Do Unto Others

When you're going through a personal crisis, it is easy to get so absorbed in your own pain and needs that nothing matters except managing your own "stuff."  That is normal.  It is even healthy.  Putting our energies into managing our own issues is a sign of maturity.

There should come a time, however, when healing has progressed to a place where you can not only recognize the crises others are facing but also lend a helping hand.

My opportunity to do that came a week before Christmas when a farmer I know called me and said, "We're going to lose our farm to a railroad!"

For the preceding year, the only "cause" I had the emotional, physical, and spiritual energy for was getting my kids and myself through our divorce and its fallout.  And it took all I had.  Some days it still does.

But when I heard those words over my phone, I felt a flame rise up within me.  This was a battle I had to help win in whatever small way I could.

Why this one?

It could be the fact that I have lived my life in the shadow of a farm taken by eminent domain "for the public good."  It could be because my first paying writing job was covering a farmer who also lost his farm by eminent domain so it could become a parking lot for his neighbor's significantly larger business.

It could be because I know at least two other farmers in Rhode Island who have either lost land through eminent domain or through unethical government business practices.

It could be I have finally had enough.

It could be the time was just right.

I don't know.  But in the past weeks I have written letters, posted articles, called government leaders, and spoken on radio calling for our state to prevent this railroad from going through.  I have read good portions of the NEC Tier 1 EIS and discovered that I no longer oppose this project just for my friends' sake . . .  I oppose it because it's just a plain old bad idea for our state.

Through this process, however, something else happened.  I found myself re-energized.  I rediscovered a clarity of thought and purpose that has been elusive in recent months.  I saw the sun shining through the clouds, promising that better things were on the way.

I remembered how good it felt to do something for someone else for no other reason than it's the right thing to do. 

Look for your own opportunity to "Do Unto Others" . . . it's good for you!

(By the way, you can find out more about the railroad plan on my LinkedIn and Facebook pages or by visiting the Charlestown Citizens' Alliance webpage!)  

Lego Lessons

We were about to leave for church this morning, and for the first time in forever we were on time.  I was smiling.  My son was not.  In fact, he was running around the house simultaneously screaming and crying, waving his most recent Lego creation in the air. 

"Honey, what is wrong?" I asked. 

Through hysterical sobs I deciphered, "It broke, and I can't put it back together!  It's supposed to have two holes here, and it was smaller on the bottom, but I can't put it back!  It'll never be the way it was before!"

At those words, a bombshell went off in my ears.  "It'll never be the way it was before."  Those were the same words he had uttered over six months ago when I explained to him what it meant that Mommy and Daddy were getting divorced. 

This was not about Legos. 

I sat on the floor and held him as he cried and yelled and kicked his feet, but not at me or his sister or the dogs.  Just at the floor in anguish.  I praised him for not hurting others while he was hurting.  I crooned the meaningless things mothers do when their little ones are in pain and there is no way to take it away, when the only thing to do is to participate in it. 

As he flailed, I said, "Sweetie, I know how hard it is to want something to be a certain way and not to have it that way.  But you can come back and work at it later.  It might not look like it did, but I'll bet you can make something even better." 

Deaf ears. 

After a while he calmed down, we left the Legos on the dresser, and we went to Sunday School, albeit ten minutes late.  (Some things are more important than the clock.)  By the time we got home, I had put the morning's events out of my mind.  There was, after all, lunch to get on the table. 

I was suddenly reminded when my son came running into the kitchen wearing an ear-to-ear grin and waving a totally different Lego creation. 

"Look, Mom!" he cried.  "It's even better than before!  And I made it with all the same pieces!" 

I almost wept, at his exuberance, his resilience, his wisdom.  My words had not fallen on deaf ears; they had fallen on fertile ground that needed the rain of grief to allow them to take root.  And in the process he had gleaned a little nugget of his own: with all the same pieces. 

Our family is different now.  It will never be what it was before.  But I honestly believe it will be better than it was before, because God is in the business of transforming rubble into masterpieces . . . using all the same pieces. 

Good Grief

Most of us are familiar with the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.  We expect grief when a loved one dies.  Perhaps we are wise enough to anticipate it in a divorce, which is after all the death of a relationship.  Do we also expect it in other traumas: abuse, a job termination, a serious illness?

I think we should. 

Over the past 10 months I have becoming well-acquainted with grief, sometimes without even realizing it was grief sitting beside me.  One thing I am unhappily discovering is that each event owns its own grief.  You cannot shorten the process, no matter how you may want to.  Neither can you dictate how to grieve....the process drives you, not the other way around. 

Some people may experience mostly anger, some mostly depression.  You may handle one situation in a completely different manner than another.  My recent experiences with grief include my divorce and another family trauma I am not at liberty to discuss at this time.  

(This second is also the reason for my suddenly-sparse blog entries.  Please be patient with me as we work through this!  I look ahead to a time when I can again blog meaningfully and prolifically!)  

With these events I experienced a short bout of denial, a poignant attempt at bargaining (mostly of the "why didn't I do X, Y, or Z to avoid this situation?!' variety), an intense period of anger, a significant depression (primarily marked by unrelenting fatigue and irritability), and finally peaceful acceptance.  

At least, I had come pretty close to the acceptance stage as far as my divorce was concerned.  I wasn't angry.  I had stopped playing the "what if" game.  I was feeling happier, working more efficiently and joyfully, and looking forward to my new single mom life.  I had even grown thankful for the unexpected "benefits" of divorce: a few hours a week to rest, work, and do home maintenance while the little ones enjoyed Daddy Days.  

Then the boom got lowered.  

Had I pondered the issue before, I might have concluded that a person undergoing separate heartaches simultaneously could somehow morph both griefs together, suffering "once for all," so to speak.

No such luck.  

Suddenly I find myself back in the grieving process, this time mourning not only some long-held expectations and dreams but also some of my newly-acquired ones.  

For the past few weeks, I've been berating myself for my sudden fatigue, wondering why I was dealing with the emotions I had felt at the beginning of my divorce.  Why was I not past this already?  

It was just yesterday that I realized my emotions are to be expected in light of a new trauma.  The fact that it is occurring at the tail end of one grieving process does not suggest that it could--or should--be folded into the other and easily dismissed.  Nor does it mean I am backsliding in my post-divorce healing. 

No.  

Just as my divorce claimed its own time, so does this new event. And it makes sense.  Would I want my lawyer, for example, to put less time or energy into my divorce because she was also concluding another?  Not hardly.  So it is with grief.  Each trauma deserves to be recognized, acknowledged, named, and grieved on its own merits, not shortchanged because the timing is inconvenient.

I am finding this to be both comforting and a little disappointing.  

On the comforting side, it's nice to know I am demonstrating the normal responses to abnormal situations.  I don't like it, however.  I am normally a high-energy, up-beat person.  I was starting to see glimmers of her returning, and to feel as if she has retreated into the shadows again is most annoying.  

I have the tools to handle this second blow, though.  My counselors, my family, my friends, and most of all my God are loving on me and my children in amazing ways.  And I am letting them.  I am taking the offers of childcare so I can temporarily work at jobs that require less mental flexibility than writing.  I am taking rest when I can.  I am snuggling with my little ones and working in my gardens.  (Look ahead for a post on that!)  

My fellow grievers, follow my lead.  "Be gentle with yourself," as my counselors say.  Listen to your body, your spirit, your mind . . . and obey their commands.  Give yourself license to grieve.  Do not burden yourself with recrimination.  

And when God occasionally blows you a kiss--a funny comment from your kids, a pumpkin pie from your neighbor, a caring email from a distant friend--grab hold of it.  Breathe it in.  Rest in it.  Even if you must do so with tears. 

The Gift of Yoga

The past year for me has been a journey filled with griefs endured--overcome?--and lessons learned.  One of those lessons is that before a person can give to others, he must first have something to give.  In other words, I have to take care of myself in order to have an abundance for those around me.

I was reminded of this in a powerful way this morning.  For a while I've been telling myself it is time to get back to working out and "dieting."  Today I determined to start.  I ate oatmeal with raisins with the kids and announced, "Mommy's doing yoga." 

My love affair with yoga is a blog in itself.  Suffice it to say, several years ago my sister gave me a DVD entitled "The Gift of Yoga" featuring Gena Kenny.  It was the first time in my life exercise felt like worship.  I was hooked. 

I used to practice yoga six days a week.  Then I injured my shoulder.  Then my wrist.  Then my ex asked for a divorce.  I suddenly found myself too tired and overwhelmed to "exercise." 

So today, I felt like a woman attending her 10 year reunion and coming face-to-face with her old flame again.  Will I still enjoy yoga like I did?  Will my body stand up to it?  Will my kids stay entertained long enough for me to actually complete my practice? 

Yes.  Yes.  Yes. 

I really noticed two things this morning.  One, my very being felt like it was coming home.  I was stiffer and weaker than a year ago, but my body remembered where it had been and was happy to be on its way back. 

Two, yoga is a way I minister to me.  When the practice was over, I felt different.  I felt happier.  I felt freer.  I suddenly had more of me to share with my kids. 

Notice I am not really reflecting on the "exercise" aspect of yoga.  There is no doubt that yoga, even a "light" practice like this one, is an amazing workout.  But for me right now, that is the icing on the cake.  The real benefits for me are spiritual and emotional.  Yoga is the most holistic activity I have ever experienced. 

It truly is a gift. 

Coming to Grips With Not Going Along

When my ex arrived to pick up the kids for Daddy Day today, I was ready to be cheerful and happy.  I was coming off the best week I've had in I can't remember when, I have been just loving being Mom to my kids, and I wanted to really put that forgiveness thing into practice. 

He looks at the kids and says, "Hey, guys!  Do you want to go to Edaville Railroad today?  Grammy and Pop want to take you there." 

Happy feelings gone like last winter's snow. 

I love Edaville.  I love the trains and the rides and the food . . . but most of all I love watching my kids enjoying every second of it.  I hated the thought that they were going to make a trainload of delightful memories . . . and I wasn't going to be a part of them. 

As my ex drove away with my kids, I signed "I love you" to them and sobbed hysterically.  I thought very unforgiving thoughts.  I raged anew at how he gets to be the "fun" dad, doing all kinds of once-in-a-lifetime stuff with them while I am the Mom who takes them to doctor appointments and corrects table manners and enforces time-outs for hitting and washes laundry and cooks meals and ... (I think you get the idea.) 

Let me admit here and now: my children probably did not miss me one iota.  They had a fabulous time, as I could tell as they prattled on about their adventures when they called me on the way home.  My sorrow was not that they were missing out.  It was sorrow because I was missing out. 

After my initial crying fit and two episodes of Zoo, I was able to take a deep breath and get some perspective.  No, I will not be able to take them to all the cool things their dad will.  For one thing, there is a very real time issue.  (While they went to Edaville, I mowed the lawn, cleaned the pool, and wrote an article, all of which needed to be done.) 

There is also a money issue.  I can't drop $90 just on admission to a theme park for one day. 

But there are lots of things that I get to do with them that are building more than a single memory, they are creating an ethos of childhood.  I want that to be an ethos of love, of safety, of reliability, of laughter, of God, of joy ... and also of godly discipline and responsibility and fortitude. 

What are those things?  Our pool times, our spontaneous picnics in the backyard, movie suppers, post-dentist ice creams, bad-day visits to the playground . . . and the 20 timeouts in the first 90 minutes of the day, the loss of a toy after leaving a bruise on a sibling, and the question, "Is that how you speak to your Mother?" 

I think it's working, too.  Because when my munchkins called me tonight and told me about the princesses and dinosaurs and roller coasters (about which my son was very "brave"), they asked me to read them their Bible story . . . and to pray with them . . . and to sing to them.  

It was beautiful. 

So I'm no longer angry with my ex.  I am at peace with the loss.  And I am so thankful for all I have . . . especially those two precious little ones asleep in the next room. 

Top 6 Signs You are Beginning to Heal

So, I am NOT over my divorce.  Not by a long shot.  This weekend, however, I got some definite signs that the healing process has begun.  I find that awareness a little frightening, to be honest.  I am not a fickle person, and I take my commitments very seriously, so it seems too early to begin finding peace. 

On the other hand, I am seeing that this moment has actually been 8-1/2 years in the making, which takes much of the unfounded guilt away!  I suspect the healing process will be much like it is with any other wound.  It starts to heal and scab, then it starts to itch, then you scratch, then it oozes, then it scabs over, etc. 

This list is the equivalent of my first emotional scabbing over.  (Sounds kinda gross, doesn't it?!?)

1. You attend a family function and get an hour in before you realize you have not once thought, "I can't believe I'm doing this solo."
2. You get home late with two sleeping kids in the car and bring them in without once thinking, "This was so much easier when there were two of us."  
3. Your basement floods.  As you begin cleaning up the mess you think, "I am so glad he left the wet/dry vac!"  You do not think, "(!%*&&^ ex!  This was supposed to be his job!"  
4. You notice that your tenant's mailbox has rusted to the point it is virtually inoperable.  You do not call your ex who said he'd fix it before he moved out.  Instead, you buy a new box and smile thinking, "I am so glad I bought that new set of drill bits!"  
5. Your son has an emotional outburst on you, and you have no inclination to call your ex for backup. 
6. You hear about all the things your ex is doing with his girlfriend--all those things he once did with you--and, instead of wanting to throw up, you just laugh and think, "Déjà vu all over again!"  And you suddenly realize that you're glad it's not you. 

Sick Days

On Sunday, after spending a delightful visit with my aunt and uncle, I started getting a terrible sore throat.  I thought is was from talking too much.  I was wrong.  By the time I finished with brass quartet and choir rehearsals at church, I was in agony. 

Then my ex brought the kids home from Daddy Day.  I met them at the car, and my daughter (uncharacteristically) stood in the driveway bawling her eyes out.  He tells me, "She's been sick all day." 

My first thought--even as I realized how glad I was that I'd had the day to myself--was to wonder why he hadn't brought her home to rest if she was sick. 

My second thought was, "That's why my throat hurts!" 

My third thought was, "Oh no!  We're all going to be sick!" 

I've been a mom for over four years now.  I'm no stranger to "sick days."  But this is one of the things I've been dreading since I first learned I was getting divorced: my first solo sick day. 

It's a little weird that I worried about it because, to be honest, I can only think of two situations when I've been so sick that I've been unable to care for the rest of the house.  The first was when Ranita was an infant and I had mastitis--I called my ex then because I was so weak I was afraid I'd drop the baby.  The second was about a year ago.  I can't remember what I had, but I was sick enough that even my crying kids couldn't drag me out of bed.

Handling it alone and knowing you are alone are two very different things, however.  There are the little things, like the fact that I can no longer take NyQuil at night.  (The stuff knocks me out cold!  I used to wait for my ex to get home before taking it because I wanted to make sure someone else was in the house before I zonked out.) 

So Sunday night I rocked my little girl to sleep.  I got up with her in the middle of the night.  I gave up altogether at 2am, and the two of us spent the night snuggled on the couch . . . until my son got up at 5:30am. 

We watched movies all morning.  (Can we just say that I now know all 3 Madagascar movies inside and out?!)  All three of us curled up on the couch, and we stayed in the house all day.  We all went down for naps at 1pm and slept until 4pm.  We all needed to rest . . . and we did. 

Tuesday was similar, though Chinchita and I were starting to feel better.  It was Ranita's turn to be down in the dumps.  Mommy felt invigorated enough to do laundry and the dishes, clean the fish tanks, clean the bathroom, permanently "relocate" a mouse who trapped himself in my bathtub, vacuum, and take care of some post-divorce stuff.  (Go Mommy!) 

The kids rallied enough for a short pool session, but that was it. 

Today we're about 70%.  I'm shooting for 95% tomorrow!

What I learned, of course, is that I can do this.  There will be times when it is more than a bad cold, and we'll have to call in reinforcements, and that will be okay.  To be honest, even this time I wasn't completely alone. 

My sister rearranged child care so I could keep my sick self (and munchkins) home.  I put off grocery shopping a couple days longer than I thought I could . . . and we ate well all the same!  A friend texted me reminding me our struggle is against powers and principalities in the heavenly realms, not just what we see.  And we made it through!

Best of all, a sick day is no longer something to fear!  (Achoo!)

It's in the Bag

I have been struggling mightily with "doing" forgiveness, particularly in showing kindness to my ex.  To be honest, I haven't been kind at all.  "Frigid" is probably closer to the mark.  I have made a commitment to forgive, so my unforgiving behavior has been weighing on me.  It is one thing to decide to do something; it is altogether different to actually do it.  And wanting to do it?  Different planets!

Anyway, in Sunday School this week we were studying 1 John 1.  Verses 6-8 read, "If we claim to have fellowship with [God] yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live by the truth.  But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.  If we claim to be without sin, we deceive ourselves and the truth is not in us." 

Ugh. 

(You know God loves you when you simply cannot go to church without having Him speak directly to a sin in your life!  I am very loved by God!) 

I'd been making all kinds of excuses for myself.  Forgiveness takes time.  This has been a deep, personal betrayal.  Don't expect so much from yourself. 

They're nice excuses.  Plausible excuses.  Universal excuses.  In reality, however, they come down to two pernicious lies.  1.  It's okay to hold onto a little bitterness, anger, and even hatred if the hurt is of sufficient magnitude.  2.  His sins are worse than mine. 

God's truth doesn't say that.  He says to get rid of wrath and hatred and anger.  He says all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.  Period. 

By the time we got halfway through class, I knew I had to apologize to my ex when he picked the kids up for Daddy Day.  Galling?  A little.  Purifying?  A lot. 

After the kids left with him, I loaded the dishwasher and talked to God.  I told Him, for the first time in my life, "I feel like I see the woman You're making me to be, and I like her.  I don't like who I am right now, but I like who I'm going to be." 

I shared that sentiment with a dear college roommate, and she said I was "marinating."  How I love that image!  Like a tough cut of venison, God is soaking me in a bag filled with all kinds of acidic, caustic substances designed to soften the rigid muscles (heart of flesh, anyone?!), add flavor, and transform second-rate stew beef into a gourmet meal. 

By the time I'm done, I'll be a meal fit for a King! 

Paradise Regained . . . Momentarily!

Last night I ended my blog with a heart-felt longing for a plain, old "good" day.  Today, I got it.  It wasn't perfect . . . I was there, after all! . . . but it was "perfect enough," as my counselors would say. 

We didn't do anything too spectacular.  The kids finished watching Finding Nemo that we started almost a week ago and didn't finish.  (They don't like the shark part . . . or the angler fish part . . . or the whale part . . . too scary . . . so tell me again why they insist on watching the movie???) 

Then we went to WalMart to get last-minute supplies for VBS.  (Naturally, I forgot the sticky tack . . . looks like a trip to the Dollar Store before Monday!)  We ran into my cousin whom I haven't seen since before my daughter was born, so that was very fun!

I put the air conditioner in the kids' room before nap time.  I must say that I, personally, do not like air conditioners, the exception being when I was pregnant.  (Women really are taken over by aliens at that time, and I implore every soon-to-be-father to be patient with the poor mother-to-be, regardless of how many times she may or may not have done it before.  She really has no control over anything at that time, particularly her susceptibility to heat, smells, broken finger nails, bad hair days, Law & Order SVU episodes, and puppy pictures.  PLEASE give her a break.) 

On the topic of air conditioners, though, my kids take after their father in this respect and suffer greatly in the heat.  Last night little Chinchita could not sleep, and when I finally tucked her in around midnight, she was drenched in sweat and looked miserable.  I vowed I'd get the air conditioner in for them today. 

Mind you, I've never installed a window air conditioner before and approached this task with trepidation.  It took a little muttering, a little opening, closing, re-opening of the window, and a final smack to close the corner again, but I did it.  Coolness for the kids! 

In their now-comfortable room we read Curious George.  Chinchita napped.  Ranita and I did a Thomas puzzle for the first time in weeks. 

We played in the pool. 

I love our pool.  It has a leak I can't locate in the air ring around the top, so I blow it up a minimum of once every day.  The pump and filter are too small, so I have to clean that daily and replace weekly. 

It is the best purchase I have ever made.  (I say "I" because my husband at the time did not think we needed a pool.  He didn't . . . we did!) 

In the pool, we laugh.  We frolic.  We sing.  We relax.  We are free of email, texts, phone calls, Facebook updates, and even the radio.  It is just we three.  It is heavenly. 

My son swam underwater for the first time today.  My daughter, not to be outdone, learned how to blow bubbles underwater without inhaling half the pool. 

I, for a moment, pitied my ex and felt that I did indeed get the best end of our divorce.  It is true that he will forever be the "fun" parent, the one who shows up for semi-weekly Daddy Days and whisks them off to dinner at Applebee's and jaunts in the park and hikes along the bike path.  He will forever be spared the day-to-day grind of broken glasses and before-bed toy pick-ups and being tired of being so darn responsible all the time. 

But he'll never have an ordinary magical summer of day-after-day pool times.  He'll never know just how remarkable it is to slog through the unending tedium and monotony of parenthood and get rewarded with an hour of perfection, right outside your back door, no traveling required.  I really am the lucky one. 

To top it all off, tonight my son picked up his toys.  No fighting.  I admit this resulted from a moment of brilliance on my part.  (Don't be too impressed . . . my brilliance was preceded by one of my less-than-brilliant moments earlier in the evening . . . I pray they all balance out in the end!)

Anyway, Ranita is in a bellicose place right now, and tonight he "couldn't" clean up because he was protecting us from "bad guys" with a drumstick in one hand and a chainsaw in the other.  I looked at him and said, "I know!  Let's pretend all the toys in the living room are bad guys and you need to protect us by taking them all to jail!" 

He went for it!  So much so, that he even put the toys in the right places because some had to go to maximum security prison and some were only minimum security.  The living room looks amazing! 

A good day, indeed. 

Happy Anniversary?

Yesterday, on the one-week anniversary of my divorce, I:

• Scheduled an emergency trip to the eye doctor after my son bent the arm of his glasses by slamming a book on them
• Took two dogs and two children to the vet (all without shoes because the ones who should have been wearing them left the house without them after I told them to put them on 3 times, and I refused to turn around and let them put them on . . . lesson learned?)  
• Held my dogs for the vet, each quiet during their own examination but howling like dervishes during the other's exam . . . can't tell you why, can only say it is VERY annoying!
• Spent $400 dollars on canine wellness visits, flea/tick preventative, rabies shots, and the like...nearly swooned at the bill.  
• Came home and actually went in the pool--first time this season--long enough for black clouds to move in and begin pelting us with rain.  
• Let the kids watch National Velvet while I made lunch.  
• Served lunch, only to have my son refuse to eat and choose bed instead.  
• Read kids "princess" story (a Cinderella knock-off about the "perfect wedding" . . . can I just say it took everything within me not to gag?!).  
• Gave up on naps after an hour and dragged kids to Wal-Mart for essentials like Pull-Ups, watermelon, and color ink cartridges.  
• Earned 50 cents on Ibotta for the watermelon and was entered to win a shopping spree on Checkout 51. 
• Went to the eye doctor.  Read Stellaluna to my kids for the dozenth time.  Eye doctor managed to salvage eye glasses...for the moment.  Was informed that the backup pair I ordered from Zenni has a 50% chance of arriving with the wrong prescription.  Yippee.  (Wish I could have seen into the future and known the child would rip the arm off his repaired pair today . . . I would have just given in and bought the several hundred-dollar pair of pretzel glasses...first thing Monday morning . . . !)  
• Came home and rush-prepared for my final VBS meeting before the actual event.  
• Barely spoke to ex when he came for Daddy Day.  Am struggling with the whole being cordial thing . . . life is a bit overwhelming right now, and I confess I blame much of it on him.  
• Sobbed like crazy the entire 45-minute car ride to VBS meeting.  Can't imagine what other drivers were thinking.  Don't really care.  
• Ran VBS meeting . . . started to panic . . . it'll be okay . . . won't it?
• Listened to VBS music on the way home, felt guilty about the raging hatred I feel for my ex.  Prayed.  
• Came in slightly less hateful.  
• Thought about writing this blog, and just couldn't do it.  Read a book instead and went to bed.  

Am praying for one sunrise-to-sunset GOOD day . . . with play and fun and happiness and without stress and tantrums and work . . . I seem to think I used to have those once upon a time . . . 

July 7, 2016

You wake up late--the kids let you sleep in until 7am--and you hurry through the morning routine to make it out the door by 8:15am to leave your kids with your sister-in-law while you go to get your head shrunk.

Your fabulous counselors introduce you to Emotional Freedom Techniques and offer suggestions that sound helpful for both you and your children.  You negotiate a new fee based on your new not-insurance, a Christian Health Share that doesn't cover mental health.

(You vow to send a letter to your Health Share recommending they change their policy, as you believe that mental health care will resolve an enormous amount of physical complaints and save everyone a ton of money.  But what do you know?)

You hustle the kids back home, eating McDonald's on the way, and cringing over simultaneously breaking your 3-day-old diet and filling your kids full of junk food.  You rationalize that it's only one meal, and both diets and kids need a splurge every now and again.

You get the mail and find, oh joy!, that your retirement account actually made money last month.  That is a pleasant surprise, as you figured Brexit would have done you in.  You smile.

Your phone connects to the house wi-fi and dings as it collects your emails.  (You are a data-miser and refuse to use mobile data except under extreme circumstances . . . such as submitting articles in Maine or . . . no, that's about it!)

You check your email and get one from your lawyer that reads, "Your divorce is now finalized."  You look at the words and shudder a bit.  You forward the document to your ex (official ex now, not the anticipatory ex he's been for the past six months) and offer him congratulations . . .

The kids want to play in the pool that you set up all by yourself yesterday, but can't for many reasons, one of which is that the inflatable top refuses to stay inflated.  All three of you, and the dogs, go outside.  The dogs torment the neighbors' dogs; the kids play on half of the swing set their dad picked up but has not yet set up; you (once again) blow up the top of the pool and begin searching for leaks with a spray bottle.

You find several and patch them with electrical tape and duck tape.  (Somehow you cannot locate the patches that came with the pool . . . where did they go?) 

You have to prepare for a Vacation Bible School meeting, so back into the house you all troop.  The kids want to watch Wall-E for the hundredth time, so you see this as an opportunity to work undisturbed.

Your ex (Real ex! How weird!) takes the kids for Daddy Day.  You run to your meeting.

Afterwards, you drive home with all the windows open and listen to Tom Petty's Wildflowers album.  The tacky summer air rushes through the car like a hurricane, blowing away thought and leaving nothing but a damp-salty after-ocean feel on your skin.  You drive with the crescent moon gleaming in a cobalt sky.

You feel nothing.  A comfortable kind of nothing. 

You stop at Ocean State Job Lot who miraculously and inexplicably has extended hours this week, staying open tonight until 10am.  You pick up an actual patch kit for the pool--the electrical tape can't last forever--and a container of water test strips.  (The last thing you want is to burn the kids with over-chlorinated pool water.)

You walk in the house humming "To Find a Friend."  You bid a cool good-night to the ex.  You kiss your babies a warm good-night.  You record the day for posterity.  You go to bed, to get some of the rest your counselors declared was essential for physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being.  

You are at peace. 

A Tale of Three Hotdogs

My son loves hotdogs.  Really loves hotdogs.  Could eat them three meals a day, seven days a week if I'd let him.  (I don't let him!)  I didn't realize hotdogs could become a determiner of inner distress, however, until last week at Camp. 

It was suppertime on Thursday.  Grammy, Pop, the kids, and I had spent a lovely couple of hours fishing on the lake.  The kids had talked to their father on the phone.  Ranita had hooked his first large-mouth bass.  Both Ranita and Chinchita drove the boat (with varying degrees of assistance from Pop).  It had been a great day. 

We were having an easy supper of hotdogs.  Ranita wanted ketchup and mustard on his.  No problem.  I gave him the properly-prepared dog.  As hotdogs will, his rolled around, mussing the condiments.  He started to cry and scream as if someone were sticking hot pokers under his nails. 

Grammy moved in to correct the condiments.  I stopped her and told him he could have it adjusted if he stopped throwing the temper tantrum.  Long story short, the temper tantrum continued and he went to bed having had a glass of milk for supper.  No hotdog. 

Once things calmed down, I talked with my angel-son and reminded him that asking Mommy nicely to fix the condiments would be the appropriate approach in the future.  "Okay, Mommy," he said snuggling against me.  "I'll remember that."  (He can be so darned sweet!) 

Grammy accepted the tantrum pretty easily.  She remembers her own episodes with her son growing up.  Pop was shell-shocked.  He did not remember those fits! 

The next afternoon, Ranita again requested hotdogs.  I warned him in advance that there were to be no fits over condiments.  He agreed.  Alas, his hotdog was again imperfect.  He asked me to fix it, reminding me of our conversation the day before.  I added more ketchup and mustard.  The hotdog again rolled, and I said enough was enough with the condiments.  He again threw a tantrum, and he again ended up in bed.  It was quite the scene. 

Pop kept saying, "I can't believe this is all over a hotdog!"

I looked at him and said, "It's not the hotdog.  I don't know what it is, but it's not the hotdog.  He's never done this over a hotdog before." 

When I again talked to Ranita after things calmed down, he mentioned missing Daddy Day.  He had talked to his dad on the phone, but he wanted to see him.  I let him know he'd have Daddy Day when we got back, but I sort of glossed over it.

It wasn't until LATE that night when Grammy and I were girl-talking that it hit me.  Missing Daddy Days was actually the cause of the hotdog hissy fits.  The poor kid knows his days of the week, but he doesn't yet understand the concept of geographical distance. 

He knew he had already missed two Daddy Days.  We went to church Sunday, but he didn't see Daddy afterward.  He talked to Daddy on the phone Thursday, but he didn't see Daddy. 

Like me, he'd never been to Camp without Daddy.  Unlike me, he didn't understand that it was too far to drive from RI to ME for Daddy Day.  He thought that missing Daddy Days in Maine meant he'd never get to have a Daddy Day again. 

To top it all off, the last time he had hotdogs was at the PawSox game with Daddy the week before.

Boy did I feel like a jerk.  Here the poor kid was missing his Dad, and his mom was punishing him for it.  I determined to talk to him first thing in the morning. 

When I brought the subject up with Ranita, it was clear I had (eventually!) hit the nail on the head.  He was feeling rejected by his dad.  I tried explaining distance . . . and told him his dad couldn't come up, not that he didn't want to. 

A couple days later, we went to Bar Harbor.  For lunch, we stopped at a lobster/bbq place.  As I read off the children's menu, Ranita requested a hotdog.  Pop visibly blanched.  "Not another hotdog!" he said. 

"It'll be okay," I replied.  "We solved the hotdog problem."  The food came, and my son gobbled the hotdog down without batting an eye.  Later he ate his sister's as well . . . with no condiments at all. 

Grammy and Pop were astounded.  Having been through a couple of these psychological dramas in the past six months, I was less surprised.  I have, however, learned some valuable lessons from this. 

First, if someone you know well suddenly and "inexplicably" begins fixating on something or behaving out of character, don't ignore it.  Something big is most likely triggering the behavior, and the sooner it's flushed out, the better. 

Second, never underestimate a child's ability to internalize pain and angst . . . or their ability to bounce back once the cause is identified and resolved. 

And last of all, with men of any age, the way to their heart really is through their stomach! 

Independence Day

I love the 4th of July.  I love the historicity, the patriotism, and (for our family) the tradition.  My grandmother has this cute little cottage on a (mostly) private beach.  Some of my favorite childhood memories are of the beach house.  Of them all, my 4th of July memories are the best. 

As an adult, I cling to my 4th of July at the beach house.  I often joke that I cram an entire summer into one day: swimming in the ocean, quahogging (clam digging for my non-Rhode Island readers!), eating freshly-cooked clam chowder, clam cakes, and steamers, playing cribbage with my uncle, and watching fireworks over the water. 

If I'm in Rhode Island for the summer, I spend the 4th at the beach house.  The one exception was the first trip to Maine I made with my ex and his parents eight years ago.  Giving up my special summer day for him was a pretty good indicator of how I felt about him then! 

This year was different. 

The kids and I were exhausted from our fun Maine vacation, having arrived home just last night.  There was the typical squabbling as we simultaneously unpacked from one vacation and packed up for a day at the beach.  By the time we got in the car, I had a headache and a pout.  Actually, I can't remember the last time I started off to the beach house without a headache and a pout! 

The headache lingered off and on all day, but the pout surely did not.  The kids and I spent hours at the beach with their aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents.  I thought keeping track of them both on my own would be nerve-wracking, but surprisingly it wasn't.  I was half-way through the day when I actually realized how relaxed I felt. 

Some of it could be the fact that the kids are older and a little more independent.  I let them play with much less interference than usual.  In the water, I definitely had eyes on them at all times, but I also gave them some space to do their own thing.  They had a blast. 

I rather suspect the larger part of it was that there was nobody to please but myself.  That isn't quite true, of course: I did go to the beach a second time because the kids wanted to despite my headache and fatigue.  But there was no wondering if someone else was happy, fearing he wasn't, knowing he wasn't.  I didn't feel guilty staying a little later: everyone in my little nuclear family wanted to stay longer. 

This is not to say I was the life of the party.  I haven't been that in a very long time.  But I don't think I was a downer, either.  I didn't feel down.  It was, I think, one of the first things I've gone to since the divorce began that didn't have a "He should be here" undertone to it.  It was okay that he wasn't.  More than okay. 

It isn't always okay.  Yesterday when I saw him playing with my kids and heard my son repeatedly saying, "I missed Daddy," and smiling as he ran to hug him, I could not keep back the tears.  I wept for what my kids are suffering. 
I am learning that grief and healing are not linear.  They are more like graphs of polynomial functions: marked by irregular dips and rises.  Yesterday was a dip.  Today was a rise. 

Whatever the reason, it was good to have a time of freedom from grief, from guilt, from sadness.  Happy Independence Day! 

D-Day

Today my divorce became final.  I am no longer married. 

It was quite a day. 

My kids and I went fishing with Pop and Grammy. 

My son caught his second fish.  (Pop casted it, but Ranita hooked it and reeled it in.  Two fish in as many days on the water is pretty impressive for a four-year-old!)

We saw loons, a bald eagle, and a group of sunfish.  The weather was perfect.  We sang songs and laughed.  I wept a little. 

By the time we got home, I was in need of a couple Tylenol.   I am again in need of a couple Tylenol, but I'm going to walk the dogs and go to bed instead. 

I was hoping to feel a sense of closure tonight.  I don't.   I just feel tired, worn-out, sick, and in need of a good cry. 

I also can't help but wonder about the man who was once my husband.  When he called the kids today, what was his motivation? Did he really want to talk to them only, or did he want to smear a little salt in my wound?  Did he hang up the phone and feel sad, like I, or was he grateful to finally be rid of me? 

Did he even realize today was the day? 

Is he spending tonight in his parents' guest room, in the bed we've shared as husband and wife before heading to Maine for a vacation just like the one I'm on now? 

Or is he with her? 

I know these questions belong in his circle, not mine.  Those who have been through it assure me that a time will come when I don't care about his circle at all. 

I believe them. 

Sometimes I already feel that way, though most assuredly not tonight.  

Perhaps that is the saddest thing of all.

Addendum:
Just heard from my lawyer I'm NOT yet divorced.  It will probably be another week (judges are vacationing, you know).   Oh well.  What's another week?

Living in a Maine State of Mind

I took my first solo trip around the great state of Maine today.  

This really shouldn't be a big deal.  After all, I've soloed from RI to Wisconsin and RI to NH.  I was the designated driver when my brother, his future wife, my gal pal, and I toured CA and Nevada.  I make my living traveling to new places and writing about them.

I am perfectly capable of managing a one-hour trip from Greenbush to Corinth.  So why is this such a big deal?

Maine was Nick's territory.

For over a decade, he and his parents have been exploring Maine.  It's their second home.  If we were contemplating a trip, Nick chose where we were going and how we would get there.  I was just along for the ride.

Not this time.

This time, I did my pre-trip recon on-line from the comfort of my home in RI.  I programmed a trip into “My Maps” on Mapquest.  Today I borrowed a Maine Gazetteer (which is also something I have always subconsciously considered Nick’s personal property) from Pop and headed off to interview farmers for some articles.

Along the way, I saw places we went together...like on our hiking trip last summer when I remember thinking we were in a better place than the year before. (Boy, have I got great instincts!)

For nearly a decade, Maine has been Nick’s turf.  I was a visitor.  Not anymore.  

As of today, I am claiming Maine for myself.  I will come to know it my way...and it will be good.

Grief Explored

Who knew that grief is a shadow, hovering underneath the seemingly normal everyday, suddenly manifesting as something solid and immovable at  the most unexpected moments?  

Who knew you could be in the throes of grief while reading a book, playing with your kids, eating breakfast, and be completely unaware until your sister sends a text--How’s vacation?--and you burst into tears?

Who knew grief was a vacuum cleaner, inexorably sucking every ounce of energy, vitality, strength, and life from you, bringer of the greatest fatigue known to man, one that neither time alone nor time with friends nor sleep nor food can alleviate?

Who knew the last week of a marriage was actually a deathbed vigil, sitting quietly, waiting for the inevitable, remembering the past, grieving the lost future, simultaneously dreading the final moments and wishing they had already come and gone?

Are the final moments the worst?  Will it all be easier once the final decree is signed, sealed, and entered into the legal records?  Are these unbidden bursts of sorrow at their most crippling and inescapable now?

Is it really true that healing will come quickly once the legal bonds are severed, like a body heals once a cancer has been excised?

Or is it more like an amputation where the physical wounds heal, but phantom pains recur, reminding one of the lost parts, momentarily deceiving oneself that it was never really removed after all?

I pray it is the former.  

I suspect it is the latter.  

Fishing for Love

Eight years ago, my boyfriend's parents invited me to spend a week with them at their camp in Maine.  I was nervous and excited.  He and I sat in the backseat flirting with each other while his parents drove us to their family's vacation spot.  Six months later, we would be married. 

Today, I made that same trip with my two kids, my two dogs, and my mother-in-law riding shotgun.  My father-in-law drove ahead of us, towing the boat and the fishing gear.  This Thursday, while we are together at Camp, my divorce will become final. 

I can't help but spend some time remembering that first trip.  Pop and Nick and I fished.  A lot.  I never really fished before I met Nick.  I frankly don't really enjoy fishing.  I enjoy the fighting part, bringing the fish to the boat, but I hate seeing them torn up from the hook, thrashing around while I try to get it out, and gasping before I finally throw them back into the water. 

This morning my son said something to the effect that Mom doesn't fish.  I replied, "I fish." 

Pop said, "Your mother likes to fish." 

I said, "Not really.  I like being on the boat." 

"But you fished in the ocean . . . "

"I fished because I liked being with Nick.  I was in love." 

I remember those days.  I remember how it felt good to spend time doing an activity I don't particularly love because I'm doing it with someone I do. 

I would not choose to go fishing with Nick now.  Not on the shore, not on a boat, not in the ocean, not in a moat. 

But this week, I will choose to go fishing.  I will fish with my little boy.  I will fish with my little girl.  I will fish with my ex's mom.  I will fish with my ex's dad. 

Why? 

Because I am in love again. 

I am in love with two little kids who think fishing on "The Brown Boat" is the greatest thing in the world.  I am in love with a little house with "Duke's Place" on a plaque over the door.  I am in love with a man and a woman who have treated me like a daughter for almost a decade and feel like my second parents.  

And because I am in love, I will once again enjoy fishing. 

Father's Day Fun

At the risk of sounding whiny, I have to say I am tired of all these divorce firsts.  I thought the first Mother's Day without a dad in the picture was bad enough.  How come nobody thought to tell me the first Father's Day would be even worse?

I hadn't realized just how big a deal Father's Day was for our family.  It always falls on or around my dad's birthday, for one thing.  As a kid, it was the excuse for a four-generation family reunion and the all-American family baseball game in the hay field.  And there was food.  Boy, was there food. 

Over the years, the family kept getting bigger, so the party slowly got trimmed down.  We still have dozens of people, but now it's mostly my aunts, uncles, grandparents, siblings, and our kids.  (My kids see all their cousins instead of my dad seeing all his!) 

I like that big family stuff.  I always have.  Even when we're squabbling amongst ourselves, it feels good to get together and remember that blood really is thicker than water, and even though you can't pick your relatives, there will never be any place like home. 

So this year, as I drove my empty car seats to my sister's, I admit that I felt pretty darn sorry for myself.  My kids were with their dad.  And his parents.  In Boston.  Seeing the Constitution and the destroyer and making friends and memories . . . and I was missing it. 

I HATE all the fun memories they are going to make without me.  For just a moment I want to be three and scream, "IT'S NOT FAIR!!!!"  And frankly, it's NOT fair.  And I don't like it.  And I never will.  So there. 

But I also felt a little bad for my kids as well.  Their cousins were all there, whom they ADORE.  They were swimming in Auntie's pool.  (My kids love to swim.  We haven't set up our pool yet; I'm waiting til we come back from Maine in a couple weeks.  Last year I never quite conquered the green after leaving for a week in the summer.  I'm just not up to that this year!) 

I think I also felt worse knowing that my kids were having a great time and, as long as I didn't say anything, they would not miss missing the party.  (Very selfish.  I know.  Can't help it.)

I also felt bad for my dad and my grandfather for not getting to see them.  (Although Pop did, so that's something positive.) 

I won't try to admit there isn't something relaxing about being at a party without kids, but I also have to admit that I looked around in a panic more than once because I didn't know where my kids were.  I'd scan the pool, the swing set, the woods, and the porch in a flash . . . just before I remembered they were somewhere else having fun without me. 

And though it was very nice of their dad to text me a picture of them looking adorable, I couldn't help but feel like he was pouring salt in a deep, gaping wound. 

I guess the one good thing is I no longer have to try to come up with a great Father's Day gift for their dad.  Every year I would try to think of something special and feel like I had failed miserably.  Now I can let the kids decide.  I don't necessarily feel we've increased the quality of gifts any, but at least I'm no longer responsible for it! 

This year, Ranita picked out a shovel.  Chinchita selected a pink Barbie birthday card with a paper doll Barbie (in her skivvies) and paper dress-up clothes.  (I really did try talking her out of that one . . . but how can you argue with a two-year old when she keeps yelling, "I want to get Barbie for Father's Day!")  I didn't even know she knew who Barbie was. 

So, all that to say:  today is a little over six months from the day I found out my marriage was finished.  In ten days I will no longer be married.  I have already passed the first Christmas, New Year's, wedding anniversary, Ranita's birthday, Valentine's Day, Memorial Day, Mother's Day, his birthday, and Father's Day of our broken home.  All I have left is my personal "D" Day, Independence Day, Chinchita's birthday, and my birthday.  The year of the "Big 'D'" will be over. 

I can't wait. 

To Forgive is Divine

For the past week, I have traded in the Lord's Prayer for Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep as the capstone prayer with my kids each night.  The reason for that can be found in one line: "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us."  I do not want God to apply my standard of forgiveness to myself at this particular juncture.  Right now, I have one person I don't want to forgive. 

This is, I freely admit, not a very Christ-like mindset.  As he hung gasping for breath, ravaged by pain, suffering from shock due to physical abuse and blood loss, moments away from being separated from his Father for the first time in eternity, he somehow found the love to utter, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." 

I could argue that some of that mercy came as a result of that last phrase: "they know not what they do."  Ignorance is generally a mediating factor, to my way of thinking.  But in this situation, ignorance can't be used as an excuse . . . what my almost-ex is doing he is doing with eyes wide open and without any visible sign of remorse.  (My counselors keep reminding me I cannot know what he is thinking, and I grudgingly admit they are right . . . hence the word "visible.") 

Tonight, however, as God will, He gave me a shake and is beginning to work on my heart. 

I was covering the Farm Credit East 100th Anniversary and Customer Appreciation event this evening, a 45-minute drive from home.  I kept moving to turn on the radio and escape from my thoughts and kept being reminded that my radio was already on and simply refused to transmit sound. 

Then God began to speak.  (Don't try to tell me He didn't break my radio . . . I'm sure He did!  I only hope my mechanic can fix it tomorrow!) 

I heard God say, "Love your enemies, and pray for those who persecute you."  I answered, I don't love him.  I don't want to love him.  I almost added, "and you can't make me," but I knew enough to stop before that!  (Remember the radio . . . !)

So I began to truly ponder the nature of forgiveness, I think for the first time in my life.  What is forgiveness, really?  How do you forgive someone and maintain healthy boundaries?  What kind of feelings, if any, are connected with forgiveness, and how do you manage them appropriately?  And how does love play into forgiveness when the violation is so intensely elemental?

1.  What is forgiveness?  

Not too tough.  It's willingly letting go of a debt owed to you.  My ex is in debt to me.  I deserve retribution.  Can I choose not to try exacting revenge and leave that to God?

The first step for me will have to be changing some nomenclature.  I've been a bit Homeric lately, granting my soon-to-be ex a descriptive epithet.  (Not so much "Faithful Penelope" as, say, "My cheating, 2-timing skunk of an ex.") 

While in the short term that definitely provides a sense of satisfaction, I already feel the rancor eating away at my soul.  As I reminded my son yesterday, "Holding onto anger doesn't hurt the person you're angry with; it only hurts you."  From now on I bestow upon him a new epithet: "my kids' dad."  Not quite as dramatic, but far less detrimental to all involved.   

2. How do I forgive and maintain healthy boundaries? 

This is challenging, as I am still learning what those healthy boundaries look like.  In short, they are supposed to keep out the bad and let in the good.  Okay.  So . . . ?

So.  If I let go of the pursuit of retribution, I am showing forgiveness.  If I then open myself up to being hurt and betrayed again, I'm being stupid.  ("Fool me once . . . ")  So while I do not try to create pain and suffering for him, I also must prevent him from creating any more pain and suffering for me. 

Right now, that means that unless it has a direct bearing on the kids, it's none of his concern.  And (swallow hard) the same is true for him.  How am I feeling?  None of his concern.  How is my work going?  None of his concern.  Where or with whom is he spending his time?  None of my concern. How is he feeling?  None of my concern.  As long as the kids aren't involved, it's none of my concern. 

As someone who has spent most of her life trying to make people happy, ease their discomfort, or take the blame for their failings, this is a tough one.  As a person who was literally joined together in the sight of God and man until the two became one flesh, this is incredibly tough.  But it is necessary.

3.  As for feelings? 

Blah on feelings!  The truth is that every possible human emotion is flying around within my person at any given time, crashing into each other like atoms and releasing the most unexpected explosions of joy, anger, relief, and so much more.  I think I will let the feelings be.  Let them come.  I will name  them, accept them, and pray over them.  That's all I can do right now! 

4.  What about that pesky "love"?  

What, the love that defines God?  Yeah.  That love.  I Corinthians 13 says it all: Love is patient, kind, not self-seeking, not easily angered, keeps no record of wrongs, does not rejoice in evil but delights in the truth, always protects, always hopes, always perseveres, never fails. 

Nothing in there about feelings.  All about action and motive.  It goes back to those boundaries.  Should I maintain those emotional walls?  ABSOLUTELY.  Should I be snotty about it as I kinda was when he came to get the kids today?  Absolutely NOT.  One can be cordial without being close.  Cordiality is the goal. 

My anger remains.  That is okay.  (Refer back to #3.)  What is not okay is sinning with that anger.  I admit I have sinned by failing to love my kids' dad this week.  I ask God's forgiveness.  And in this digital confessional, I ask the forgiveness of those I've hurt with that anger, both intentionally and unintentionally. 

Starting tonight, I am choosing to forgive him . . . and his girlfriend as well.  I trust that in time my feelings will match my intentions.  I will fail in living this out . . . probably many times! . . . but one thing I know for certain:  tonight before I fall asleep I will again be able to pray the Lord's Prayer . . . every line. 

When the Children Cry

How does one help a 4-year-old and a 2-year-old grieve?  Especially how does one do it when handling one's own grief (and a lot of other emotions I won't get into tonight!)? 

This week has been a hard one on my children.  My in-laws had to put their dog down last Monday, and my kids considered him theirs.  He was very playful with them; our dogs are more protective/maternal towards them than playful.  They LOVED Cosmo. 

Saturday my husband of only 3 more weeks moved off the property.  I have been gently talking about the eventuality with them, but an enlightening and misdirected text forced "eventually" to become "right this second, if not sooner." 

And if you can believe it, I think Sharky the Betta is dying.  He hasn't eaten in a week and spends way too much time resting on the bottom of his vase before spasmodically swimming like a maniac and then resting on the bottom again.  Did it have to be HIS fish????

The worst of it came Sunday night after my in-laws (who are amazing, by the way), the ex-to-be, my kids, and I attended a PawSox game.  (The Sox won, we ate Cracker Jacks and hot dogs, and Grammy managed to grab a game ball for Ranita . . . who could ask for anything more???)

Then it was time to go.  The kids knew the turtle was staying with Grammy and Pop.  They knew the fishing gear was staying with Grammy and Pop.  With Grammy, Pop, Daddy, and Chinchita right there, Ranita asks, "Is Daddy going home with us?"

My stomach clenches.  "No, honey.  Daddy doesn't live with us anymore," I answer.

"But where's he going to stay?"

Bigger stomach clench.  A bit of teeth clench as well.  "I don't know where Daddy is staying."

"But I'll never see him again!" he wails.  

Poor Grammy is crying.  Poor Ranita is crying.  I want to throw up on someone very specific.  I am trying to sound calm, matter-of-fact, and reassuring. 

I get down on my knees and hold him by the shoulders.  "Oh, no, Honey.  You'll still see him on Daddy days." 

"He doesn't love me.  He doesn't want to live with me!"

By now I am ready to claw someone's eyes out.  "No, no.  Daddy loves you and wants you.  Daddy just doesn't want to live with Mommy anymore." 

I bustle them into the car.  Daddy says he loves them and will see them on Daddy Day.  We drive away. 

My son sits in the back half-sobbing.  I say something to the effect of, "I know change can be hard.  It's okay to be sad.  I love you.  I am always here for you.  Daddy loves you.  God loves you."  Not helping. 

Incidentally, my radio spontaneously died earlier that day, so we're driving in silence broken only by my devastated child's heartache.  So I do the only thing I've ever known to do when my babies are inconsolable.  "Do you want me to sing to you?"

He nods.  "Sing the lullaby with the cradle."  (I HATE Rock-a-bye-baby!  Who tells their kids they're going to fall out of a tree???? I NEVER sang it to them--they learned it from Pandora's Christian Toddler station--but I sang it last night.)

For the next 45 minutes I go through all the lullabies I used to sing when they were wee little things.  I sang the songs I wrote myself for each of them in Spanish.  I sang the Cradle Song in German.  I sang the Lullabies and Night Songs set in English.  And then I made some up spur of the moment, prayers for them, for peace, and love, and rest, and joy. 

And my heart broke.  And for a moment I knew agony and hatred like I had never known before. 

Tonight the hatred has subsided some.  But the agony remains.  Today was a day of temper tantrums and angry outbursts and "but where is Daddy going to buy coffee??" in the grocery store when I tell him we don't need to buy Bustelo anymore.  And I realized that all my love is not enough to make up for this devastation.  I don't have the tools to help them process this. 

So I swallowed my pride and my guilt and my shame and my fear and looked online for help.  And God pointed me to a woman I used to go to church with who is now a counselor, who had two children a little older than mine when she went through her own journey of divorce and betrayal. 

And I was thankful.  I again remember that God loves my little family so much more even than I do.  And He is never at a loss, never confused, never bewildered.  And He does not want that for me, either.  He says, "If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you." 

I have struggled with guilt for where we are.  I said yes, after all.  I worked hard to have my babies, whom I wanted so badly.  (Whom I love so dearly now as well!)  But God's forgiveness doesn't find fault.  And he will give me the wisdom I need.  

And I pray that as time goes on, he will enable me to direct that same forgiveness to others.  

He is faithful.  He will do it.