“This isn’t easy for me,” Andy tells me. He’s just read Whaleback Wedding, Steph’s latest entry on the Uncoupled Blog.
It’s hard for him to read the intimate details of my life with Steph. And not even from me, censored to protect him, but raw and unedited, from Steph.
I think it’s easier for Andy to hear about the tough times, the difficulties, the bad years, then the good times, the sex, and the commitment I had with another man.
Andy says: “You know that I’ve been in love with other women.”
“You mean I’m not your first?”
He laughs. “Nope. I’ve had sex other women and I’ve had fun with other women too.”
I pretend shock. “But not as much fun as with me.”
He keeps going. “I was married – in a church and everything.”
I nod.
“But you don’t have to read about it. I don’t tell you all about it.”
“Do you want to?”
He pauses. “Not really. And I understand that you, as a writer, need to talk about it. To share it with the world.”
“I want to hear whatever you want to tell me about your life,” I tell him. “I want to hear your stories about mountaineering, ice climbing, and walking the dogs. I want to hear about your exes, your relationships, your wedding. Those are all parts of you that I want to know.”
He smiles, and looks at me. I look at him.
It doesn’t really matter who came before me, because here we are right now. All that matters is what Andy learned from the women who came before me, and what that learning brings into our relationship.
And then we stop talking. And start enjoying the exciting and, yes, skilled, lovemaking which comes, let’s face it, thanks to our previous partners. What we’ve learned, discarded, kept, and grown culminates, let’s also face it, in this particular version of us – remarkable, top drawer, very, very fine.
The next morning Andy, Steph, and I meet for breakfast at Floyds on Quadra. I order the Roy McFarlin (like Roy, I always order the same thing: two eggs, potatoes, a piece of toast, coffee). Steph has Listen to Me When I’m Talkin’ to You, Son” (add sausages to mine, and substitute tea), and Andy has the Kilamanjaro (he would) which is a mountain of French toast topped with dollops of whipped cream that look suspiciously like clouds (Steph says, “Can you say 200 and five pounds?”). We laugh. It’s all pretty chilly, actually.
We discuss the boys, the parenting schedule, child care providers, and other details that must be dealt with. Then we do a personal check in. I report on how I’m doing with letting go of the children when they’re with Steph, my piece to struggle with. Steph is sitting every morning and inviting his demons in for tea. Andy admits it’s challenging for him when he reads the Uncoupled blog. “You guys are still very involved with each other, and in trying to figure out your new relationship. Most people would have no relationship with their ex,” he says. “In fact, they’d likely be pissed off and wouldn’t be defending him.” He looks pointedly at me.
It’s true. I appreciate how tricky it is for Andy to accept that the biological parents of children will have a relationship, and it’s up to us all to define that relationship. And that it’s trickier still for Andy that I am in the habit of still looking out for Steph.
I am flooded with love for Andy. Right there in Floyd’s. I honour Andy for his openness. The wide open door of his heart and the open embrace of his arms and his mind that is so adept and flexible. I’m frankly amazed that I found this man – actually he found me a dozen years ago – who can handle me and my whole thing. That he doesn’t only handle it, but he actually directs a lot of it. He’s into it. It's not his first rodeo -- he knows what he wants from me too. It’s pretty cool falling in love at 40-something: there’s still a lot of juice, plus there’s some wisdom gained from all those damn mistakes.
I fell in love with him in like 100 emails. “He’s my ex, you’re my sex,” I wrote to Andy one night in the dark when we were getting reacquainted. I pressed send with god in my fingertips, my pulse at 120. And then I sent him my phone number and as soon as he called, I said I love you. That was exciting too. I know what I have.
And I know that he loves me, just as bad. “I want to hear you say it,” he tells me. “You love me,” I tell him. He nods. “You love me,” I say it again. He laughs. “You love me!” “I do, baby.”
Andy gets that this is about growing up. About, as my friend Jeff says, how mature adult love is the ability to see past the flaws and once again perceive perfection. About living a life that serves as a suitable model for the innocent and sponge-like boys in our care.
As my 44th birthday approaches, I am thrilled to be feeling the original me that has always been here, that doesn’t age, and also that evolutionary self that keeps learning and getting, as the ad says, not older but better.
Steph and I are defining the “ex” thing in a healthy way, pioneering it. And Andy and I are creating our own thing now, just as creatively.
Writing it as I see it
Friday, September 28, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Growing Up
I received some books in the mail the other day, a nice surprise. It turns out they weren’t intended for me – and that makes me appreciate them even more.
Especially the one called Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life (How to Finally, Really Grow Up), by James Hollis.
That title struck a chord because, well, I turn 44 this week, and just the other day I went to see a spiritual teacher (upon the advice of my therapist, Kira MacDuffee) who had exactly two words for me: GROW UP.
Ana-Karyn Garcia, an artist and psychologist who founded the Bioenergetics Institute in Ottawa, the Ana-Karyn Foundation, and Club Yoga, and who teaches innovative tools that link the body, mind, and spirit is the person who didn’t mince her words.
“So, what can I do for you?” the Latin woman in a white turban and robe asked me when I sat down in front of her in Kira’s cute little cottage on the Gorge in Victoria.
I started crying immediately. “It’s my two kids,” I blubbered. “I have this 30-70 split with their dad that’s becoming 60-40, and moving to 50-50 in the next few years.”
“And?” She raised an eyebrow beneath that imposing turban.
“I’ve accepted that it’s good to be uncoupled. Their dad and I are creating an awesome relationship after being unhappy for some years. I’ve got a new man in my life who loves me and loves the boys. It’s all good. But I can’t stand being away from my children,” I cried, not bothering to wipe away my tears. “It’s just not right to be separated from them, not even for a day!”
“Oh,” she raised a hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. “All this drama. Weeping and carrying on. When there is nothing to cry about.”
“They’re my children,” I insisted, quite certain that she doesn’t have any. “It’s not right for them to be away from me. They’re mine!”
“Yours,” she laughed. Then she became stern. “They are not yours!”
That stopped me in my tracks. Not mine? I was nauseated for nine months twice. I excreted what felt like two bowling balls from my vagina. I became sleep deprived, post partum depressed, and left the work force for them. Not to mention that I gave up the life I lived for 38 years to figure out how to incorporate these two new humans who came to me. And now that I have finally found my groove, I don’t intend to give up on being the best damn caregiver I can be. Which means, in my opinion, just being there with them.
I looked at her, a bit pissed.
“Not yours,” she repeated.
“Oh” I burst into fresh tears. “You mean like that poem that starts like
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
-- ” (Kahlil Gibran didn’t have kids either).
It’s nice and inspirational on one level. In reality, well, my stomach drops at the thought of my kids away from me HALF THE TIME!
“You are caught up in this drama,” said, more gently now. “Wasting your time with all this crying. Getting in the way of yourself and what you are meant to be doing with your life. You have an opportunity here. Everything is aligned for you. Take it. Don’t mess it up.”
Oh.
“Get on with this 50 and 50. You’ve been living like a teenager long enough. Grow up!”
“It seems evident that not everyone should be a parent,” writes James Hollis in that book Jeff sent me by mistake. “Perhaps at best only half of us are mature enough to undertake the role of caring for a child, a task which legitimately asks considerable sacrifice of our lives. Such sacrifice is well compensated because the parent-child experience can be so rewarding, and can powerfully charge our own developmental agenda through relationship with the intimate other. Still, for many, productive parenting is a task of which they are incapable, for they are unable to differentiate their own sense of self from the child’s. Until they can be wholly responsible for their own journeys, and not project it onto the child, such parents are not grown-ups either.”
My challenge now, as Hollis puts it, is to differentiate my own sense of self from my children’s.
Hmm, I’ll have to work on that. I hate it when they’re not with me. I notice that my mind goes into scarcity mode regarding time with the boys. I start obsessing: I’ll see them for half a day on Monday and all day Tuesday and Wednesday, but not again until Friday and then Steph’ll have them on the weekend... I move forward and back in time, searching, adding, subtracting. More, I always want more. And, given my needs to take care of my self, to generate income, to write, and to also build my relationship with Andy (and have fun!), it seems to end up that there’s never enough.
Good thing I had an eating disorder when I was younger. This is just like that.
In those days, all I could think about was food -- peanut butter on buttered toast, or ice cream and granola. I spent all my time formulating when I could have that food, and what I would have to do to earn that food. It feels like the same thing. It’s an obsession, and it’s based on a fear that there isn’t enough, that I can’t get enough of the boys, or that they won’t get enough of me.
So, what helped me with the food thing?
I stopped defining myself by my body image. I learned to love and respect myself. I believed that I deserved to eat enough. And I began to trust that there was always going to be more by actually eating enough every time I ate.
Is any of that applicable for me right now?
I do identify and define myself as a mother, frequently above all other expressions of myself -- writer, friend, daughter, sex kitten, et cetera. At a three-day contemplation retreat where I asked myself, “Who am I?” I didn’t get much farther than mother. I recognize that I place a higher value or importance on my children than I do on anything else. I know that being with them gives me great pleasure, it defines me, and it fulfills me deeply.
Do I love and respect myself? Well, that’s a work-in-progress. I put a lot of pressure on myself to be perfect when I’m with them. I have to constantly remind myself that I’m doing the best I can. That I am a great mother because I am doing my best. And that great mothers make mistakes. That mistakes are just part of life – after all, that’s what I want to teach them!
Do I believe that I deserve to eat enough? Well, I’m not talking about rice and beans anymore. I’m talking about writing and being me. All of me, just not mother.
“What usually has the strongest psychic effect on the child is the life which the parents … have not lived,” wrote Carl Jung.
Hollis says what Jung means by that “is that where the parent has stopped growing, is intimidated by fear, is unable to risk, then that model, that constriction, that denial of soul will be internalized by the child.” Feeding my soul is as imperative as feeding my body once was. That’s what I do when I’m not with my children.
Do I eat enough every time I eat? Oh, oh yes. When I am with my children. I am with them. I don’t think about writing, checking emails, or meditating. I watch them. I experience them. I incorporate them into my life. I observe them as mindfully as I try to observe my breath in meditation, or my body in yoga. I get my fill. Yesterday Primo rode his bike without training wheels. This morning Secundo spoke a four-word sentence: “Go Mama house ‘morrow?” He said it very clearly, and he pronounced house like howf. And then we saw three deer and Primo said, “This is deer world.” And he told me he’d never watched deer for so long before.
Do I trust that there’s enough, that there’s always more? I choose to believe that. Instead of cutting up time into the chunks of when I’m with them and when I’m not, and constantly coming up with too little, I believe that all their experiences are valuable and precious. Not just the ones they have with me. And I do the same for myself.
And I bloody well rejoice when they are with me.
“I want my mommy!” said Bill.
And the baby owls closed their owl eyes and wished their Owl Mother would come.
AND SHE CAME.
Soft and silent, she swooped through the trees to Sarah and Percy and Bill.
“Mommy!” they cried, and they flapped and they danced,
and they bounced up and down on their branch.
“WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS?” their Owl Mother asked.
“You knew I’d come back.”
Secundo always laughs when I ask,“ What’s all the fuss?”
And there’s such relief and happiness in our voices when I say, “You knew I’d come back.”
Especially the one called Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life (How to Finally, Really Grow Up), by James Hollis.
That title struck a chord because, well, I turn 44 this week, and just the other day I went to see a spiritual teacher (upon the advice of my therapist, Kira MacDuffee) who had exactly two words for me: GROW UP.
Ana-Karyn Garcia, an artist and psychologist who founded the Bioenergetics Institute in Ottawa, the Ana-Karyn Foundation, and Club Yoga, and who teaches innovative tools that link the body, mind, and spirit is the person who didn’t mince her words.
“So, what can I do for you?” the Latin woman in a white turban and robe asked me when I sat down in front of her in Kira’s cute little cottage on the Gorge in Victoria.
I started crying immediately. “It’s my two kids,” I blubbered. “I have this 30-70 split with their dad that’s becoming 60-40, and moving to 50-50 in the next few years.”
“And?” She raised an eyebrow beneath that imposing turban.
“I’ve accepted that it’s good to be uncoupled. Their dad and I are creating an awesome relationship after being unhappy for some years. I’ve got a new man in my life who loves me and loves the boys. It’s all good. But I can’t stand being away from my children,” I cried, not bothering to wipe away my tears. “It’s just not right to be separated from them, not even for a day!”
“Oh,” she raised a hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. “All this drama. Weeping and carrying on. When there is nothing to cry about.”
“They’re my children,” I insisted, quite certain that she doesn’t have any. “It’s not right for them to be away from me. They’re mine!”
“Yours,” she laughed. Then she became stern. “They are not yours!”
That stopped me in my tracks. Not mine? I was nauseated for nine months twice. I excreted what felt like two bowling balls from my vagina. I became sleep deprived, post partum depressed, and left the work force for them. Not to mention that I gave up the life I lived for 38 years to figure out how to incorporate these two new humans who came to me. And now that I have finally found my groove, I don’t intend to give up on being the best damn caregiver I can be. Which means, in my opinion, just being there with them.
I looked at her, a bit pissed.
“Not yours,” she repeated.
“Oh” I burst into fresh tears. “You mean like that poem that starts like
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
-- ” (Kahlil Gibran didn’t have kids either).
It’s nice and inspirational on one level. In reality, well, my stomach drops at the thought of my kids away from me HALF THE TIME!
“You are caught up in this drama,” said, more gently now. “Wasting your time with all this crying. Getting in the way of yourself and what you are meant to be doing with your life. You have an opportunity here. Everything is aligned for you. Take it. Don’t mess it up.”
Oh.
“Get on with this 50 and 50. You’ve been living like a teenager long enough. Grow up!”
“It seems evident that not everyone should be a parent,” writes James Hollis in that book Jeff sent me by mistake. “Perhaps at best only half of us are mature enough to undertake the role of caring for a child, a task which legitimately asks considerable sacrifice of our lives. Such sacrifice is well compensated because the parent-child experience can be so rewarding, and can powerfully charge our own developmental agenda through relationship with the intimate other. Still, for many, productive parenting is a task of which they are incapable, for they are unable to differentiate their own sense of self from the child’s. Until they can be wholly responsible for their own journeys, and not project it onto the child, such parents are not grown-ups either.”
My challenge now, as Hollis puts it, is to differentiate my own sense of self from my children’s.
Hmm, I’ll have to work on that. I hate it when they’re not with me. I notice that my mind goes into scarcity mode regarding time with the boys. I start obsessing: I’ll see them for half a day on Monday and all day Tuesday and Wednesday, but not again until Friday and then Steph’ll have them on the weekend... I move forward and back in time, searching, adding, subtracting. More, I always want more. And, given my needs to take care of my self, to generate income, to write, and to also build my relationship with Andy (and have fun!), it seems to end up that there’s never enough.
Good thing I had an eating disorder when I was younger. This is just like that.
In those days, all I could think about was food -- peanut butter on buttered toast, or ice cream and granola. I spent all my time formulating when I could have that food, and what I would have to do to earn that food. It feels like the same thing. It’s an obsession, and it’s based on a fear that there isn’t enough, that I can’t get enough of the boys, or that they won’t get enough of me.
So, what helped me with the food thing?
I stopped defining myself by my body image. I learned to love and respect myself. I believed that I deserved to eat enough. And I began to trust that there was always going to be more by actually eating enough every time I ate.
Is any of that applicable for me right now?
I do identify and define myself as a mother, frequently above all other expressions of myself -- writer, friend, daughter, sex kitten, et cetera. At a three-day contemplation retreat where I asked myself, “Who am I?” I didn’t get much farther than mother. I recognize that I place a higher value or importance on my children than I do on anything else. I know that being with them gives me great pleasure, it defines me, and it fulfills me deeply.
Do I love and respect myself? Well, that’s a work-in-progress. I put a lot of pressure on myself to be perfect when I’m with them. I have to constantly remind myself that I’m doing the best I can. That I am a great mother because I am doing my best. And that great mothers make mistakes. That mistakes are just part of life – after all, that’s what I want to teach them!
Do I believe that I deserve to eat enough? Well, I’m not talking about rice and beans anymore. I’m talking about writing and being me. All of me, just not mother.
“What usually has the strongest psychic effect on the child is the life which the parents … have not lived,” wrote Carl Jung.
Hollis says what Jung means by that “is that where the parent has stopped growing, is intimidated by fear, is unable to risk, then that model, that constriction, that denial of soul will be internalized by the child.” Feeding my soul is as imperative as feeding my body once was. That’s what I do when I’m not with my children.
Do I eat enough every time I eat? Oh, oh yes. When I am with my children. I am with them. I don’t think about writing, checking emails, or meditating. I watch them. I experience them. I incorporate them into my life. I observe them as mindfully as I try to observe my breath in meditation, or my body in yoga. I get my fill. Yesterday Primo rode his bike without training wheels. This morning Secundo spoke a four-word sentence: “Go Mama house ‘morrow?” He said it very clearly, and he pronounced house like howf. And then we saw three deer and Primo said, “This is deer world.” And he told me he’d never watched deer for so long before.
Do I trust that there’s enough, that there’s always more? I choose to believe that. Instead of cutting up time into the chunks of when I’m with them and when I’m not, and constantly coming up with too little, I believe that all their experiences are valuable and precious. Not just the ones they have with me. And I do the same for myself.
And I bloody well rejoice when they are with me.
“I want my mommy!” said Bill.
And the baby owls closed their owl eyes and wished their Owl Mother would come.
AND SHE CAME.
Soft and silent, she swooped through the trees to Sarah and Percy and Bill.
“Mommy!” they cried, and they flapped and they danced,
and they bounced up and down on their branch.
“WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS?” their Owl Mother asked.
“You knew I’d come back.”
Secundo always laughs when I ask,“ What’s all the fuss?”
And there’s such relief and happiness in our voices when I say, “You knew I’d come back.”
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Letting Go
I’m officially not a single mom anymore. Andy’s here. He’s moving his stuff in even as I write. Six months after we met -- again -- (we first got to know each other in 1995, but at that point in his life, he didn’t want kids and I couldn’t shut the damn alarm off on my biological clock) he has given up his life in the Rockies where he lived for 14 years, sold his house, left his friends behind, and today there are boxes piled in every corner of my little house.
Not only has he brought his stuff, he’s brought his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide open arms. What more could a woman ask for?
“I'm embracing us with open arms, no reservations or expectations. A very real feeling.” He wrote this to me one night six months ago, when we realized – with surprise and delight – that the escalation of romantic emails had led to love.
As of last Thursday, he’s here: in my life, in my heart, in my house. And not only does he love me, but he also loves my kids. What else a woman could ask for?
“I never wanted kids,” he told me early on. “And I can’t believe how much I like yours. I would have missed out on so much if my life had just continued on the way it was going. These boys are a real gift to me.”
Face it, girlfriends, with that, he was in. That’s the ultimate test!
Or maybe, the ultimate trial is what happens when the rubber hits the road. Like one morning in Canmore when we were on holidays and Secundo woke up early – not unusual, but this time I was grumpy. Andy took one look at me and got out of bed. “Let me do it,” he said gently. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll adjust my attitude in a minute … or two.” (The only thing worse than being grumpy with the world’s cutest two-year-old, is feeling guilty about it …)
Andy got my attention. He touched my forearm and looked into my eyes.
“What?” I said, a little irritable. It was after all, not much more than 6 in the am.
“This is a partnership, remember?”
“Oh,” I replied. “Yeah.”
“So, get back into bed and I’ll go hang out with the boy.”
All righty, then, more points.
In fact, I give him full points for integrating into our family unit -- not only has he figured out how to get a diaper onto a twitching toddler (insert on head first, imitate Elmo, tickle, then attach around butt with left hand while holding shiny object in front of the child with the right), and implemented the habit of drinking warm milk before bedtime, but today he once again asserted his weight in our partnership by asking me to stay home while he picked the boys up from their caregivers and delivered them to their dad’s house.
Secundo was sick and needed cuddling. I wasn’t there to do it. When Andy told me about it, my guilt bloomed profusely. (Are you noticing a theme?) But before I could shed the tears that welled up, Andy said, “It’s important for you to let me learn how to comfort him, and for him to learn that I can comfort him too.”
There’s a lot going on here. We’re all working hard. The little one who at two is adapting and adjusting to being away from his mom for three days every week. I who am letting go of the boys into their father’s care on those days and into Andy’s arms too. Andy who is opening his heart to all of us – including my ex. And their father who is accepting another man into his sons’ lives.
At five Primo has naturally moved on from momma. When we pick him up from his caregiver he races right past me into Andy’s arms. But a two-year-old is still all about his momma. I don’t want to let go of being the most important one in his life. There’s this feeling of pain in my chest, and nausea, that comes with that surrender.
But maybe it’s not about me. Maybe it’s more important that I think of him. What are his needs, given that it’s a fact of our life that he spends three days away from me?
He needs to learn to be secure and confident when he’s away from me. He needs to be comforted by the others in his life. He needs to be secure and confident in both his homes. Most importantly he needs me to be secure and confident, to be OK when he’s with me and when he’s not.
That’s my job right now. To let go of my children long before I imagined I would. Long before they push me away because I’m embarrassing them. Long, long before they’re heading off to Europe to go traveling or to university to study archaeology or Braille.
I have to let them go. I have to live with my grief without letting it taint my relationship with Andy. I have to allow them to have a full life with their father where I don’t get to see everything they do, and miss out on some of their milestones like when Primo lost his first tooth, or hear all the funny things they say (like That spider is going to grow up to be a tarantula, or Are we just puppets, or the two-year-old version of Dammit!).
So, I do. And I also build my relationship with Andy and launch our new life. And make damn well sure I write. I am not going to waste this chance, not going to dis this gift from the gods.
I am very thankful that Andy’s here. With Magic. “I like dogs now,” says Primo. And the Underwood Number 5 and the German bullet that lodged in his Dutch grandfather’s shoulder, and his mushroom lamp (yes, you heard that right), and his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide, open arms.
“It's crazy you’re in my head so much,” he wrote to me back when we were still talking via email. “It's scary and wonderful at the same time.”
“What’s scary about me?” I asked him
“Nothing,” he wrote back. “That's why.”
When I read that, my heart opened up in that way that made me believe what they say about the unconditional and limitless nature of love.
And with that newly opened heart, I love Andy. I love the boys. And I love myself. In fact, I can’t see that there’s ever been a more important time to love myself. To forgive myself for the grumpy mornings. For the times I make mistakes, when I trip and fall. To treat myself with the same gentleness and respect that I give to the boys.
Now, it’s time to go have dinner with Andy. To eat food without a wriggling toddler spilling cheese on my lap, or a lippy five-year-old insulting the cauliflower. To have wine instead of whine. To discuss matters of great import (or small) without someone asking how pillows are made.
To go and listen to my lover, and learn something new about him today.
To feel the grief in one of the chambers of my vast heart and to also feel the happiness and the gratitude and the love.
Not only has he brought his stuff, he’s brought his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide open arms. What more could a woman ask for?
“I'm embracing us with open arms, no reservations or expectations. A very real feeling.” He wrote this to me one night six months ago, when we realized – with surprise and delight – that the escalation of romantic emails had led to love.
As of last Thursday, he’s here: in my life, in my heart, in my house. And not only does he love me, but he also loves my kids. What else a woman could ask for?
“I never wanted kids,” he told me early on. “And I can’t believe how much I like yours. I would have missed out on so much if my life had just continued on the way it was going. These boys are a real gift to me.”
Face it, girlfriends, with that, he was in. That’s the ultimate test!
Or maybe, the ultimate trial is what happens when the rubber hits the road. Like one morning in Canmore when we were on holidays and Secundo woke up early – not unusual, but this time I was grumpy. Andy took one look at me and got out of bed. “Let me do it,” he said gently. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll adjust my attitude in a minute … or two.” (The only thing worse than being grumpy with the world’s cutest two-year-old, is feeling guilty about it …)
Andy got my attention. He touched my forearm and looked into my eyes.
“What?” I said, a little irritable. It was after all, not much more than 6 in the am.
“This is a partnership, remember?”
“Oh,” I replied. “Yeah.”
“So, get back into bed and I’ll go hang out with the boy.”
All righty, then, more points.
In fact, I give him full points for integrating into our family unit -- not only has he figured out how to get a diaper onto a twitching toddler (insert on head first, imitate Elmo, tickle, then attach around butt with left hand while holding shiny object in front of the child with the right), and implemented the habit of drinking warm milk before bedtime, but today he once again asserted his weight in our partnership by asking me to stay home while he picked the boys up from their caregivers and delivered them to their dad’s house.
Secundo was sick and needed cuddling. I wasn’t there to do it. When Andy told me about it, my guilt bloomed profusely. (Are you noticing a theme?) But before I could shed the tears that welled up, Andy said, “It’s important for you to let me learn how to comfort him, and for him to learn that I can comfort him too.”
There’s a lot going on here. We’re all working hard. The little one who at two is adapting and adjusting to being away from his mom for three days every week. I who am letting go of the boys into their father’s care on those days and into Andy’s arms too. Andy who is opening his heart to all of us – including my ex. And their father who is accepting another man into his sons’ lives.
At five Primo has naturally moved on from momma. When we pick him up from his caregiver he races right past me into Andy’s arms. But a two-year-old is still all about his momma. I don’t want to let go of being the most important one in his life. There’s this feeling of pain in my chest, and nausea, that comes with that surrender.
But maybe it’s not about me. Maybe it’s more important that I think of him. What are his needs, given that it’s a fact of our life that he spends three days away from me?
He needs to learn to be secure and confident when he’s away from me. He needs to be comforted by the others in his life. He needs to be secure and confident in both his homes. Most importantly he needs me to be secure and confident, to be OK when he’s with me and when he’s not.
That’s my job right now. To let go of my children long before I imagined I would. Long before they push me away because I’m embarrassing them. Long, long before they’re heading off to Europe to go traveling or to university to study archaeology or Braille.
I have to let them go. I have to live with my grief without letting it taint my relationship with Andy. I have to allow them to have a full life with their father where I don’t get to see everything they do, and miss out on some of their milestones like when Primo lost his first tooth, or hear all the funny things they say (like That spider is going to grow up to be a tarantula, or Are we just puppets, or the two-year-old version of Dammit!).
So, I do. And I also build my relationship with Andy and launch our new life. And make damn well sure I write. I am not going to waste this chance, not going to dis this gift from the gods.
I am very thankful that Andy’s here. With Magic. “I like dogs now,” says Primo. And the Underwood Number 5 and the German bullet that lodged in his Dutch grandfather’s shoulder, and his mushroom lamp (yes, you heard that right), and his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide, open arms.
“It's crazy you’re in my head so much,” he wrote to me back when we were still talking via email. “It's scary and wonderful at the same time.”
“What’s scary about me?” I asked him
“Nothing,” he wrote back. “That's why.”
When I read that, my heart opened up in that way that made me believe what they say about the unconditional and limitless nature of love.
And with that newly opened heart, I love Andy. I love the boys. And I love myself. In fact, I can’t see that there’s ever been a more important time to love myself. To forgive myself for the grumpy mornings. For the times I make mistakes, when I trip and fall. To treat myself with the same gentleness and respect that I give to the boys.
Now, it’s time to go have dinner with Andy. To eat food without a wriggling toddler spilling cheese on my lap, or a lippy five-year-old insulting the cauliflower. To have wine instead of whine. To discuss matters of great import (or small) without someone asking how pillows are made.
To go and listen to my lover, and learn something new about him today.
To feel the grief in one of the chambers of my vast heart and to also feel the happiness and the gratitude and the love.
Monday, September 10, 2007
The week before school starts
Primo started Kindergarten today. Last week we went camping on the Juan de Fuca Strait at a beautiful place called French Beach, me and my two sons, boys who will be men one day.
We left the city on Tuesday at noon after running around all morning. Doing errands with two boys in tow takes twice (thrice?) as long, especially when one of them is two. But eventually, and with patience and humour, we bought tent pegs and propane, filled the car with gas, purchased stamps and mailed my letters, and we were off!
“Is it a long way?” Primo asked as we started. “An hour,” I replied. “What’s that?” So I counted to 60 minutes by fives using five fingers for each increment. He settled back. “That is not a long time.” Secundo had already closed his eyes and turned his forehead into the side of his carseat. I put on some tunes and the road trip began.
I took my first road trip with the boys last summer when my marriage was on the rocks. I didn’t know what else to do. Home life was hard, but I understand the road. We drove to Jasper along the gorgeous and wild north Thompson River. We’d ride when Secundo napped, and stop in the middle of the day to eat and cuddle and nurse and play. I met my cousin at the campground in Jasper and she marveled at my audacity to do it alone. I had been living with such chaos in my personal life since Secundo was born. Being on the road and in nature, living outside the box, going with our creative flow, this seemed natural and healthy. The boys responded to my confidence, and to the inner peace I found on the road.
This trip had nothing of that desperation to it, and all of the enjoyment. We wound our way along the coast and found the French Beach campground by early afternoon. Primo nailed the perfect site. Number 11, it turns out, has a path that leads right down to the beach. Where we went as soon as I had the tent set up and the boys had slugs in our immediate vicinity counted.
The beach is covered in rocks. Harsh as that sounds, it is actually the essence of feminine: each rock is smooth, finely sanded, unique and beautiful. Primo went to water’s edge to play in the surf. Secundo climbed driftwood. And I lay down on the warm rocks. After the packing and driving and setting up, I needed a rest. Then the sun came out and melted the fog and I came alive. Scents of ocean, sand, fir, iodine. The beautiful coast emerged, and a warm, mellow September sun enveloped us. Eventually I sat up, watched the boys. It is one of my highest parenting value – one that Andy and I share with their father -- to have the boys enjoy and explore nature, and to play on their own. I make sure that we get out regularly, and I’m talking daily. Sometimes it’s a big trip, like this, other times we visit local beaches or our neighbourhood nature preserve, Swan Lake, where we have a favourite rope swing in a willow tree beside a winding stream.
They will learn all that the world requires of them in time. Reading, writing, and the more sophisticated skills will develop as they begin to practice them. But to start, I am grounding them in the experience of their bodies on this earth. And in the joy of life that comes from being free in this way. Primo dances with the surf. Secundo tumbles off a log. I watch and smile. Stand on my head. Lick rocks.
Hunger drives us back to our campsite. Together we pour water into the pot, light the stove, cook the pasta, add the cheese, stir, and serve. Primo makes loud noises of delight and hugs me in appreciation of the fine meal. Secundo happily scarfs his meal. I’m thankful for the calories. Then there is a slug hunt as I wash up and we head back to the beach. This becomes our routine for the next three days.
One day we drive further up the coast to Botanical Beach which is renowned for its tidepools. We explore, Silas trundling over the beach on his sturdy feet. But Primo has other priorities. He has seen the surf crashing at the farthest reaches of the rock, and he leads us there, along narrow ledges where the ocean seethes, over long fingers of rock where the ocean licks, and out to the point where waves pound onto the rock shelf, spray up like geysers, and wash over the rock like waterfalls.
“Wah-tah-fah,” Secundo says it too. “Tide poo-ah.” He speaks deliberately, slowly. He learns new words every day. I can now have a conversation with him. When he fusses we tease him. “Are you two?” “No!” he shouts. “No.” And then he laughs too.
Finally Primo admits he’s cold and we turn back. It’s a long walk back to the car, including a kilometer hike up a hill. The five-year-old says he can’t do it, and I grab his hand and, with Silas in the backpack, we hoof it up the hill like the little engine that could. “I think I can,” I chant. “I think I can. I think I can.” This is actually another of my strong beliefs, one that I teach to my children: we have the power to create, to form, shape, and make. We must face our feelings, feel them, and often overcome them to achieve what we want and need to achieve.
Back at number 11 we slip into our domestic routine. No slug can hide from boys’ eyes. And I learn how to remove slug slime from little fingers (a dry washcloth and lots of rubbing). The boys play with sticks – what more do they need? We bang pots and sing as we walk to the drain. Pooing and peeing are both more challenging (I forgot to bring Secundo’s little potty) and easier (he runs around half naked most of the time and I clean up after him like a dog). The highlight of our trip was discovering a van that had a picture of Scooby Doo painted on it. As its drivers looked for a campsite, we watched it circle the campground, its engine loud, passing by us again and again. Where would Scooby settle for the night? Frankly, I love the child’s world, the child’s perspective. It is fresh, purely creative, and so alive. My spiritual practice is to be present with them.
We went to sleep with the sun and woke with it. Nature’s rhythms matched ours. I found it so easy. Of course, I did not have any distractions, nor did I expect to have any time to myself or for my own pursuits. Even yoga became a game. They hung on my back when I was in down dog, or to tried to push me over in headstand. I was all about the boys, which is pretty much how I parent when I’m on my own. We became a unit, and worked like a team. We did everything together. I loved it.
Upon our return home we maintained the unity, put away the camping supplies, dried the tent, washed dishes. Played with the sticks they dragged back with them. And morphed back into our home life, sunburned, salty, and full of nature’s power.
Today Primo started school. Sat crosslegged on the carpet when Mrs. Birch instructed “Criss cross apple sauce.” I know that school will teach Rio many important skills. And it’s my job to ensure that Rio has the exposure to nature that he needs as an earthling, to develop all the other parts of his beautiful and divine self.
We left the city on Tuesday at noon after running around all morning. Doing errands with two boys in tow takes twice (thrice?) as long, especially when one of them is two. But eventually, and with patience and humour, we bought tent pegs and propane, filled the car with gas, purchased stamps and mailed my letters, and we were off!
“Is it a long way?” Primo asked as we started. “An hour,” I replied. “What’s that?” So I counted to 60 minutes by fives using five fingers for each increment. He settled back. “That is not a long time.” Secundo had already closed his eyes and turned his forehead into the side of his carseat. I put on some tunes and the road trip began.
I took my first road trip with the boys last summer when my marriage was on the rocks. I didn’t know what else to do. Home life was hard, but I understand the road. We drove to Jasper along the gorgeous and wild north Thompson River. We’d ride when Secundo napped, and stop in the middle of the day to eat and cuddle and nurse and play. I met my cousin at the campground in Jasper and she marveled at my audacity to do it alone. I had been living with such chaos in my personal life since Secundo was born. Being on the road and in nature, living outside the box, going with our creative flow, this seemed natural and healthy. The boys responded to my confidence, and to the inner peace I found on the road.
This trip had nothing of that desperation to it, and all of the enjoyment. We wound our way along the coast and found the French Beach campground by early afternoon. Primo nailed the perfect site. Number 11, it turns out, has a path that leads right down to the beach. Where we went as soon as I had the tent set up and the boys had slugs in our immediate vicinity counted.
The beach is covered in rocks. Harsh as that sounds, it is actually the essence of feminine: each rock is smooth, finely sanded, unique and beautiful. Primo went to water’s edge to play in the surf. Secundo climbed driftwood. And I lay down on the warm rocks. After the packing and driving and setting up, I needed a rest. Then the sun came out and melted the fog and I came alive. Scents of ocean, sand, fir, iodine. The beautiful coast emerged, and a warm, mellow September sun enveloped us. Eventually I sat up, watched the boys. It is one of my highest parenting value – one that Andy and I share with their father -- to have the boys enjoy and explore nature, and to play on their own. I make sure that we get out regularly, and I’m talking daily. Sometimes it’s a big trip, like this, other times we visit local beaches or our neighbourhood nature preserve, Swan Lake, where we have a favourite rope swing in a willow tree beside a winding stream.
They will learn all that the world requires of them in time. Reading, writing, and the more sophisticated skills will develop as they begin to practice them. But to start, I am grounding them in the experience of their bodies on this earth. And in the joy of life that comes from being free in this way. Primo dances with the surf. Secundo tumbles off a log. I watch and smile. Stand on my head. Lick rocks.
Hunger drives us back to our campsite. Together we pour water into the pot, light the stove, cook the pasta, add the cheese, stir, and serve. Primo makes loud noises of delight and hugs me in appreciation of the fine meal. Secundo happily scarfs his meal. I’m thankful for the calories. Then there is a slug hunt as I wash up and we head back to the beach. This becomes our routine for the next three days.
One day we drive further up the coast to Botanical Beach which is renowned for its tidepools. We explore, Silas trundling over the beach on his sturdy feet. But Primo has other priorities. He has seen the surf crashing at the farthest reaches of the rock, and he leads us there, along narrow ledges where the ocean seethes, over long fingers of rock where the ocean licks, and out to the point where waves pound onto the rock shelf, spray up like geysers, and wash over the rock like waterfalls.
“Wah-tah-fah,” Secundo says it too. “Tide poo-ah.” He speaks deliberately, slowly. He learns new words every day. I can now have a conversation with him. When he fusses we tease him. “Are you two?” “No!” he shouts. “No.” And then he laughs too.
Finally Primo admits he’s cold and we turn back. It’s a long walk back to the car, including a kilometer hike up a hill. The five-year-old says he can’t do it, and I grab his hand and, with Silas in the backpack, we hoof it up the hill like the little engine that could. “I think I can,” I chant. “I think I can. I think I can.” This is actually another of my strong beliefs, one that I teach to my children: we have the power to create, to form, shape, and make. We must face our feelings, feel them, and often overcome them to achieve what we want and need to achieve.
Back at number 11 we slip into our domestic routine. No slug can hide from boys’ eyes. And I learn how to remove slug slime from little fingers (a dry washcloth and lots of rubbing). The boys play with sticks – what more do they need? We bang pots and sing as we walk to the drain. Pooing and peeing are both more challenging (I forgot to bring Secundo’s little potty) and easier (he runs around half naked most of the time and I clean up after him like a dog). The highlight of our trip was discovering a van that had a picture of Scooby Doo painted on it. As its drivers looked for a campsite, we watched it circle the campground, its engine loud, passing by us again and again. Where would Scooby settle for the night? Frankly, I love the child’s world, the child’s perspective. It is fresh, purely creative, and so alive. My spiritual practice is to be present with them.
We went to sleep with the sun and woke with it. Nature’s rhythms matched ours. I found it so easy. Of course, I did not have any distractions, nor did I expect to have any time to myself or for my own pursuits. Even yoga became a game. They hung on my back when I was in down dog, or to tried to push me over in headstand. I was all about the boys, which is pretty much how I parent when I’m on my own. We became a unit, and worked like a team. We did everything together. I loved it.
Upon our return home we maintained the unity, put away the camping supplies, dried the tent, washed dishes. Played with the sticks they dragged back with them. And morphed back into our home life, sunburned, salty, and full of nature’s power.
Today Primo started school. Sat crosslegged on the carpet when Mrs. Birch instructed “Criss cross apple sauce.” I know that school will teach Rio many important skills. And it’s my job to ensure that Rio has the exposure to nature that he needs as an earthling, to develop all the other parts of his beautiful and divine self.
Monday, September 3, 2007
no offense, ma'am, but
The other day we got home late after looking at the stars out at the Observatory. Silas was past sleepy, well into grumpy. Rio was limp, less than half awake. We drank warm milk and the boys fell asleep as soon as their teeth were brushed. I put away the milk and loaded our cups into the dishwasher. At ten pm I checked my phone. Two messages. I’ll listen, I thought, then go to bed.
Two hours later I was saying good bye to a very unusual police officer who gave me even more hope that the world my sons are growing up in is on track.
Here’s what happened.
The phone messages were unnerving and a bit creepy. A young man used my name and spoke nonsense in a singsong voice. The creepy part came when he invited me for coffee and said I should bring that little “Simon” with me. He also left a number and asked me to call him. I called Andy and I called the police. The dispatcher had me trace the call and she promised to send an officer to my house.
As I waited for the cop, I felt a deep first chakra fear that turned the contents of my bowels into liquid. Feeling threatened in my own house like that, I also hooked into my mother bear instincts. I knew that I could kill to protect my children.
Andy traced the number the caller left to a gay bar on Johnson Street. Dialed the number and talked to the young man who answered the phone. Could be the prank caller was a bored drag queen looking for a little thrill while the night was still young.
When the cop came I’d already calmed down. I ushered him into the house and offered him the pink chair in the living room. He was a young man. He sat down heavily in the chair, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked around. “This is a nice room,” he said.
“Yeah, I love this old house,” I replied. “It’s a gem.” After some chit chat we listened to the messages together. I was a little surprised to hear the cop laugh at the first message, off-the-cuff sentences that rhymed but that didn’t make any sense.
I laughed too, then, my fears abating. “He’s pretty good,” the cop said when it was done. “He can make it rhyme like that. I can’t do that.”
I smiled. Played the second message. Creepy, but more theatrical than pathological. Not entirely nice, but not dangerous. Designed to get a reaction.
The cop made a report. Took down our names, birthdates. When he’d finished writing the boys’ names and birthdates he paused for a minute, then looked at me. “No offense to you, ma’am,” he said. “But your boys and I have cool names.”
His name is Damian and he appreciates his parents for not calling him Sarah or Ryan. No offense to them, either.
“Well, I think we come with names,” I said. “As parents we just have to figure them out.”
He processed that.
“You got kids?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’m only 26. But we will, one day.”
“When you’re ready,” I said. “You gotta be ready because it changes your life.”
He nodded.
“Yeah,” I forged on. “Be prepared. Because, speaking as a woman, it changes your life a lot. More than you think. So, just be supportive.” I wanted to tell him everything I know. Everything I’ve learned in the last six years. But I distilled it. “Just be right there and follow along,” I said. “Expect things to change and go with it.”
He nodded some more.
“It’s a lot of fun too,” I say. “Never a dull moment.”
“No doubt,” he said. “Here’s the file number. Call if he bothers you again.”
I thanked him and ushered him to the door.
We said good night.
“Just live your normal life,” he said, as he stepped out of the house and pulled the screen door shut behind him. Then he turned to look at me through the screen. Smiled reassuringly. “And love the earth,” he added.
“OK,” I said, and watched him get into his car and drive away. “Good advice.”
They’re obviously turning out a new breed of cops these days. Ones with cool names and open hearts.
Two hours later I was saying good bye to a very unusual police officer who gave me even more hope that the world my sons are growing up in is on track.
Here’s what happened.
The phone messages were unnerving and a bit creepy. A young man used my name and spoke nonsense in a singsong voice. The creepy part came when he invited me for coffee and said I should bring that little “Simon” with me. He also left a number and asked me to call him. I called Andy and I called the police. The dispatcher had me trace the call and she promised to send an officer to my house.
As I waited for the cop, I felt a deep first chakra fear that turned the contents of my bowels into liquid. Feeling threatened in my own house like that, I also hooked into my mother bear instincts. I knew that I could kill to protect my children.
Andy traced the number the caller left to a gay bar on Johnson Street. Dialed the number and talked to the young man who answered the phone. Could be the prank caller was a bored drag queen looking for a little thrill while the night was still young.
When the cop came I’d already calmed down. I ushered him into the house and offered him the pink chair in the living room. He was a young man. He sat down heavily in the chair, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked around. “This is a nice room,” he said.
“Yeah, I love this old house,” I replied. “It’s a gem.” After some chit chat we listened to the messages together. I was a little surprised to hear the cop laugh at the first message, off-the-cuff sentences that rhymed but that didn’t make any sense.
I laughed too, then, my fears abating. “He’s pretty good,” the cop said when it was done. “He can make it rhyme like that. I can’t do that.”
I smiled. Played the second message. Creepy, but more theatrical than pathological. Not entirely nice, but not dangerous. Designed to get a reaction.
The cop made a report. Took down our names, birthdates. When he’d finished writing the boys’ names and birthdates he paused for a minute, then looked at me. “No offense to you, ma’am,” he said. “But your boys and I have cool names.”
His name is Damian and he appreciates his parents for not calling him Sarah or Ryan. No offense to them, either.
“Well, I think we come with names,” I said. “As parents we just have to figure them out.”
He processed that.
“You got kids?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “I’m only 26. But we will, one day.”
“When you’re ready,” I said. “You gotta be ready because it changes your life.”
He nodded.
“Yeah,” I forged on. “Be prepared. Because, speaking as a woman, it changes your life a lot. More than you think. So, just be supportive.” I wanted to tell him everything I know. Everything I’ve learned in the last six years. But I distilled it. “Just be right there and follow along,” I said. “Expect things to change and go with it.”
He nodded some more.
“It’s a lot of fun too,” I say. “Never a dull moment.”
“No doubt,” he said. “Here’s the file number. Call if he bothers you again.”
I thanked him and ushered him to the door.
We said good night.
“Just live your normal life,” he said, as he stepped out of the house and pulled the screen door shut behind him. Then he turned to look at me through the screen. Smiled reassuringly. “And love the earth,” he added.
“OK,” I said, and watched him get into his car and drive away. “Good advice.”
They’re obviously turning out a new breed of cops these days. Ones with cool names and open hearts.
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