She's got this

It was not so long ago that I fretted daily about my kid who has ADHD: how will she get through this world? Will she ever be able to complete tasks without me reminding her of each step? Oh my word, will groceries ever even be possible? The world, especially this fast-paced, stimuli-full world, is too big and weird and busy for this person.

It's been a bit of a road, and we've had a lot of help from teachers and the school administration, but I have a kid who is thriving. She's just 13, but The Bean can not just get through a day, but she is crushing it. She is in a gifted program at school and receiving more-than-respectable grades; she is improving her drawing skills in the art program in leaps and bounds; she's in a choir, and she plays piano for fun; she is learning Spanish and fundraising to prepare for a potential trip to Guatemala in the spring; she is learning html code and building a little website; she has a dozen good friends at school; she babysits regularly to earn pocket money; and she is an incredibly pleasant person (this I am told by her teachers, family friends, church friends, the parents of the kids she babysits, and her friends' parents, so it's not entirely me being biased).

Those years of worrying whether my kid would be okay - in the broadest sense - have dissipated. Last night, when I saw her report card, and she proudly showed me the "Very Good" next to "Organizational Skills," I felt like a weight was lifted. Tonight, Dad and I met with her homeroom/ math/ science teacher, and our relief was confirmed: she's doing great.

She has got this.

the shaky hug

There is a thing that happens to a young girl (I cannot speak for what happens to boys, but I think it might be very similar): around age 10, she goes from being the lovely little stable being she's been since she gave up being a troublesome preschooler, and she moves into the moody stage. At first, it is barely noticeable: in the moment, she loses her temper, then she's back to herself for days, sometimes weeks. But soon the episodes become more frequent and last longer.

I remember being about 12 or 13 and getting so mad at my mom, and just yelling at her and slamming my bedroom door. And I remember that feeling of being utterly out of control; it was frightening. My mom was incredibly patient with me. She never yelled back (I am guilty of having done this), never told me to cut it out (also guilty). I was allowed the space I so desperately needed, and the opportunity to come out of it, with dignity. I have learned that the outbursts are out of my girls' control. I try to remind myself of that. In a house of girls, we'll all have to remember that, from time to time!

The Bean has learned to recognize when it's a hormonal outburst. She hates it, but she sees it for what it is. We came up with a "cure" a while back, and it seems to be working on Boo now, too. It's pretty simple: when one of them is in a grumpy mood and she just can't shake it, I give her a hug - not just any hug, though. It's a shaky hug. It's always welcome, but it looks reluctant from the outside, at least at first. She's usually slumped and I'm doing all the "work" of the hug. Here are the instructions, in case you want to try it at home:

• take slumpy, grumpy girl into your arms
• hold her close
• bounce from side to side
• say, "shaky hug, shaky hug, shaky shaky shaky hug."
• repeat as needed

It sounds ridiculous. It looks ridiculous. It feels ridiculous. Which is precisely why it seems to work: within seconds, she softens, and a few seconds later I get giggles. 

The thing I've learned is that they just need an excuse to come back - back to me, back to themselves, back to us. To repair the frayed bonds of our relationship. It's clear that it's what they each so desperately need and want, but don't know how to do. Silliness seems to do the trick. It's easy for anyone to get sucked into a vortex of anger and to feed it and not let go. But how many times do we just need a little release of frustration, and then let it all go? I know I do. So I try to afford that to my girls. 

It turns out it works on grumpy women, too, by the way. Just the other day, The Bean noticed a dark cloud over my head, and came over to me to give me a shaky hug. It fixed everything.

in memoriam

My dad loved me. That is a singular truth that I can never doubt. It was a quiet, adoring love. He walked the floors with me when I had colic; he carried me on his shoulders when I got tired of walking; he taught me to ride a bike and to do cartwheels; we played pool when I could barely see over the edge of the table (milk crates came in handy). We had a good time together, even if it was just me sitting on the couch next to him, telling him about my day.

My dad suffered. That is another undeniable truth. For seven years, he suffered from various forms of cancer, their treatment, and his recoveries. I barely remember times from before he got sick, from when he was a strong, wiry construction worker, tanned dark brown from the sun, hands rough from an honest day’s work. I do remember putting on his steel-toed boots and hard hat, wanting to be like him, to channel his strength. Those memories are vague. What sticks with me most are those moments on the couch, talking to him, watching TV with him, witnessing his ability to turn the air an Italian blue in his frustration with hockey referees. There were other moments when I had to be quiet, oh-so-quiet, because daddy had a headache again. He would bind a rag around his head, for relief, and lie perfectly still in a dark and silent room. He didn’t smile as much those later years; he didn’t laugh much at all, which looking back, is tragic for a man with a loud and easy laugh.

My dad was human. I am not the kind of person who canonizes the dead. My dad was a good man, but he was just that: a man. Not superhuman, not perfect. He had a difficult childhood; he struggled with alcoholism; he had a temper. He was also incredibly generous, helping out family, friends and neighbours who needed an extra pair of hands to repair or move something. He was a trickster. He was a flirt. He was charming yet dark. He was all of these things, and so much more.

I don’t miss my dad in the same way I’ll miss my mom when she passes. I only ever knew him when I was a child. I do have moments, though, and they sneak up on me, when I think, dad would have laughed so hard to see my girl do this, or, dad would have loved this, or, dad would have been so proud of me.

It was 25 years ago today that my dad finally let go, telling my mom days before that he knew I’d be okay, that I was growing up and didn’t need him anymore, not in the same way. He let go, with full faith that everything was going to be okay for me and my mom. My mom was there as he drew his last breath early that morning so many years ago now. She later told me it was the most peaceful, moving moment she’d ever witnessed. I missed him for a good long time. Today, he is present in my heart, in my memories, in my daughter’s hearty laugh. But more than missing him, I remember him, in all his glorious imperfection.

falling in love

The first time I fell in love, it was that crazy, headlong, teenage sort. I remember looking into that boy's eyes and just begging him to see in mine all the over-the-top emotions I had. It was giddy and it was good, and it was young. It lasted a year or two, and we grew apart, which was what was meant to be.

The second time felt very similar. I was still quite young, and we were good for each other. We spoke in superlatives, telling one another that we loved each other more than anything, that this was the best love there could ever be, that we would love each other forever. It wasn't perfect, and it didn't last forever.

The third time I fell in love was a slower process. This person came into my life through what felt like stealth; I hadn't planned on meeting her, and I hadn't foreseen the immensity of the love I'd have. It took me months to get used to the idea of her, and when I finally met her, I felt more of a sense of overwhelming responsibility than anything else. I do remember the moment I began to fall in love, though. She was still incredibly tiny, barely able to hold up her own head. We were with another mother and her baby daughter, who was howling. The Bean was sitting on my lap, in a doll-sized sweater my mom had knit the night she was born, and she turned her face up to me and seemed to ask, "aren't you happy I'm not that baby?" I looked at her, relieved she was so calm, and smiled. I know, kiddo. I know.

The falling in love after that has been a journey. Because I already knew how to love in this new, connected way, I was able to easily fall in love with my second baby. The first moment I looked into her eyes - she was maybe a minute old - I fell deeply in love. This love grows and grows, in ways I hadn't imagined. Every day, these two surprise me, and I love them more for the people they continue to become.

And now, there is a whole new sort of love. Falling in love with a partner, as a grown woman and as a mom, is a completely different experience, one I couldn't have imagined. The superlatives are gone. The urgency has disappeared. It still feels like fireworks and butterflies, but it also feels more solid. I am deeply, and so very happily in love with D. I am prone to grand declarations, but I have learned to curb them. I cannot, in all honesty, tell him that I love him more than anything. That statement is reserved for my children. The best part is that he knows that and is entirely comfortable with it.

My children have taught me that it's possible to keep falling in love, even through the hard parts, perhaps because of the hard parts, to keep falling deeper and deeper in love. To learn more about the other, to grow and to allow to grow, to watch and to respect and to encourage one another through it all. Perhaps that's how love is sustained day after day, year after year: to fall in love today with the person you are today.

the better half myth

I could never fully express why, but I had always cringed when a man would talk about his partner or introduce her as his better half. It bothered me somehow. It seemed to put a lot of pressure on her to be a better person, perhaps more organized and capable, all the while letting him easily off the hook to be the typical hapless, clueless male.

But there was more to it, it turns out.

***

The process of healing from my divorce has been a long one. I hold marriage as sacred, and it was supposed to last forever. Period. So when it didn't, there was always a little hope lingering at the back of my mind - if not in my heart - that perhaps we would find our way back to one another. When I was finally able to let go, I found my life to be quite full and fulfilling. Or maybe I was able to let go because I was whole again.

Last fall, I remember thinking quite regularly that there really wasn't much room in my life or my house for a man. All bedrooms in my three-bedroom house are occupied. I'd started sleeping diagonally in my double bed (not even a queen sized bed!). My very large closet was full with my clothes and accessories. The weeks I didn't have the kids were occupied with friends, house projects, and hobbies. My life was pretty full. I was whole. I was happy, plain old happy.

And that's when it happened. I met someone, a whole person, whose life was rather full, too, with work and friends and family and volunteering. He was happy all on his own. So was I. That's where the magic happened: neither of us needed the other, but we sure liked each other's company.

***

I don't want someone who would tell me, à la Jerry Maguire, "you complete me." I want someone who is already complete, and who reminds me of all the amazing things I'm capable of, and who loves me for all of it. Someone I can support and encourage in his strengths and abilities, and to love him through his weaknesses - and he through mine. Neither of us is a half of anything; we are each our own whole person. And it is so very good.

our grace

At every meal we sit down to eat, my kids and I sing a grace. A grace that would surely make my mother bristle, for it is sung, and it is silly, and it is rote. But boy do we mean it every single time. You may know it, but I put a little spin on it, and it makes the girls smile every single time:

OooooOOh,
The Lord is good to me,
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need:
The Boo and The Bean
And the appleseed.
The Lord is good to me,
Johnny Appleseed,
Amen.

open heart

I've been struggling with whether or not I should write about this topic. It feels, in a sense, like an invasion of my ex-husband's privacy. On the other hand, our lives are still so bound up because of the children, that major milestones in his life are milestones in mine. And they affect me, whether I want them to or not.


***

Over a year ago, The Bean was heartbroken and crying; it was the divorce, again. I know that it was over a year ago because it was in our little rental house, that house that brought us through so much, that kept us warm in the coldest, darkest hours. It was in that house, on one of those cold, dark nights that she said to me: if your marriage was a mistake, then I was a mistake, too.

And I was knocked out, emotionally. How could I explain to her that at that point, she and her sister were the only things that made sense in my life anymore?

Oh, no. No, no. Sweetie, you ARE NOT a mistake.

But I know that how we had talked about her conception, that we'd loved each other so much that she was born, had set us up for this very moment. If that love was gone, or if it had been false all along (it wasn't), then her very raison d'être had vanished.

I was telling a wise friend of mine about this conversation a few days after it happened, and she flipped the situation on its head and suggested that perhaps The Bean and Boo were destined to exist, and that Dad and I had married precisely so that they could be conceived and born. I liked this version so much better.

The problem that I bump up against, almost constantly, is one of expectations. I grew up expecting to get married, have kids, and grow old with the father of my children. I would have a house with a backyard. My expectations were basic, so I never imagined that they couldn't be fulfilled. It's not like I was asking for a mansion and a private jet, after all.

So when my reality has not matched up with my expectations, I have had to adjust. I sometimes have the help of friends to turn things on their head, to make new sense of it all. The adjustments have still been painful, though. Unbearable at times, like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. But I am getting used to the incremental changes. I have come to accept that Dad was meant to be in my life as a co-parent. My best friend is someone else. And there are other people around me, to love me and support me.

I've adjusted to these realities, even though tears pour down my face as I write this. It is good; life continues to be good.

I hadn't prepared for the latest, however. He has met someone new. He was good enough to give me a heads up that he was going to tell the kids about her. They've been dating for a year. A year. His reasons for waiting so long to tell the kids are his own, and I am sure they come from a good place. It hit me harder than I expected, but because I am on a different path now, the looking back was short lived, and I continued on my road.

The girls, The Bean in particular, found the news to be a bit of a shock. There were tears. There were hugs. We talked through it, and I hope they got the clear message that Dad still loves them, and that nothing will change that.

The girls met her a couple of weeks ago. They told me the instant they saw me. It was over brunch, and she seemed nice, they said. I told you she'd be nice, I said. Have you met her? asked The Bean. No. So how could you know? The answer was simple: I know your Dad would pick someone good. I meant it, in my head, but my heart sunk a little. I am trying so very hard to make this good for them, healthy and happy for them.

The next milestone, I'm sure, will be a change in living arrangements, whether marriage is involved or not. This is hard. This will be another adjustment. I read this letter this morning and fell apart.

I fell apart because of the deepest conflict in my heart. I (selfishly, I know) want my girls to love me more than anything - until they move on and have their own grown up lives, of course. So when I imagine them loving another woman, turning to her for advice, talking to her in confidence, it tears me up inside. At the same time, I want this woman to be someone who loves my children and only wants the best for them. My girls deserve as much. And they deserve to be surrounded by good women they can trust.

I never pictured this. She was never part of the plan. All I can do is hope and pray that she is good to them, and they to her. Perhaps turning this on its head means realizing that my girls have so much love to give, and deserve so much love in return, that it couldn't be contained between two people. Maybe there needed to be three. Or four. And there are at least a half dozen more, from our church family, who play huge roles in their lives. Opening my heart to this is difficult, but perhaps it's exactly what needed to happen.