Nikki is a friend I met through NaNoWriMo. We have a lot in common, despite a 12 year age difference. She’s been living in the house on the third floor and has been our unofficial nanny/nurse/chief coffee drinker since she moved in. Since I’ve been remiss on writing about the kids, Nikki wrote a guest post. She might become my regular, unpaid guest blogger until my brain is less muddled and full of bees.
My alarm goes off at 6:55, and resisting the urge to hit snooze, I jump out of bed. Jump is a misnomer here. It’s more like I don’t even think about the fact that prior to two weeks ago, this waking time did not exist for me. I stand up, grab my iPhone, tweet my location on Foursquare so as to not be ousted as mayor of Casa Estrogen, and head downstairs.
If I was smart, I would have pre-set the coffee for the night before. It took me several days at the Del Bueno household to remember this trick from my early college years. Downstairs, I spring into action. Set out two kid’s cereal bowls, one child spoon, one adult spoon. I make an educated guess as to what cereal they will want for breakfast and set it, along with the milk on the counter. Everything is ready to go. I make sure that the set up is in the correct seats, because all hell will break loose at the kitchen table if the seating chart gets messed up and Arden has to sit in Lily’s seat or vice versa. It sounds silly, it sounds trite, and you are shaking your head over something so trivial. But remember back to your childhood. If you had siblings, you went through the same thing. I know I did. Ever rooted in tradition, my little brother still likes to mess up how we sit as a famiglia when we come together for the rare dinner.
I hear thumping down the stairs. The 63 pound yellow lab, who I joke (when the kids are not around, or course), is the biggest, dumbest lab I have ever seen, is awake and demands attention in the form of love and hugs and food. Most of the adults in the house know I say this in jest. I am a true animal lover. Careening towards the door like a bull in china shop, she demands (not begs, demands) to be let out. One she is done, I try and get her sit calmly…who am I kidding, I try to get her to sit at all, as I wipe her paws. She races towards her food as if she has just come from a famine. I guess several hours would be a famine for this big lovable lab. Right now we have abandoned ‘sit’ and are working on not jumping. If I time it right, I can get the dog settled (I laugh as I type settled) before I hear the pitter patter of the girls coming downstairs for breakfast. Lily is ready for school. Arden, her hair sticking up every which way, goes to school later. If I was her older sibling, I would be eternally resentful. I don’t know how Lily feels. Maybe she doesn’t value sleep like I do. Cereal is poured, silliness abounds. It took me a while to get used to one, eating breakfast; two, eating with 2 kids. They eat when they are hungry and stop when they are full. I had to be a member of the ‘clean plate club’ when I was their age, so seeing kids leave food on the plate and it being acceptable is something completely foreign to me. I also like calmness and order, since that’s the way it was in my house growing up. As anyone who has kids or has spent any significant amount of time with kids knows, calmness and order generally takes a gentle soar out the window when you have children in your presence. It was something I had to readily adapt to, and still am.
I find myself craving solace, quiet, the peace that comes with all the family members doing their separate things at all times, but then I quickly remember that I love Arden’s contagious smile, her braids that she requests from me each morning (with the hair ties matching her outfit. major little diva), wildly flying as she streaks to her next activity, ever a ball of energy. How Lily will come home from school and briefly climb in my lap and tell me about school and how, despite the almost 20 year age difference, we can geek out over books together. Holed up in the story room, we both eagerly anticipate the next chapter, and delight when she pronounces a tough word and reads with a fluidity generally reserved for a girl years older. She was recently up in my room, perusing my bookshelves, and picked up my dog eared copy of DFW’s ‘Infinite Jest.’ Mispronouncing the title and then flopping back on my bed in a fit of hysterical laughter only fit for a first grader, she looks at me and with the most serious face says, “Nikki, I am going to read InifiniJest as my next book. But you might need to help me with the big words, k?” How could you not love that? I know I do.
It’s different. It takes time to get used to, as all changes do. I’d write more, but someone is calling for me to braid her hair.
My absences both from the blog and from a variety of friendships has gotten to the inexcusable point. I know I’m going to lose some friends over my inability to communicate; it upsets me but from a distance, like I can’t feel those emotions clearly. I know they are there, but they are inaccessible.
A friend asked me to go out for a glass of wine after Write Club last night - I simply couldn’t go. I forced myself - literally forced myself - to go to Write Club. The gods were on my side because only 3 people showed and they are all close friends of mine, so writing was not really discussed but plenty of other things were. Even that small amount of time exhausted me. I’ve been really bad since last week. Talking is an effort, explaining my situation(s) makes calculus seem easy to me. Everything is hard, especially concentrating on work. This is particularly annoying since I am extremely focused on getting some billable clients right now and actually have a couple of virtual assignments at the moment.
I’m in some sort of hibernatory (made up word? don’t know) phase right now. I’m going on 8 months of personal turmoil, at times exhilarating, at times hellish, at times nearly bearable. I’m flat out exhausted. My brain feels like it’s mired in sludge, and I constantly feel like I need a nap. If Nikki wasn’t around to help out with keeping the house clean, the 5,000 pounds of laundry my family generates, and braiding Arden’s hair every morning (her new obsession), I do not know how I would be functioning. Things that used to come naturally for me - empathy, sympathy, understanding, the desire to be there for others - have flown out the window. I’ve felt drained in the past, but it’s nothing compared to this level of emptiness.
I can relate to things my mother told me about her life after her first husband left her. My situation is totally different of course, but I still feel a bit like she says she did - like a RoboMom. I go through the motions and occasionally I can break through and access my normal emotions toward my children. Most of the time I am closed down, but able to cuddle them and feed them and do the things that need to be done. I guess the major difference is that I don’t enjoy much of anything right now. If someone else was talking to me about this, I’d calmly explain the symptoms of depression and emotional exhaustion and suggest therapy or medication. I’m doing both, and working harder on my baggage than I’ve ever before. I know that there is a light somewhere and I’m heading in the right direction. I know that I have to trudge through this. I know there are no shortcuts for grief or loss or mourning or recovering. I must keep on going, because I’m convinced there is a better me on the other side.
The buds are starting to appear and tomorrow it’s supposed to hit 71 degrees. I’ve been running outside in the sun whenever I can because even though I resent those cheerful birds and drooling dogs crossing my path (stupid happiness! How dare you!), the sun does improve my mood. It helps mitigate the irritation and frustrations that are common in this ‘phase’ of the divorce process. I know I am irritating the hell out of Mike; he is doing the same to me. We are both extremely careful not to involve the children or forget their needs come first, and I’m proud of both of us in that respect. No divorce, no matter how amicable, is easy. We still have things to nail down, documents to sign, houses to sell.
Spending yesterday on the phone with both of our mortgage companies was not fun for me in the slightest. Few things make me cry anymore, but there are two guaranteed to turn on the waterworks. The first is my children, if they express that they are suffering in the slightest. The second is the house situation. I cannot express the utter sadness and anger I know we both feel that we worked so hard on this stupid house and we are going to be ruined from it, at least for a little while. I take solace in the fact that so many others are in the same boat, and I feel badly for all of us as a whole. We made a bad decision (though Mike probably feels it is me that made the bad decision, forcing him into this house), and a bunch of factors went along with the decision. Economy, my business, our marriage. The situation is bleak no matter how you slice it. The house will go on the market next week - and once the sign is up, the neighbors will start their gossip fest. That part helps me be glad I will be moving, even if it means single-handedly lowering the property values on the street by having to do a short sale in the best case and deed in lieu of foreclosure in the worst.
A friend asked me yesterday, “How’s it going?” I answered, “It’s going.” She responded, “Where is it going?” Good question. The only answer I have is “forward”. Let’s hope that forward is the right direction.
There is a love seat and a couch in our family room. Over the years we’ve played with the kids on them, had tickle fights, naps, and foot rubs. Tonight, my husband sat across from me while I coiled up on the love seat, behind this very same laptop. He shuffled the paper version of what I looked at on my screen; a bizarre, coldly-worded and very legal-sounding divorce decree and property settlement agreement.
A few weeks ago, I sat across from a friend who is also a divorce attorney. I wrote him what felt like a big check for an “uncontested” divorce, but compared to litigation, a very small one - and he handed me a bunch of documents to fill out.
These same documents floated around our family room tonight. Between us, a large Groovy Girls tent sat on the coffee table. An empty Capri Sun pouch listed to one side and a random stuffed penguin sat still near the fireplace. It’s the same house we’ve been in for over three years now, the same messes and weird items, the same farting Labrador and carpet that could use a good vacuuming.
My mother has mentioned that she feels uncomfortable now in our house. Welcome to my life, where all aspects of my living situation and relationships feel weird and uncomfortable and sometimes downright scary.
My reality is now my surreality, because there is nothing normal or expected about calmly discussing how you are going to tear your marriage apart. It is a little like buying a car - you know how much you have to spend, but you don’t want to spend too much. In fact, if you could get it for free - steal it, so to speak, you know you totally would. You want to get out as cheaply and as unscathed as possible. Only this new car feels like an alien spaceship you don’t know how to drive, let alone fly. Things that are weird in my life? Where to begin? Having Nikki living here is weird, but comforting. For people who don’t know us, we probably look like a happy lesbian couple, alternating lunch-packing for the kiddies and driving the station wagon to and fro the library. It makes me giggle, and I’ll take all the giggles I can get. My mother asks if it’s weird. Yep. Is it weird having Mike gone? Yep. Is it weird renting a room at John’s? Yep. Is it weird breaking down your lives, and your children’s lives, into tiny paragraphs with checkmarks and annotations and schedules A, B, C? Hell, yes.
Want to make me gag and feel like dying? Use the word “alimony” in my presence. “Spousal Support” is only mildly better. I am Carol Brady after Mike Brady has told her he’s gay and left her ridiculous winged hair for a greased-up body builder with a 6 pack of abdominals and a tacky Popeye tattoo on his ass. Carol would have to fire Alice the Maid. She’d ruin her cat-like nails by scrubbing the floor on her hands and knees (Alice was always so sturdy! No amount of Clorox would dare mess with Ms. Alice). She’d throw herself down at Mike’s feet and beg for some of his architectural income so she could continue to get waxed and put tv dinners in the oven. My feminist self rears its unkempt head and hairy legs; then it burps. This cannot be happening to me - and I brought it on myself! Spousal Support??? Who makes this crap up? What woman born in 1971 is stupid enough to ever lose financial independence? Watch out, ye womyn in yer 20’s - never let yourself become dependent on a man. Bringing forth those children, we all make choices and sacrifices. My career came second. It was still important to me, and I still loved it, but after the moment I found out I was pregnant with Lily, it was never the same for me.
I “wanted” to start my own business. I sure did. I wanted something that would allow me the flexibility to have it all. I could be around for my children, but still work. I could be well-networked, use my brain, make some money - and still be Carol Brady but without the random winged hairdo and the tv dinners. This is all a myth of course, but other women have written about it much more eloquently (and succinctly) than I ever could.
For now, we sit across from each other, a pink tent with leopard-print piping between us. The meeting lasts all of 20 minutes. We attack the document like lawyers do, even though I’m not one (I only play one on tv). We hit the bullet points, cross off the numbers of the pages we’ve agreed on. With the minor exception of spousal support, we’re pretty much on the same page. I will live in the house until it sells; he will get an apartment with hopefully enough room for the girls during his scheduled visitation. Everything is explained on paper and neatly drawn up. At some point the paper will go back to the lawyer, and the lawyer will do whatever lawyers do with paper and courthouses and stamps from clerks of courts. The paper will end up in both of our filing cabinets, with addendum A showing who gets the love seat and who gets the couch. Those same couches that held our warm soft asses will be divided as efficiently as our marriage.
Saturday I completed my first 5K in, like, 100 years. I loved it, except the part where we were made to freeze outside for 45 minutes. There were a lot of half-hearted jumping jacks and full-fledged bitching. We finally figured out the Food Court was open and attempted to warm up there. I peed about 23 times because I was so nervous.
I wouldn’t say the race was easy, but it was definitely not difficult. Laura ended up running it with the Run Like A Mother posse; I have two regular running buddies in the group. We all finished in under 35 minutes, a personal best for me. I wasn’t sore and I wasn’t tired. I was pretty damn proud of myself. Toward the end, I heard the music from Chariots of Fire and sprinted the last 300 yards. I was almost screaming, “I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!” Then I nearly puked walking to my car.
After a reapplication of deodorant, I headed up to Maryland to see Julie. The drive through NoVa was its usual cluster - 4 1/2 hours later, I had made it the 160 miles to Sykesville. Her friend Christine hosted a baby shower for her soon-to-be adopted Ethiopian daughter. It was great to see her, even though she kept calling it a “Smash and Grab” visit. She got a lot of good stuff and had, I’m sure, a ton of fun trying to cram it all into a duffel bag for the flight back to Colorado. Whenever I see her, it’s like no time has passed (cliche much?) and Christine was an amazing host. My one bone to pick: Christine kept telling me to drink a wine cooler, and I did. Um, it wasn’t a wine cooler. It was a Smirnoff Ice something or other. After running and not eating much, I was a staggering disaster after about 20 minutes. No more Smirnoff Ice for me, ever - but it was pretty tasty!
The trip back was much better and took less than 3 hours. Wahoo!
In about 10 hours, I will be running the first 5k race I’ve run since 2001. The last race I did was the Komen 5k, back in the days before babies, cellulite and sleep deprivation. Julie ran it with me. It was hard, because I didn’t train properly.
This 5k race replaces our regular team training run; the race atmosphere should make it more fun and make me more spastic. I’m excited for it because two of the women on my training team have promised to stay with me as we limp toward the finish line.
In all seriousness, I’ve been training very well and as of yet, have not missed a single training run or cardio workout. I should be able to do this. I CAN do it. I’m ready!
(call 911 if you see me face down in front of the food court at Short Pump Town Center tomorrow)
I'm a 30-something mother of girls born 23 months apart. Originally hailing from the frosty throes of Northern Michigan, I now live in the humidity pit of the universe - Virginia.
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