Big Kid Momming

My son Virgil just started Middle School. His math homework is about 13 days from being beyond me. Truth is, I already have to strain to help him. But I get there eventually and I feel pretty damned triumphant when I figure out the pre-algebraic equations (sequences, terms, arithmetic patterns... ahh!)

The word problems are particularly difficult for me. They always have been. My head twists up with the to's and fro's and then I get fuzzy and have to start over at the beginning because my brain vision blurs making the sentences meaningless. But then I get fuzzy again. And I get this agitated uncomfortable feeling akin to shortness of breath and then I fuzz out completely, disconnect from the problem, so that I can breathe calmly. Putting the words and numbers out of my mind returns my equilibrium.

But I force myself to focus to help Virgil out. Shortness of breath is no match for this mother's desire to help her son!  Alas, soon even my secret focusing powers won't help us. He'll be on his own.

Which reminds me...he'll be on his own soon enough. He has fewer years ahead at home than he's had behind. That is not right. I just got to being able to talk to him about real stuff and he's going to go and hate me (teenager), then leave me (college student), then tolerate me for brief phone calls (20-something). How did this happen?

Makes me want another kid just to extend the parenting gig. In fact, I've wanted one for a while now. Not a small matter of dispute with my ex. I realized recently, I can have one if I want to. Wow! I don't need to ask anyone's permission, or for anyone's input or perspective or sperm even. I can get myself some store bought sperm. Or adopt. Presto change-o family with three kids.

I raised the subject with my two already living children. Wyatt, the youngest, was excited. "Yes! A girl! Let's get a girl! Maybe a Chinese one?" (Maybe he's reading too much US Weekly, too many Brangelina articles?) Virgil was less enthusiastic. "Hm. I don't think so." When I asked him why, he couldn't say other than he just didn't want another sibling and that he felt badly saying so. "Am I being selfish, mom?"

I told them we'd discuss it some more before deciding anything. I need them to feel they have a vote. They've been through plenty in the last year, they don't need some unwanted infant stealing my attention and patience. But I want a bigger family! I told them they had a say and now I'm thinking, how can I let these children - these children who are going to take off before I can likely manage to arrange my shoe closet - decide the fate of my motherhood? I suppose they already have in that they made me a mother to begin with. But how much say should they have really?

I know they'd embrace and love a child that was real and not just a conversation starter. I know Virgil is partially asserting some will in a family situation that affects him in an effort to overcome the helpless "Hey what about me? I didn't get a vote" feeling that must have overwhelmed him last year when I moved out of our family home.

And just like the way in which Virgil adjusted to our new home by having a say in the decor, he will come to embrace the idea of a differently shaped family, provided he has input and a voice. Or he won't. And we'll be a jolly threesome, then a twosome, then me. Just me. Anxiously awaiting their arrival on Thanksgiving and Christmas, enthusiastically accepting (remember collect calls?) their terse phone calls and pining pining pining for the days of parenting small children.

Asking for Help

Boy do I hate asking for help. I'm tough. I can do it myself. Wah. So there. Well, this morning, after a very long trip yesterday, and after a fitful, jet lagged shitty sleep interrupted by sweaty panic inducing dreams of my ex getting married to his new girlfriend on the day our divorce is final, I awoke to a dead car battery. I didn't awake to it. I raced down to my car, kids in tow, with exactly 9 minutes to get Virgil to school, another 15 in between to get Wyatt to school, and then another 28 to get myself to work for an important meeting. It was all timed perfectly. Except for the dead car battery. Fuck.

What to do. I don't want Virgil to be late for Middle School. It's only the second week. He doesn't need a tardy slip on the 10th day. Arg. Call AAA? No that will take too long. Take the bus? Too long. Call Winslow. What else to do? Nothing. I have to call. Do I want him to pick up the kids and take them? No. I like taking them. Do I want him to come and give me a jump? No. No time. Ugh. Just call.

Hello.
Hi. It's me. (The "me" is me.)
I know. (His voice has this funny dip in it when I call. When he says "I know." Is it condescension? Annoyance? What? He just sounds exasperated, like, Jesus Christ I know already - It's always you. He never calls. He has no interest in ever speaking with me again.)
My car is dead.
What do you want? Do you want me to take the kids?
No.
You want to use my car? (It was ours. Sounds weird for him to say "my". It's still in my name in fact. God I hate that car. That shitty broke down Toyota Corolla from 1997 with a hole in the trunk.)
Sure I guess.
Just use your key.
I don't have it. I gave it back (along with everything I left in what is now your apartment.)
I wish I knew where it was. Ok, just come by.
I'm coming now. Thanks.

I run. With kids panting behind, dragging the heaviest backpacks under law. I ring the bell. He answers all happy and shit. Why? Why so happy now all the time? Virgil, someone wants to say hi...he says. Tiffany pokes her head out. Tiffany whose name he can't remember but he's going to her wedding in Austin. On a plane. A plane not unlike those planes he always refused to fly on to go on vacation with me. She's in a tee-shirt and tights, no shoes. Sleep clothes. She's staying there. I want to avoid her because I know he's been telling her horrible things about me. About what an infidel I am. But I won't stoop that low in shame. "Hi!" I say. "Congratulations! Winslow says you're getting married. That's so great." Hard to squeeze that out. Marriage just doesn't seem that great right now.

He looked handsome. Why is he so happy? It kills me, truly. If he'd been just a little happy with me... well...I wouldn't be having these nightmares.

Get kids to school, myself to work. Crabby but there. Get finished and pick kids back up. Drive home. Ok, time to jump the car. I call him to ask for help. Mortifying. And then I jump it myself before he arrives. Gratifying.

Oh you figured it out?

Yes, I figured it out. I can jump a car. I just can't smile and be happy. Or even pretend to. But I'm working on it.

Perfect Madness (a stolen title)

I just finished reading "The Gifts of Imperfection" by Brene Brown. I'm not usually into self-helpiness. But when you need it, you need it and you'll try anything. I was charmed by her Ted(xHouston) talk The Power of Vulnerability http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html so I figured the book would provide that much more insight. It did.

Made me cry. Oh the truth of it all. One of the most moving parts (there are a zillion) was about perfectionism. Guess what? It's not the same as striving, or just trying to improve oneself. Hah. It is the enemy of these things and most importantly, it is the enemy of self acceptance. It feeds on shame, is self-destroying and addictive, and ultimately, prevents any sense of belonging or peace. Well...I've spent my whole life as a perfectionist. This oughta be fun to snap out of.

Perfectionism is self destructive if only because there isn't any such thing as perfect. True? True. Tell that to the gymnastics judge wielding her poisonous pencil. (I know, cry me a river but indulge me just for a moment. Think of it as an analogy. Don't be too literal.) In gymnastics, we don't even start from ten. We begin the day at less than perfect, we aim to build enough difficulty back into our routines that we earn back the right to be perceived as perfect, before the deductions start and we get kicked back down the stairs to not quite good enough again. What a fucked up system.  Not that I'm a believer in the "Everyone Wins! Everyone gets a trophy!" form of sportsmanship. I don't. It's just as important to learn to lose (or not win) with dignity, to participate because it's fun and striving towards mastery is productive and fulfilling, as it is to learn to win with grace. But isn't there something in the middle - between the "you will always be less than perfect" point system, and the Polyanna "everyone's a winner" bullshit? Surely there must be. I don't know what it is but I am in search of it. For my kids' sake.

I hate to always blame gymnastics for everything. It's pathetic and annoying. And it really isn't gymnastics' fault. I was born a perfectionist. Always wanting to live perfectly, strive perfectly, be perfect to avoid the painful feelings of shame that are my vile, ever-present trigger into the dark. Gymnastics didn't cause this. I WAS this and found gymnastics because it fit the bill. And it reinforced this way of living for me. It reinforced my own emotional belief system. And then it worked for me. I might not have gotten 10's but I got lots of 9.8's and 9.75's which meant almost perfect. It meant that if I believed in the system of perfectionism and worked hard enough to be almost perfect, it would pay off. Except it didn't, not for the long term anyway.

Boy do I sound like a whiner. There are children starving in Africa and all that. Maybe more to the point, I have friends who are sick, who have lost children, who never had children. I really should be ok with my situation. But I'm in some sort of emotional death spiral where I keep re-visiting the same issues trying to understand why I can't just be ok with myself. With my decisions. With my divorce. Which is really what it all comes back to right now.

Maybe if I repeat it enough - I'm not perfect and that's ok. No one is. I'm divorced (almost) but I'm still worthy of love and respect. I will figure this out. I will - I will believe it. Or maybe it just won't hurt so much. Even if it always hurts a little.

I'm told that compassion for yourself can change your entire day, your life when enough good days are chewing-gummed and scotch taped together. I wouldn't know. I've never practiced it. But I figure I'd better start now.

If Hard Isn't Working... Try Easy

Someone gave me a word of advice recently. He said: if hard isn't working, try easy. Simple. Sounds fairly simple anyway.

Though it certainly flaunts my own conventional wisdom which runs more along the lines of: If it's really really hard, like makes you bleed and want to tear your hair out hard, it MUST be really worthwhile. And you will be rewarded in the end. 


I don't know where I got this line of thinking but it has pervaded everything I do in my life. In fact, if something feels too easy, I assume it must not be worthwhile at all. I'm certain that this is somehow a family cultural thing that has gotten passed down to me (something to do with Jews and guilt and being generally negative and pessimistic?), and then was sharpened while I was a gymnast. Especially in the later years. Boy did it get hard. And I kept going. Assumedly because my hypothesis was: if I suffer through this, I will be rewarded in the end. If I last these 4 years without eating any food so I can maintain this artificially low weight, if I can drag this shattered ankle around the gym to get through the next competition, if I can withstand the depression and anxiety eating away at me... well...it's gonna be good. Good how, I'm not sure.

This line of thinking sounds eerily similar to the 72 virgins that await a Muslim man in Heaven provided he can endure the slings and arrows of his righteous but suffering-filled life. Hmmm.

I wasn't all wrong though. There was good. This punishment/reward position of mine was honed when I won the 1986 National Championships. With a bum ankle, a newly healed (kind of) femur, an empty stomach and questionable state of mental well-being. It was hard getting through that competition. And "hard" would be the understatement of my life. I honestly don't think I've done anything that hard since. And that was joyous. Truly, I mean that. Winning that competition was one of the most profound and proud moments of my life. (The backlash came after - almost immediately so - when I suffered the pointed shame of believing I hadn't deserved it; this still pricks from time to time if I think about it too hard.) So there. It was settled. Pain & punishment endured = Reward & Joy.

I took this forward into my life. I've put into practice ever since. At work, I've been in positions where I've been banging my head against the proverbial wall. I had to have that next promotion. I worked and worked. And the powers that be told me: you're not getting it. And I thought: Oh yeah. You don't mean that. I can work harder than anyone you've ever seen. You think this is hard? This ain't nothing. At least I get to eat lunch. And dinner. And I'm not in a cast. I'll get it alright.

I didn't get it. Didn't get that coveted VP job I so badly wanted back in 2006 or 07 or whatever year it was. Eventually I stopped climbing over that wall. And I decided to get down and gather myself. I took a different job, in another department, and it ended up leading to that big gig I'd wanted to badly. I essentially "walked around" the wall, instead of climbing over it. Or at least that's how I see it. I tried easy. It worked. But I did not learn my lesson.

My marriage is another example of this. It was hard. Really hard. For both of us. We didn't want the same things, fundamental things like more children. We didn't want to live the same ways. But god how I loved him. Still do. But it was hard. He could be sullen (not that I couldn't be), withdrawn, angry, inexpressive, unaffectionate, he didn't work. Didn't want to go on vacation, or anywhere for that matter. Our lives were constrained to the Haight in San Francisco, for the most part. But that big brain of his turned me on. And when he smiled, or I made him laugh (a relative rarity)... boy did I think that was the worthwhile payback. Until that rarely happened. And all there was was silence and anger. Still I sat in that for a long time. I believed, this is hard but that means our relationship is all the more worthwhile than those dumb easy loving ones. Phhttt.

Until I couldn't do it anymore. I was losing my mind. A near breakdown last year prompted me to walk out the door. If only to gather myself and not be around anger and criticism for a moment. I needed connection. Intimacy. Belonging. So I left. The failure of my life. Shame spiral... settle in.

And that was the hardest thing I ever did. But staying would have been harder. I would have had to buckle up and settle in to a life devoid of connection, support, outwardly and positively expressed love. One that was infused with blackness and aggression and near hatred. (Ironically, now that we are apart, I can send love his way again, and I feel affection sent back to me, if only through a kind word of support now and then.)

And so I suppose, as hard as it has been, I chose easy. Now easy is relative. But easier than a lifetime of sadness and loneliness. And when I'm feeling overwhelmed and overcome with grief, as I am from time to time STILL, I choose easy. I stop fighting myself. I surrender. I believe that this will get better. And I choose to feel happy. To feel grateful for the peace I have in my life now. For my kids being happy and having endured this like true champs. For having a friendly relationship with my ex. For having a job I like and a passion I can't live without (words - writing and reading).

We'll see how this goes. So far so good. Easy isn't technically easy. Easy is relative, in the end. But I'm going to consciously choose "easy" and see where it gets me. I think the happiness balance will find a more even state of being in this new place - easy street - that I am attempting to reside.