More please.

Apparently my heart was the first one up yesterday morning.  As I peeled one eye open and stretched my arms slowly over my head, awakening the rest of my sleepy self, I felt the presence of something dancing around my bedroom, brimming with joy and satisfaction, and singing from the top of her lungs.  I smiled.  Good morning, heart, I love it when you’re awash in all things happy.

Coffee on board and a Sunday brunch in my belly, I settled in for a few hours of uninterrupted guitar cavorting.  Pinch me, no wait, let me just indulge.  Seems happiness was spreading like wildfire through my entire house this weekend, my daughter even cleaned her room.  Feeling so solid and grateful for where we are, Thing 1, Thing 2, and I, we’ve come a long way, and three smiles fit these digs nicely.

It’s nice to have a heart that feels so awake and captive; makes the sun shine brighter and goodness flow abundantly.  Good only breeds good, and I know more is on its way, I can feel it getting closer.  Secure with who I am and where we are, I’m rolling out the red carpet, my heart is open, and I’m ready for whatever shows its face next.

If time was as abundant as joy, I’d bake a million cupcakes; pass them out wearing nothing but my favorite apron and a grin, and skip down the street singing at the top of my lungs.

Mud Worms

Life after divorce is chock full of discovery, it’s filled with light bulb moments, epiphany’s, and all the eye-opening experiences you can handle, plus some you think you can’t, just for good measure.  Sure, there were light bulb moments to speak of before I divorced, but somehow, after divorce, they seem far more meaningful, more powerful, and definitely more personal.  Perhaps now that I can actually apply the lessons learned, make a change, honor the perspective, they mean more to me.

Within the walls of marriage, both people need to agree that first off, there is indeed a light bulb moment occurring, followed by a lesson to learn, and secondly, that changing a behavior might bring about a more positive experience for one or both parties.   More times than not, my ex-husband and I had conflicting thoughts on how we viewed these light bulb moments…perhaps his light bulbs were wired to 110V and mine to 220V, some things, I’ll just never know the answer to.

The Boy Wonder missed his bus today, as he does every day, I’ve come to accept this.  Today though, he was close, so close to making it.  There was a time in my life, where this would have more than likely sent me into orbit.  Now I know, time is just not of concern for him, and there’s really no sense in getting my panties in a bundle about it, this is temporary, he’ll make the bus again, one day.  Until then, I’ll drive him to school if he misses the bus, subject my ears to Chris Brown, and watch with admiration as he dances his way to the front door of his school, living in the moment, a lesson we all could benefit from.  This morning, I clipped yet another tether of our connected heartstrings; I stayed in the car and let him enter school stag.  Naturally, I called the school secretary before exiting the parking lot to make sure he was accounted for.  He made it to his locker, as I knew he would, and was imaginably more than happy to lose the obviously not in middle school blonde, that usually tags along.

Before we left for school, I grabbed his sneakers which I found had been tossed by the front door the night before.  I purposely untied them ahead of time as I do each morning so he’s forced to practice the lost art of shoe tying most teenagers have cast aside for the stomp and jam method of getting into a tied sneaker.  I’ve learned to walk away at this point as he’s quite gifted at charming his way out of tasks he doesn’t seem to deem worthy of his effort.  Once his shoes were tied and he’d gathered the no less than fourteen thousand required things needed to make a three-minute drive, I noticed a trail of little caked mud worms over every floor surface he’d trekked since donning his shoes.  Ah, the park yesterday.  Note to self; clomp shoes outside once located, it’s spring in Maine, mud season.

Of course I had to sweep the entire house after returning home, and as Murphy and his collection of laws will have it, I’d done the very same task the night before.  But as I swept each pile of caked mud into the dustpan, I was reminded of a time where I would have spent the entire task griping and swearing to an empty house about all the things I do for this family and most likely followed that with a long speech about how no one appreciates me.  Those were the words of an unhappy woman.  Now, I’m happy to report, mud worms are welcome here anytime, they indicate simply, people live here.  Enter epiphany of the “mud worms can in fact make a Momma smile” variety.  The happy, healthy me, knows that even without the mud worms in my marital home, I probably still would have been logging some serious hours swearing about the naturally occurring inconveniences associated with my life.  Unhealthy equals unhappy, with or without the mud worms.

A healthy mind brings greater perspective; greater perspective brings about positive change, and positive change fuels happiness.  There was very little in my marital life I could control, a clean house was one thing that was all-mine, shockingly there weren’t any competitors for that role.  Since I couldn’t control much, I put a lot of my energy into trying to contain the chaos any way I could.  When my control zone was disrespected, like, say…mud worms, I felt violated.  Of course, I recognize now, these four other people were simply living their lives while I was fighting the battle of an unhappy marriage, armed with nothing but cleaning supplies.

I never thought I’d live to see the day I could live harmoniously with a collection of gathered branches from the park and caked mud worms created by my own children, yet here we are.  Then again, I didn’t think I could ever muster the courage to leave my unhealthy marriage.  Life unfolds as it does, how you choose to work with what’s inside is yours to decide.  I choose to embrace it, mud worms and all.  One of many decisions I’m thankful to have the opportunity to make, independently and with an open heart, happily and with eyes wide open, I don’t want to miss a thing.

Fourteen.

The grand finale and most peaceful and smoothest of my three ventures in childbirth took place exactly fourteen years ago today.  Shortly after 7 am a 6 lb. 6 oz.  bundle of genuineness claimed his place in this world and forever changed mine.

That tight-lipped little guy came into the world saving up all his clamorous wonder for years and years until the day he decided he just couldn’t hold back anymore.  Fourteen years later, the only time he’s silent is when he’s in dreamland.  That almond-eyed, blonde mop-top accompaniment to my life is now and again a challenge to my skill set of motherhood but a life without him would be seriously lacking and colorless.

Each of my three children has brought about the expected upheaval of the moppet variety but this guy; he’ll be my constant ticket to the unknown.  He’ll be my sidekick most likely until I take my last breath, making it apparent early on that he and I needed to find our own rhythm for which to dance our way through this jig of life.  He keeps me aware, grounded, and mindful.  He tests my patience, my endurance, and my composure.  He’s my true north when I wander off course; always there as a reminder of my whyfor, and the absolute cure for the common woe.  He packs a giggle that makes it impossible not to join in, finds a dance beat in the slowest of songs, and enters a room with a presence any leader could only dream of possessing. 

He’s my Earth Day baby, my little complex compilation of chromosomes, and the reason I’ll always have a front seat view of the world from a vantage point I never could have come to know on my own.

Happy Birthday, Blue.

Eventually, the switch flips

It came out of nowhere, a sudden shift to actually want to date, post-divorce.  One minute I’m in the corner patching up my war-torn heart, thinking no way in hell will I ever find myself romantically involved with another, the risk is just too great.  Feeling there was no way this little heart of mine could possibly take another round of this, hell; I’d take up needlepoint and bake my way into Weight Watchers before I let someone into these four chambers again.  But before I ever even realized what was happening, a switch had flipped and I was ready to try a date, see what it was about.  This girl had Redboxed her way through one too many child-free weekends of Eat, Pray, Love and How Stella Got Her Groove Back.

Suddenly awake and very aware of my surroundings, I found myself noticing there truly were good-looking men living outside of Hollywood.  Good looking men could genuinely be found living in Maine.  Everywhere I turned, I saw a sea of everything I was attracted to in a man, physically.  Here I was, just over forty, and altogether boy crazy.

I started running my errands in the city, and fully admit to having more than one thought of taking out the heel of an innocent male shopper with my cart at the local Whole Foods.  I liken my awakening to when you buy a new car and suddenly everyone is driving the same car as you and sometimes, it’s even the exact same color!  Everywhere you turn, there is likeness.  I divorced and suddenly everyone around me seemed to be divorcing or divorced.  I wasn’t the only one trying to figure this thing out, I was definitely not alone.  This is where it’s crucial to have some friends that can confirm the thoughts you’re having are completely normal and right on par.

The day the UPS man asked me out after delivering a package, I recognized I was actually date-able material, if I wanted to be.  Turning the occasional head was kind of fun, but why was it always of the polar opposite of what I was attracted to?  The awkward approach of the newly single dad with the uneven mustache and father to one of my daughter’s acquaintances, “So… I heard you’re divorced now…”   I turned down the handful of local offers I received, taking less than a minute to decide that dating in my town was definitely not in my best interest.  I branched out to where the view was more pleasing to my eye, hence the errand running in the city.  I remember setting out on the exotic journey of post-divorce dating thinking it would be nothing short of elementary.  Every movie I’d ever watched and every book I’d ever read with a plot akin to my life, made it look so easy.  All I needed to do was simply meet a man aware of the artful mix of scruffy and sexy who was intelligent, conversational, musical, empathetic, open-minded, caring, healthy, and kind, and long walks of the hand holding variety, on the beach at sunset, would be mine.  That couldn’t be too hard, with all the outdoor loving men in southern Maine, this was kid stuff.  I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit, thinking back to my ignorance.

It took longer than I expected it would, but eventually there I was out on a few dates and suddenly quite aware of the reality that I may actually have to get naked in front of another man.  My inner insecure and oh so fragile self, took one look in the mirror, and soon I found myself spending most of my free time at the gym, in yoga classes,  or riding my bike for twenty-five miles at a time.  Getting back into a fitness routine brought more than just a little inner confidence, it brought peace of mind, clear thoughts, and happiness.  For the first time in a long time, I felt great, inside to out, top to bottom, I was Jayne, version 2.0.

I remember those first tastes of the dating scene all too well; suddenly there was a whole new world to explore, uncharted and unfamiliar.  The ball of nerves I’d become before each first date, the butterflies felt within my belly on my way to our third date, the replaying of the internal film in my mind of those shared experiences that bring you closer together.  Shiny and new captured my attention a few times, but eventually repetitive patterns gave way to as is and the truism, actions speak louder than words, became clearer each time.  Thankfully, we will always be a work in progress, the human race.  Life lessons abound, and I never want to stop learning.  As long as I’m breathing, I wish to be growing.

When it comes to dating, I’ve shared some stories that have left a few of my friends laughing so hard, they’re breaking a sweat, standing cross-legged, and wiping tears from their eyes.  Debauchery has its rightful place in the post-divorce healing process, why pretend it doesn’t.  Eventually the chaos of change divorce brings, settles down, and a new rhythm takes its shape, you live the life of the one you decide you want.

I played the dating game the only way I knew how, and with that, learned my fair share of lessons.  I am thankful for those experiences and also for the stepping-stones each date and relationship eventually became.  The ending of my last endeavor of trying to build a relationship finally allowed for the awakening within that had patiently awaited the proper time to reveal itself.  Once revealed and processed, I took a much-needed hiatus and swore off dating, I needed to spend some time strengthening some of my own weak spots without the distraction of B-O-Y-S’s.

2013 arrived and with the New Year I made a promise to myself to take more chances.  With that promise, I had to remind myself that taking chances meant simply being me, being truthful, and going with my gut.  When a dear friend spoke the following words to me, “I think you two have a lot in common,”  I realized I was due for a good dose of fluttering butterflies.  I tabled my dating hiatus, took the chance I promised myself I would, and went for it.  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped in.  I reached out to a complete stranger, vulnerable beyond even my comfort level, and just tried to have fun with it. What did I have to lose?  Absolutely nothing.  Well I must have done something right because we met, had a great time, confirmed some common threads, and I walked away finding myself intrigued.  Of course I was quickly reminded of the reality of dating post-divorce, with children, I have about six minutes a day to devote to someone extra.  Heck, my six minutes of free time each day would be better spent plucking the elusive hairs from my body that hitting your forties brings!

Eventually I realized what I was missing most was companionship of the male/female variety.  Life is messy; it’s stressful and all-consuming.  Parenting never ends, and for me, I work the entire weekend my kids are away.  It’s easy to put dating to the back burner and say you just don’t have time, but for me, I think I’ve finally realized that I’m ready to hand over a few of those free minutes of mine to someone worthy of them.

No time like the present to start, I’m off to a lunch time class at the gym so I can enjoy a guilt free tequila infused evening with girlfriends, in the city of course.

Habitually late, ’tis I.

Management of one’s time.  If the one we’re discussing here is me, yeah, I’m no good at that.  I can manage the tick-tock right out of your time, if you ask me to, but me, I’ll always be eight minutes late for work.  Eight minutes, seems like something pretty easy to overcome, right?  Sure, about as easy as losing that last ten pounds.

As far back as I can recall having to be responsible for my own time-keeping, I’ve excelled in lateness.  I’d like to throw the responsibility for that particular character flaw right on my Dad, he was, and as far as I know could very well still be, a card-carrying member of The Habitually Late To Everything Offender’s Club.  Just typing that word, Offender, makes me thankful there’s not some sort of Online Registry I’m supposed to be listing myself on for that.  If children really are a product of their environment, which I do believe they are, then perhaps my parents should have established a few key areas they wanted to improve upon with their own children.  Time management being a classic example here.  In their defense, they excelled at manners, and I will never be caught without my napkin in my lap during a meal.

Thankfully, for my children, their father is one of those arrive fifteen minutes early for everything, kind of people.  Imagine the chaos that ensued in my marriage surrounding my lateness.  Looking at it on paper, one would think his earliness and my lateness would have canceled each other out, and we’d have arrived on time, but lateness, it wins every time.  Did I mention I’m divorced?

This week and next, evaluations are taking place at work.  Yesterday we were given a Self Evaluation Sheet to complete before our review.  Question number two, “What do you feel are some of your weaknesses as an employee at _______?”  I don’t need to think too long and hard about how to answer that one.  Allow me to point out, I am not flying solo when it comes to tardiness in my workplace.  Things happen, and thankfully, I have a very understanding and realistic boss.  I could produce a long list of reasons to explain away my consistently consistent tardiness character flaw, but in the end, it boils down to one thing, time management.  Color me flawed, I’m a work in progress.  Step one is wanting to improve, right?  I’m ready.

I love a goal.  I’m in for like ten minutes, then my undiagnosed ADD kicks in and I’m gone.  My goal in this ten minute span, is to arrive on time for work, which won’t be easy, “on time” is fifteen minutes early at my job.  I need to be realistic, perhaps aiming to be only five minutes late would be the proper place to start.  They say it takes twenty-one days to make a new habit.  How many new habits should one be striving to construct at any given time?  I’ve got a ridiculously long list of areas I’d truly like to improve upon, many grouped under the same heading, Inner Peace.

My horribly rude and oh-so-loud inner voice, is harping on me to exercise more, cut refined sugar out, be present, take the high road, not gossip, stay true, be focused, complete what I start, say what I mean, lead by example, not raise my voice, and a cup or two of other things, in addition to working on this tardiness habit.  She’s also made it pretty clear that I should just start stockpiling cat food and hitting up the shelters on my day off as dating is clearly not in my future and I’d make a mighty fine cat lady, save for my terrible cat allergy.  One step at a time.

 

 

Through the viewfinder

 

Food.  I adore it for all the obvious and similar reasons you do as well, but what I love, is what food does when you put it in a room with people.  If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, put a group of people in a room with a spread of food, take a step back, and watch what unfolds.  Now, if you want to see this get interesting, take a group of only women, put them together in a room with that same spread of food, and watch what unfolds.  Watch the faces, watch the body language, listen to the conversations, watch the food, and watch what is eaten, and what is not.  Food and women, women and women, security and insecurity.  Women, we’re a tricky group.

As a server, and a woman filled with her own I’m-sorry-you’re-going-to-have-to-check-that-bag-it’s-oversized, suitcase full of insecurities, I see what happens when you mix women and food.  For me, there is just something that fascinates me, waiting on a group that encompasses more women than men.  I become far more aware of the little things I think most simply miss, of course I’m detail-oriented like that, but that is neither here nor there in this particular scenario.  As a woman with a rocky history of food and self-image, I see little pieces of myself, past, present, and future, in my female customers.

Some women are just blind to the behaviors that are sure to follow them when they are placed within a group of women.  They are completely incognizant of the body language they emanate.  Nothing will unsteady a girl and launch you running for the closest mirror, throwing everything you’ve worked so hard to feel secure about, right out the window,  like that one female customer sitting at your table, sizing you up and down, rather blatantly, as you verbalize Today’s Specials.  My forty-four year old self shakes it off far more easily than my sixteen year old self ever did.  The forties are full of gifts like this for women, if you’re not quite there yet, hang on, I promise you, it gets better.  The human race captivates me.  Anyone who knows me knows I love nothing more than a good solid hour of people watching.  In fact, my absolute favorite first date suggestion, post-divorce dating, was the invitation to meet in a park; I was to bring a board game and he the iced coffee.  We’d sit and people watch while sipping our coffee and sharing our thoughts about the people passing by, the board game was simply Plan B.  It never came out of the car, the board game; a group of people will never disappoint me.

Recently I had a group of ladies, visiting from the Deep South, sit in my section for lunch.  Being the garrulous gal that I am, we naturally struck up a conversation surrounding my time spent living in their state.  Our topics were numerous and undoubtedly the topic of southern charm came up.  Bless their hearts if they didn’t have the most wonderful things to say about the kind of charm I cut my teeth on, north of the Mason-Dixon Line charm.  The restaurant was bare, apart from them, so they received my complete attention.  Over the course of their lengthy visit, I shared my favorite wines with them, and they were more than willing to imbibe.  Alcohol does wonders for creating conversation.  They carried on and raved over each dish I brought out for them and it didn’t take much for them to become my favorite group of women ever to wait on.  As they were wrapping up their visit, they asked me to take their picture, something a server is often asked to do.  As someone guilty of never documenting enough life moments, I will never say no to such a request.  And as someone who still hesitates to launch a picture of herself from outside the confines of her hard drive without a nasty side order of criticism, I am more than willing to snap a few and attempt to capture everyone at their best.  Why the Bureau of Motor Vehicles doesn’t adopt my method is simply beyond my rational thinking, but of course Rome was not built in a day, so I will give them time.  Perhaps when I go back for my next renewal, they will surprise me and offer two photos for me to choose from that don’t honestly appear to be the exact same photo, tricking me into thinking one is somehow distinctly better than the other.  I digress, the group of women…

With each picture I snapped, capturing them on iPhone after iPhone, I realized the calculated posing that was taking place before me.  The most obvious to me was the action of the woman who had naturally first caught my attention.  She had a prominent crimson colored mark alongside her mouth that one could not help but notice.  It was apparent she and this mark were still trying to find their way to acceptance and she was very self-conscious about it.  My best guess is that an illness had set up shop in her body and she was working hard at fighting it.  She was frail and thin with an appetite similar to my dying 92-year-old grandmother’s. I’d hoped this trip north with dear friends was not a last one for the group.  As I captured her each time, she had an amazing way of posing, glasses in hand and placed just-so, in front of her mouth.  It covered the mark flawlessly; this pose practiced numerous times within the privacy of her master bath I’m sure.  There was the woman who’d moved her food around her plate in an effort to appear as if she’d really dug in and tasted the food before her.  I knew her secret, she’d barely touched it.  She had the pose down, the one I’ve never been successful at acquiring, and I know you’ve seen it.  We’re instructed within our Google search to “Turn partially sideways to the camera, planting one foot in front of the other.  Point your toe to the camera and place your weight on your back foot.”  She nailed it, each and every time.  Damn her!  Then there was the woman who just appeared to be in a pain deeper than a girl’s trip could fix, wanting this moment of documentation to just be over with.  She’ll take that picture she needed to have, but didn’t want, and study it over and over; beating herself to a pulp each and every time she views it.  She’ll look at her friends and point out every beautiful thing she sees about each and every one of them, especially the one undoubtedly deserving of being a little uncomfortable within her own skin.  Yet when her eyes come to rest on the distorted image she sees of herself, she’ll study her body head to toe and right back up again, seeing only her insecurities and irreversible genetic traits magnified and intensified.  It will send her most likely on either a jarring path of binge cycle eating or perhaps a jaunt on the ever-so-popular restrictive eating roller coaster.

I walked away from that lunch shift, thankful for how far I’ve come with my own cultivation of a healthy relationship with food, and even more aware of my promise to keep the self-professed insecure woman thoughts to myself when it comes to raising my daughter.  It’s hard enough being comfortable within one’s own teenage skin; daughters don’t need to shoulder the insecurities constantly trying to set up base camp inside our own heads.  If not for the constant peek through the viewfinder that my job provides me, I’m certain I’d still be trying to master that angled skinny girl pose.

Goodbye stress, hello happy.

Stress!  How did you creep to such a high level in my life again?  We haven’t been this close in a few years, who let you in?   This rushing, rushing, rushing, hair on fire, always late, always ten things of the utmost importance on my to-do list, but only getting a few of them accomplished, way of life, has got to go.  No one can operate successfully at this level for very long, eventually something must give.  Five months in and the grounded part of me, the part that has her pinky toe in reality, has decided the jig is up.  No can do.  Thank you; it’s been fun, but good night.  No kiss at the door, no “Let’s do this again.”  Nope, we’re gonna part ways and move on.  Lesson learned, once again.

The me I was really digging, the one I’ve spent these last few years finding, was slipping away.  I’d worked far too hard, cultivating my little garden of happiness, to just let the weeds take over.  She whom I had become was being smothered by her to-do list, her self-imposed guilt, and her exhaustion.  I couldn’t let her go, again.  I buried that girl alive once, I can’t lose her again.

Cue Michael Jackson-

I’m starting with the Man In The Mirror
I’m asking him to change his ways
And no message could have
Been any clearer
If you wanna make the world
A better place
Take a look at yourself, and
Then make a change!

Clearly I’m no man, but this girl looked in the mirror the other morning and after I got past the new wrinkles, the dull complexion, the dry skin patches, and the random hair protruding out of my eyebrow, I had an epiphany of sorts.  It’s up to me.  If I don’t change this Mach 4 pace I’m spiraling out of control at, I’m going to crash and burn, and it’s going to be ug-ly!

Learning life’s lessons has become my shtick, we’ve become pretty close.  Life lessons are the cream to my coffee, the mac to my cheese, the bubbles to my bath, we just can’t part ways, life lessons and I.  With each lesson I learn, the cold, hard facts are revealing themselves.  With a couple of good, solid things in place, I can remain pretty stable in this spin cycle of life.

I’m a sharey-sharey kind of girl, so I’ll give you the goods, in no particular order, maybe some of them will work for you too.

1) Yoga.  I don’t think I need to explain to anyone the numerous benefits of this practice.  Yoga was truly what kept me from losing it completely during my divorce.  Nothing a good, solid, deep breath in, then out, can’t improve.  In with the good, out with the bad.

2) Guitar.  I can lose myself for hours in it.  It’s like time stops when I play.  I’m calm, focused, and happy when I’m strumming my six string.

3) My green smoothie.  It’s a must for me, the more spinach in there, the better.  Yesterday my boss said my smoothie looked like some sort of Hobbit food.  I took that as a compliment, naturally, it was the richest combination of green and blue you can imagine, think wild blueberries and spinach.  I’ve come to follow a little personal rule, if I have my green smoothie for breakfast, and a salad for lunch, anything else I follow that with, is fine; good has set the foundation for the day.  Good builds on good, so if I start there, no way I’ll eat a pound of M & M’s.  A handful perhaps, but I shudder to think if I’d started the day with the candy.

4) Rescue Remedy.  For those times when you feel a little anxious, nervous, stressed, or what have you, I highly recommend the Chews or the Liquid Drops, a staple for me when I embark on a first date!

5) Friends.  This is not about, she who dies with the most, wins.  Nope, it’s about good, solid, open-hearted, I’ve got your back, you’ve got mine, I’ll support you, you support me, I’ll listen, you listen, I’ll get you drunk, you get me drunk, friends.  If you don’t have some like that, get to work, I’m telling you, they’ll be worth it.

6) Travel.  Get away from the rat race at least once a year.  Don’t put it off.  YOLO!  Yup, I just said that, but it’s true.  Plan. Book. Go. Taste. Live. Re-energize. One will never say, “Man, that trip to (insert warm climate when you’re deep in the middle of winter) was such a bad idea, I missed that epic Nor’easter!  The one where the power was out for days and everyone got to shovel yet another foot of snow!”

7) If you find a pair of jeans, shoes, or any other clothing item, that makes you feel a little sexy, buy them, and wear them.  Enough of our day is filled with not feeling so sexy, if you can find it in a pair of jeans, I rest my case.

8) Laugh.  After that, laugh some more.  I don’t think I need to expand too much on this one, it’s a well-known fact, laughter IS the best medicine.  If no one in your life is making you laugh, then get on your Netflix, search comedy, and hit play.  Go. Do. Come close to wetting your pants.

9) Sleep, get more.  I’m guilty, you’re guilty. The only ones not guilty are babies.  ‘Nuf said, we all need more.

10-infinity) Give in to your vice every once in a while, in moderation of course.  Read a good book you can’t put down, eat the whole dark chocolate and sea salt bar of chocolate, take a hot bath, paint your toenails red, sleep in on your day off, buy that $20 bottle of wine and drink it all by yourself, not in one sitting of course, but don’t wait for someone special to share it with, you’re special.

Skip the exercise once in a while, order pizza if you don’t feel like cooking, crinkle up your to-do list and make a hook shot with it, stay home from the swim lesson Junior Mint has tonight, take a day off, ride your bike or walk, pay for the coffee for the person behind you, tell a joke, compliment a stranger, say “Hello!” to everyone you pass by, hold a door open for however long it takes, send a card, just because, write a letter, take a photo of something that makes you smile, buy a new pair of shoes, learn something new, take a leap of faith, take a chance, be open, be honest, be true. BE YOU.

 

 

A sink full of calmness

Arriving home from work, exhausted, catching up on all things Boy Wonder, out of the corner of my eye, I spy a sink full of dirty dishes.  My first instinct is to naturally sigh and groan, for the love of Pete, I just schlepped dishes to and fro all day!   But later as I fill the sink with hot, sudsy water, open a bottle of red, and exchange the language only a mostly non-verbal son and his mother can, I am reminded of just how lucky I am for these piles of filth from meals gone by.  For each meal in this kitchen is made with more love than a mother could ever hope to infuse within the nourishment she provides her children, I am one lucky girl, dirty dishes and all.

The Boy Wonder sits at the table eating the childhood staple all parents rely on when exhaustion is waving the white flag and belly’s must be filled, a grilled cheese sandwich.  I’ve decided almonds and raisins and a healthy glass of red will be playing the role of dinner for me tonight.  As the rhythm of the chore falls into place, I am once again reminded of the calmness found within this nightly ritual of dish cleaning.  I have my own little order of operations I like to follow, like items are cleaned together and items are stacked from smallest to biggest.  Perhaps it’s undiagnosed OCD, perhaps it’s one of the few things in life I can fully control.   I’m certain I’m not alone here though, those feelings of fulfillment one experiences from reigning in chaos and creating order, sat-is-faction.  It’s easy to get lost in thought from the rhythm of the task, before you know it, you’re close to finished, it’s like a surprise every time.  In fact, I can’t recall a single time I’ve ever wrapped up a session of suds and such and walked away feeling balled up with stress and anger.   Is there a study that backs up my sneaking suspicions of Serotonin being released in the midst of all that soapy succession?

I’ve learned to enjoy the calmness when it arrives, not to question it, for life will have me reaching for that tin of Rescue Remedy Chews soon enough.  It wasn’t that long after the water had drained from the kitchen sink before the Boy Wonder was tossing calmness into the wind and serving up a night of bedtime chaos just his style.  It’s become a mental game I must play every night with myself, pushing through to completion, the tasks in the march towards bedtime for a teenage boy who craves routine.  In my head I hear, I know I can do this, I think I can, I think I can, I become The Little Engine That Could.  All those thoughts and ideas about things to write about that popped into my mind just hours before while in the serotonin supernova, gone.  It’s a test of my patience and some days are definitely harder than others.

It’s a night that calls for the short routine, no I Love You Forever can be offered tonight, I am drained beyond the last drop of mommy patience.  Into bed you go, Lovey, love, love, love, lights out, goodnight.  Yet when I sit down at my desk, I know I must put into words, the feelings of the night, the range of emotions, the ebb and flow this life of mine brings.  Tomorrow is a new day and eventually sleep will come.  I’ll wake to my favorite sport, coffee brewing, and order will be restored from just a few sips.  A mere twelve hours later, I’ll be back at the sink, serotonin and all its buddies swirling in my head, and I’m sure I’ll have a moment of deja vu, surely I’ve been here before.

Putting a face with a name, part four.

Here’s the thing about Food Stamps, being transparent is just one of several requirements indirectly asked of you when you decide to accept the assistance.  Tucking that blue card into your wallet and selecting your PIN number, you take an unspoken oath to be the punch line of many a joke, the specimen under the microscope, and constantly judged by the ignorance of your fellow humans. Naturally, I can only speak to my experience; that of a working, single mother, but one doesn’t need to look too far to see the stigma society associates with people like me.

Just recently my daughter came home from school proclaiming I needed to hurry up and finish this piece.  She was riled up and disgusted by what she had witnessed in class that day.  I asked what had happened and she went on to tell me how one of her teachers stood up in front of her class and shared a story that demonstrated exactly how quick to judge society can be.  We know this lesson well, having a member of our family stand out as different, wherever we go.  Her teacher shared his recent shopping trip to a box store where he and his wife found themselves behind a woman unloading a huge order of groceries.  With a once over, he professed his expert opinion to his wife, “I bet she pays with Food Stamps,” and he assumed correctly, she paid with an EBT card.  What was it about her that made him so quick to judge her form of payment?  Did he think for a minute what the story surrounding her need for assistance could be?  Did he assume that she was unemployed and living off of the taxpayers solely?  My daughter immediately went to the place that I went to; how many impressionable young minds was he professing his expert opinion to in that class that also paid for their groceries with Food Stamps?  There are stories behind the faces of EBT card carriers; I am just one of 250,000 people in Maine receiving assistance.

My need was temporary, I knew that when I signed up.  Food Stamps were going to be the bridge to stability that I needed in order to provide for my newly defined family of three.  It would be the one thing I could count on in a scary sea of uncertainty, my children and I would not go hungry.   I was a single mother in need of a job that could provide the flexibility I need to be raising a child with special needs.  I hadn’t worked outside the home in a dozen years, my confidence was shaken, and my experience was life driven.  I found an employer who embraced what I brought to the table and hired me; she continues to work with me and all that encompasses that of a single mother with a court-ordered custody arrangement, transition time, and a co-parent who refuses to communicate with me.

By agreeing to accept the help of the SNAP program, I discovered there was no room for humility or embarrassment, it was temporary, and this was not going to be forever.  I remember that slow winter day last year when I shared with my co-workers that I was on Food Stamps; we were all discussing the financial hardship we were facing surrounding the nature of working in the restaurant industry.  I admitted that I was on Food Stamps and not one of my co-workers reacted any differently than I would expect, there was understanding and compassion, in fact one co-worker revealed her past experience of being on Food Stamps.  There was something sort of freeing, admitting I was on Food Stamps, my co-workers knew the situation I was going through surrounding my messy divorce, and I think revealing that I had asked for help was what I needed to do for myself to recognize I was indeed making steps towards creating a healthy life for my children and I.

That first time my manager revealed to me that the state had called my employer and asked for my financial information, was the day I suddenly had to honestly own everything about my current situation.  The owner of the restaurant, a man the same age as me, and someone I had been financially level with only a few months prior, now knew I was on Food Stamps.   In my twisted mind, had I thought he thought I was just doing this $3.75 an hour gig for grins?  No one who is wealthy waits tables, I had to own my situation, and the transparency of my life was only beginning to be revealed.

The next review the state did of my employee financial records revealed just how close to homeless I could be.  When a machine as large as a state is run, there is not much room for stepping outside the box.  People fall through the cracks all the time and without the ability to advocate for oneself, a situation can become dire quickly.  Thankfully, twelve years of parenting a child with special needs had prepared me for the red tape I found myself quickly tangled in.  I hadn’t been aware that the state had requested my earnings from my employer until I received a letter in the mail stating I would lose every state funded service I was receiving in ten days.  I panicked to say the least; my son’s progress in community and safety skills is attached to that state funding.  Without that state funding, my ability to work outside the home would be impossible.  It was a Catch 22, needing the system to enable me to one day, require far less of the system.  It was time to be as transparent as water; I needed to reveal my situation to the owner of my business or my life as I knew it would be on the fast track to a tragic news story.

There are many employers out there who would have rather said goodbye to me, than do what my employer was asked to do.  I’m a lucky girl to have the compassionate and kind-hearted boss I do, he could have washed his hands of me and never given a second thought to what would happen to my children and me, but he didn’t.  In the eleventh hour, he paid his payroll company to run a detailed earnings report for me, a report that highlighted every penny I had earned since day one as his employee.  He submitted it to the state and endured their countless questions, for me.  It was then that I finally realized what my bruised heart and soul desperately had needed to learn, I am important and what I bring to my employer’s business was worth the red tape,  I was worth it.  That’s a lesson I probably would not have learned if not for the EBT card in my wallet; for that, I say thank you to the great state of Maine.

Putting a face with a name, part three.

 

That check, alongside the basket containing ALL my eggs, was the one way ticket out of my marriage I was hoping for.  That check, gone, payment stopped, and a new check issued and sent to a new bank account, not in my name, and out-of-state.  There was nothing to fuel the mission, and my cup-half-full way of looking at life, was quickly evaporating.

It was around that time that I knew up was the only direction left to go, I was dangerously close to assuming the fetal position on the ground floor of rock bottom.  The funny thing about life, it has that distinct way of depositing a gift into the palm of your hands when you think you’ve exhausted all of your options.  Here I was, thinking I’d reached the end of the line, when suddenly, goodness arrived, in the form of a landlord.  When nothing seemed to be available, suddenly there it was, a sweet little home to call my own, a couple willing to rent to me when all I could give them was my word, that yes, I would pay my rent, on time, every month, when I didn’t even have a job.  For the first time in quite a while, hopeful was a feeling I could once again relate to.

The last five years of my married life, a born and raised city girl learned to live out the country girl dream I never knew existed within me.  I learned all about life with a septic tank, after never having lived without a sewer system, let alone garbage disposal, my entire life.  I became quite proficient at hauling my family’s trash and recycling to the dump each week, after a life of curbside pick-up.  I learned to start a fire in a wood stove, and could thaw frozen pipes in just under an hour.  I made apple pies, apple crisp, and even pressed cider from an 1870’s cider press that last fall we spent together as a family, with the apples from the small orchard on the side of my farmhouse.  I learned to make jam and properly can things after picking an obscene amount of organic strawberries one year. I farmed a half-acre of an organic garden, composted, and bought a share from a local organic CSA each year.  I even unloaded a half of a locally raised, grass-fed cow, wrapped in butcher paper, into my freezer.   All this while parenting three active children, while my husband circled the globe.

Back as a city girl again, with no garden plot to call my own, one thing surely wasn’t changing, just because my newly defined family was now a SNAP beneficiary, that didn’t mean I’d be feeding them from the inner aisles of my local supermarket.  If anyone could continue to eat healthy and organic whenever possible, on a clearly defined budget, plus adhere to the diets of several food allergies, it was me, a challenge was something this girl never backed down from.