the day I could barely sit upright let alone look for work. I know it sounds so simple to so many, "Well, just do it. You have no choice." But really, I did the best I could and it involved not having so much left over to look for real work.

So, how destitute do I have to be before that $10 seems adequate and worth the time/energy loss? I haven't figured that out yet, but I'm hustling other ideas. I'm going to open an Etsy shop once I've built up a library of things to sell. My parents want to give me a commission for selling some of their shit on Craigslist. Rooster will give me 100% of the profits if I can move an old armoire out of his garage so long has he has no involvement in it. I'm going to sell my old car. And my sister -- the loving, sweet, big little sister that she is -- has been sending me a few hundred dollars a month that helps me just barely stay in the black.

I've considered moving apartments, but then I'd probably be further from the city and Hawk's amazing school if I wanted to keep the level of comfort I have. Should I sell my car in order to save about $50/month in gas? It's paid off. Does that make sense? I don't have cable and so I watch Hulu and the Instant stuff off Netflix which is $9/month. Rooster suggested I get rid of my iPhone, but it's only $85/month and I need a cell phone regardless. Does that make sense? I basically don't eat on the weeks Hawk isn't here, so I save money on food. When I go out and have to buy my own drink, I get $2 Lone Star, because yeah, having a life and socializing is imperative for my happiness.

I think I'm missing something, though. I try and pretend that I receive NO income whatsoever and think about what I would do differently. But honestly, my brain can come up with no answers. I'm worried I'm secretly a loser (yeah, yeah, yeah, this post was me on a good day). Lazy. Good for nothing. A colossal piece of shit. Shouldn't I be doing something work-related right this second, for instance??

June has been a really great month for job opportunities, though. I've applied to half a dozen jobs this month alone! Compare that with half a dozen since March since I have limitations on the jobs I can apply to: I'm not flexible with hours and shifts I can work and I don't speak Spanish (ohhh, how I wish I did!), and for the last 3 months most available jobs were weird shifts and required a language I don't know. However, I start volunteering at a reputable agency here in Austin soon and I found a supervisor I highly esteem. Things aren't all bad. (You see this circular internal commentary? You suck --> you're trying --> try harder --> you still suck.)

Friends and family are always telling me I should get paid for my writing so I did some research on freelance stuff. Ohmyfuckinggodareyouserious?? Pages and pages of bullshit. Cents per copy. Business relationships. Contracts. Legal issues. Casting a wide net. It's who you know. It's a full-time job. Blahblahblah. Can you say overwhelmed?? Maybe I should have taken up all those advertisers looking for space on my blog. Anyone want a Better Homes and Garden link up? A post-swap? Maybe Kraft dinners? I'm into it now!! Please come back!

In a post-Bush economy, where do the over-educated and slightly-behind-the-eight-ball folks go for cash?? Please. I'd really like to know. I need help!

My heart. It's swelling.

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Thu, 23 Jun 2011 01:10:00 +0000

A note found in Hawk's pocket at school addressed to "Hawk's Mom & Dad".

When I know I've done something right

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 21 Jun 2011 16:11:00 +0000

My little boy's love handles are gone.

Being unemployed and muddling through a divorce is not fun. No. fun. at. all.

I spend the better part of my day feeling like shit because it's somehow my fault I'm unemployed, because, naturally, if I were doing it right I'd have a job. The other part of my day I'm feeling half way between joyous at being out of a painful relationship and crushed that my partnership with a wonderful human being is forever relegated to "father of my child" instead of "partner forever." There's also a whole lot of swearing, laughing, searching, thinking and hustling going on, too, but that's the gist.

Sunday, as you all know, was Father's Day and Rooster decided he'd like me to join him and Hawk for the day. It was my custodial day and I would have been happy to let them hang together sans moi, but I was happy to be a familial unit, too.

Rooster and I have so many relationships with each other right now. We are co-parents, divorce adversaries (and allies), friends, and exes. It's a lot to manage.

Sometimes I have to ask him to not cross the streams when I hear him start a sentence with, "So..." I know it means DIVORCE and depending on which relationship I'm in with him at that moment I might have to say, "Please, can we just put that on hold and just hang today?" He obliges, but I know he's waiting for the moment when the paradigm shifts and he can get whatever's on his mind out into the space between us.

Sunday was all friend and co-parent day. Hawk has really melted into our new family structure and no longer clings to one or the other of us when we're all together. We swam at Barton Springs and ate at a favorite greasy spoon. When we dropped off Rooster Hawk was sad to see him go and even before we were out of the driveway he was saying he missed his Daddy.

I don't know how many times I've said something like, "I know you miss Daddy, Baby. I bet it hurts in your heart, huh?" He'll respond in the affirmative and I'll go on, "Daddy misses you, too. And when you're with Daddy Mommy misses you and you miss me, too. We all miss each other these days, but it's ok. We all love each other and when you're apart from someone you love, sometimes it hurts. It'll get better, I promise."

He tells me misses me whenever he's with Rooster and that he loves me very much. We hug, we hug tighter. We talk endlessly about MISSING SOMEONE. Oh God, how it breaks my heart that he's so familiar with this ache; his little, bitty heart. Missing someone. GOD.

And then Sunday nights and Monday mornings are heavy-hearted ones for the both of us. By now Hawk knows that he's going to stay the night with Daddy the night after school on Monday. He's excited, but then gets quiet. "I live with Daddy, and you, and Papa-Mimi. I live in lots of places. But I really just want to live with you."

I know he doesn't mean it literally -- when he's with Rooster he says the same thing -- but it's his longing, his anticipated missing of me that makes him say such a thing. He knows he's loved by these three households and loves them all fiercely in return, but his mind is trying to catalog all the players in his life. It has to make sense in some way.

"When I'm gone living with Daddy you need to be strong," he goes on. "Don't cry, don't be upset. I love you and I will miss you, too, but I will see you soon." I burst into tears and hold him close to me. Where has this child come from?? This sweet, amazing, brilliant, tender child.

"I will, Baby, I promise, but it's ok if I'm sad, too. But I'll be ok. I just love you very much and wish we could be together all the time. But I want you to be with your daddy, too. He also loves you very much and misses you when you're with me. This is what we all have to do. We all have to be tough."

I don't know if I'm rambling, if I'm showing and sharing too much, but I'm overwhelmed. By his kindness, my feelings, my life. Fuck, this is hard.

But I know I'm doing something right if Rooster and I can identify our strengths and spend an afternoon together celebrating his fatherhood and if my little boy can self-assuredly pass between me and his father and his grandparents. I might not always feel like a success, but I think that maybe I might be a bigger happy ending than I give myself credit for. The job will come in time, but success -- to some degree -- is already here.

Decisions

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 17:33:00 +0000

Seriously, which should I get?

One attracts bees (lavender), one attracts ladies at tea (chamomile), one tastes good on just about anything (olive oil), and one is soft and fuzzy and makes a good brown-butter (sage).

I'm so conflicted.

Me v. The Trash Can

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Fri, 17 Jun 2011 16:24:00 +0000

I'm 2 for 3. Take that, you tiny trash can 8 feet away!!

This shouldn't be easier

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Tue, 14 Jun 2011 13:46:00 +0000

Fishbowl of life. This fish watched me my entire dinner. So weird.

I had my wisdom teeth removed last Friday and spent the weekend in an opiate haze I struggled against despite having spent the better part of my undergraduate college career looking for exactly that sensation. Hawk was supposed to be back in my arms on Sunday, but there was too much pain and too little thought process to make that happen, so he went back to Rooster on Monday and I missed out on 3 wonderful, little-person-filled days with him.

So there I was, toothless, kidless, and jobless all last week -- friends called on me, the internet entertained me, I scoured the internet for jobs whenever I was sober enough to do so -- when I got involved in conversations about balance, life, motherhood, relationships, and self. Luckily I was 100% sober by then.

I'm miserable, but I'm also extremely happy. Rooster and I are very certain this is the right thing to do, and as we proceed with all the divorce minutiae I wonder why the price has to be so high for this feeling of individuation, freedom, and excitement. The weeks I don't have Hawk I am Jessica: all me all the time and it always felt utterly out of reach when I was in a pair.

I come and go as I please; see whomever I choose for however long I like; wake up and go to bed as I see fit; eat ice cream for dinner and stay up till 3 watching Murder She Wrote.

It's not as if I didn't or couldn't do these things when I was living with Rooster, I just never gave myself permission. Why does it seem like couples worker harder and get less relief with two adults in the house than single parents on their own??

I have a theory on this (of course). Lauren of Hobo Mama happened to post an article yesterday that really spoke to me. I've been harping on the isolation of a SAHM for a while (how a mother is isolated, has no sense of self in this economy, all the while being pitted against other mothers), so it's always a boon for me to see it in published form and embraced by the general public. So that's what's going on for the mama in the pair.

But here's the thing. I don't want women the world over to have to separate from their partners just to get some breathing room and to feel like a grown up. There has to be a middle ground and clearly Rooster and I had no idea how to make that happen and neither do any of my friends. It wasn't until I left the building that he was able to spread his parenting wings and really take over for me. I get that marriage and relationships are hard, but are we making them harder than they have to be by simply not giving ourselves permission to leave the house if that's what we really need to do?

Or maybe it was a product of my personality and relationship... I don't know... what I do know is y'all are working really fucking hard and now I feel like I'm cruising. Sure, I'm crushed with fear and stress about my employment situation, but over all, I am free. And Rooster is free, too. He can go mountain biking whenever he wants, or go for long rides on his motorcycle with no fear of my reproach because I want him home due to exhaustion.

I guess it's all about permission. Couples need to embrace the idea that their partner has varying needs and then take it a step further and give them permission to pursue satisfying them -- whatever they may be. Some mothers might need a lot of socializing time outside of the home and her baby; another might need to earn money; a father might need to be able to sit in his underwear and watch the game uninterrupted for an entire weekend.

We have to give everyone permission to find relief or else. Literally. There is always an "or else." Not necessarily divorce or separation, but damage is done, certainly.

All this from listening to and watching my fellow friends struggle under the [self-inflicted and socially adopted] oppressive demands of being a parent. It's not just the mothers who are suffocating. I know the fathers are, too. I'm here to tell you, though, that by 3 years old it does get better. The kids might be ready for a pre-school or other organized activities (if that's gonna be your route) and you can breathe lighter and spread your adult-wings. And I'm also here to beg you to find someone to watch your child overnight so you and your partner can go out and just be John and Peg, or Sally and Sarah, or whomever. Not Mommy, not Daddy, not a butt-wiping, life-saving, cooking, cleaning, thinking-five-steps-ahead-at-all-times, parent. Just. YOU.

It's such a weird position to be in these days, an outside observer of the nuclear family. I get the definite sense my partnered friends look at my life with envy -- and I do, too. Of course they also look at me with pity, and -- quite frankly -- I do, too. Guilty on both counts. In any case, we all need to look more closely at our system and our relationships if what I'm doing feels better than what I had. It shouldn't. It just shouldn't.

3:41 pm: In my best friend's cooler

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sat, 28 May 2011 20:42:00 +0000

It's how mommies roll, am I right?

Let's do this bitch

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Wed, 25 May 2011 17:21:00 +0000

I've been feeling a lot better later. Lighter. More focused. I'm still jobless, but at least I don't feel like I'm slogging through waist-high mud anymore.

People have suggested meds for this bullshit, but it's situational, not quite yet chemically based. I know the difference. Not that I'm against meds -- oh, definitely not -- but a job-a-day will definitely get these blues to go away. That and signed paperwork and a big step f.o.r.w.a.r.d. So, yeah. No meds required... just yet.

Basically, I'd be a really bad lottery winner. I need shit to do and I'm rather bad at finding things when I'm paralyzed with fear and sadness. Funny how that works. But I'm managing. Applying to jobs as I find them; dreaming up an Etsy storefront (anyone want small paintings of random flowers by an amateur artist??); watching marathons of Murder, She Wrote; crying and laughing (way more laughing, by the way -- I'm too dead inside to cry); spending lots of time with Rooster and Hawk on off-weeks, savoring every second of my on-weeks.

Season 3, ep. 8: "Magnum on Ice."

Speaking of Rooster, we went to Hawk's first-ever parent-teacher conference the other day. Here are some highlights as told by Hawk himself (well, not really himself, but you get the gist):

I eat at just about any opportunity (both snack times and lunch) and I eat each piece of my lunch separately (chips, then sandwich, then fruit, but never a little of each all at once)
I have forgone the pre-nap hug-n-kiss instead preferring to just go to my mat with a book
I get along with all the kids and have begun sticking up for myself when someone snags a toy (“Hey! That’s mine! I was playing that!) whereas I used to just stand there bewildered
Fleur and I will often have to be separated at nap time because we like to just stare at each other while holding hands instead of sleeping
I frequently compliment the female teachers on their outfits to great appreciation of my observations
I always like to help a teacher out and answer, “Of course!” when asked
I usually nap, but Hannah can’t figure out what the combination is that makes it so
I love the “Jump Up!” song
I am particularly good at the “Guess What Animal This Is” game and it’s also my favorite
If Hannah can’t find me, I’m usually in the sand pile
Once, when Keenan kept hitting me and I finally hit him back, I got upset and Hannah had to reassure me that I wasn’t in trouble (though, hitting is never encouraged)
I don’t share my food (as a rule), but I will occasionally ask someone else to share and then I’ll give something back in exchange
I really take eating seriously: no funny business. Just sitting and eating. No playing and running around
Hannah can always count on me to be mellow and stable. I’m sometimes the only kid in Dungeon room who goes quietly to his mat before nap time.
I also just use the baño. I don’t play in it

I totally cried. But happy tears this time.

We also went to the Houston Space Station (or whatever it's called). Oh. my. god. I don't even care about space except that it's beautiful and fun to look at and imagine about, but I was still awed by some shit. Especially that Saturn V rocket thing. Wow. I mean, as a kid I liked the planets mostly because they were pretty -- not because of the science -- but building something that massive that flies to outer space?? Pretty fucking cool. Even for this artsy, loved-English-assignments kid.

Did you know they put Model Ts on the moon? Either that or this is just a bad Grapes of Wrath re-enactment.

Space shuttle landing, natch.

Really. Who looks more excited to be here? He might have said something about how he's been "waiting my whole life for this moment!"

Saturn V engines.

Yesterday my sister told me she thinks I should start "hustling." I wish it meant getting dates, because that'd be awesome. But alas, she meant jobs. However, I've decided that I'm somewhat reliving my 20s, but in a much smarter way. I mean, just look at this picture of me and my BFF. Don't I look super smart? The cigarette really proves it. Can I get a job from being colossally cool on a Saturday night?

So, my next big project is to update this site. It needs a new look and definitely a new tag line (I came up with that one during a crying jag - so lame). Man, I gotta update my BlogHer profile and my FB one, too, now that I think of it.

Also, this blog is going to see more of me. As in ME. Not Mommy Jessica or Feminist Jessica or Natural Parent Jessica. I mean, they're all in there, but I've decided to let more of the ribald, crass, grown-up in me come out, too. It'll be like a French braid of feminism, parenting, pscyhotherapeutic rhetoric, and cussing. I hope you'll like it. I wish I could somehow make this site into a sex column and answer everyone's sex and relationship questions, though. Non-sequitur you say? Nah, not really. I'm surprisingly good at that kind of stuff and I think it goes with everything else seamlessly.

Ok! Coffee's kicking in. Time to dress and tackle the day, my couch, my life, and the world!

Did I mention I can't bake?

noreply@blogger.com (Jessica) — Sat, 07 May 2011 01:37:00 +0000

Proof even a box can't save me.