seventeen years

Today would have been my 17th wedding anniversary. Sometimes I wish I could forget the date, but I had it engraved inside Brad's wedding band the day I bought it with my hard-earned-working-at-the-college-frozen-yogurt-shop money. It said: For Time and Eternity, 12-28-94. I'd heard men often forgot their anniversaries, so I figured I'd just make sure he had some record of it on him all the time. His ring frequently became entertainment for us while waiting for food at a restaurant, or waiting for a turn during Scrabble. He or I would slip it off and spin it like a top. I saw that engraved date a lot. It will, sadly or not, never just be "another day" for me.

It doesn't hurt this year though. Maybe I said that last year...I don't remember. I just know that my break up with Dr. Yummy taught me a lot about how far I've come in parts of my emotional healing. When he broke things off, I was completely crushed. I could only compare it to the hurt I felt when Brad left. Yet, when I really consider it--it was nowhere NEAR as painful as that was. What it was, was equal to the *softened* version of how I now remember my divorce. Pain dulled by years, good happenings, and priceless experience and faith gained as a result of being single. The Dr.Yummy break up was significant, another little turning point showing me where I'd been and where I'm at now--and the amazing, heart-warming/wrenching distance in between the two points.

Funny that it's raining today. It rained on my wedding day 17 years ago, too. No one wanted to take after ceremony outdoor pictures with us. Only my mom followed us around with an umbrella, removing it from over my head long enough for the photographer to snap a picture, then putting it back on. Bless her heart. The rest of our friends and family went across the street to our catered after-wedding lunch. And they ate it all. Yup. By the time we got there, there was one sad, solitary breadstick left for us to split. We went through the Wendy's drive-thru on our way to check in at our hotel. Good memories. Funny memories. It really was one of the happiest days of my life and will continue to be so independent of anything that happened afterwards. But does feel like it happened much longer ago, to a different person. Or that maybe I dreamed it all,or wrote it in a story. One observation: I generally feel so youthful, happy, and drunk with possibility that I laugh to think I could ever be one capable of celebrating a 17th wedding anniversary. Only the face in the mirror reveals I'm not as young as I feel :)

Seventeen years after saying I do as a nineteen and a half year old who thought herself ever-so-mature, here I sit--on lunch break at one of my five exciting jobs. The blessed mother of 4 beautiful boys. Still close as I can be with the Peterson family. Comforted by the support of wonderful friends. Fueled by the dream of writing. Pained, at times, to see pictures of my ex-husband with his new family, but comforted by the fact that God is aware of me and has put some wonderful opportunities and people in my path. One day, someday, I'll start over again with a new guy, and a new date, on year one. All good things in time. And it feels like I've got plenty of time.

dear future husband, part 3

Dear Future Husband,

Hi. Are you still speaking to me after I practically banished you in my last letter? I was pretty hurt when I wrote that. Truth is, I'm still pretty hurt-y inside--but it's steadily mending, only making appearances when I see or hear certain things that remind me of you in the various forms you've taken.

Most of the time, I'm blissfully content. More than I have been in a long time. Content on my own. In that type of way that scares me a little bit because it's exactly what I wanted--to get to a place where it didn't feel like I needed you anymore. Where I could do it on my own emotionally and financially and spiritually. I can't hug myself very well (which sounds less awkward than "do it myself physically." *Insert snarky laugh*), but I'm learning to be ok with even that. I feel in this for the long haul, unafraid.

I guess the thing is, though... I still want you. There. I said it. ok? I really do want you. Eventually. I want you to be the right man at the right time who likes me in the same way I like him. I want all that perfectly imperfect mushy stuff I said here. Which is what worries me about this level of comfort--that you'll get forgotten along the way as I keep settling into a type of happiness that doesn't require anything but my boys and myself and my writing and my friends. How do I keep wanting you without needing you?

Also, how do I trust I'll find you when my track record as of late seems to indicate that there is generally something glaringly wrong with every man who likes me?  Without meaning to, and yet out of self-defense, I have learned to love everyone but trust no one. I have learned how to be friendly but not to bond. Have no expectations. Make no plans. Assume if you're spiritual, smart, funny, talented, and I find you attractive--you will have no interest whatsoever in me. Either I will not be pretty enough. Or I will be too quirky. Or not quirky enough, if quirky is your thing. Or you might possibly be a big fat liar, liar pants on fire.

Is it any wonder I feel better, safer, more confident on my own?

I really have too much to be doing to be worrying about this, right? Like six personal essays to write, and three critical essays, and one advanced thesis proposal, and polishing up both my Fiction and Poetry portfolios, and locating the source of this mystery smell coming from my family room which I'm pretty sure is some dead animal in my chimney...

I guess this is just a heads up that when all the stars have aligned and it's time for you and I to finally get together (I'm picturing me carrying a bundle of packages and you crashing into me with your Dutch bicycle and turns out the packages were filled with live doves and the lids burst open and the doves fly free while we laugh through our mutual concussions) --you might have to bring along a rolled up newspaper and hit me up alongside my (concussioned) head to get my attention because while my trust and heart might able to be pried opened again with a  sustainable amount of effort and time (and dark chocolate), if it's anything less than a bike wreck with a dove release followed by a newspaper bonk...I might miss it. I might miss you.

Don't let that happen, alrighty?

Ok--now go keep doing awesome stuff and I'll do the same. True love will find us in the end, at least that's what the song at the top of my playlist says. See ya when I see ya, baby.

Love,
Me

i love you, christmas. but i kinda hate you, too.

It would be practically  unAmerican, maybe even unHuman to say I hate Christmas, right? I don't. Really. I promise. It's just that when you're trying to balance five jobs, and grade final papers, and organize the application processes with various essays to write for 6 different MFA programs--well, Christmas is like one more giant thing stuck on your plate---a wonderful thing like a head-size slab of cake, but still, you didn't  have room for it.

Decorating was the main thing that seemed overwhelming. Even though this is my third Christmas being single, I've had a male figure of some kind to help me with the tree assembling and house lighting the previous two years. This year, I knew there were some guys I could call on for  help, but I really wanted to do it myself. I'm feeling fiercely independent that way as of late.

**Fiercely independent=Stuff takes a while to get done.**

So, I finally haul in all the dusty Rubbermaid totes from the garage on Thursday night and drop them in the family room. And they sit there.

Friday, I opened them up and started to sort out what I for sure wanted to put out and what I could skip this year for the sake of ease and speed. And there were the Spiegel candlestick holders Brad bought me our first Christmas together. And the tin container full of the clay ornaments my mom made with the boys her last Christmas with us. And the reindeer fashioned out of paper hand prints I made with Z and E when I was still homeschooling. All those reminders of what I'd lost brought me to un-Christmas-y tears. So I put the lids back on the boxes and I cut out some paper snowflakes for the front window. That was all my heart could take on Friday.

Saturday, the previous day's pain was softened by the sheer joy my L and J exhibited in the simple act of me re-arranging furniture so the tree could fit in the big front window. It was as if the couch were some *magical play place* now that it faced the opposite direction. And Z grinned from ear to ear when I told him that he could back the van out of the garage so I could get up to the attic.Every 14 year old wants to drive. Even a van... in reverse... for 30 feet :) The tree got drug down from the attic and sat next to the pile of Rubbermaid totes.  And it sat there. This was still progress...

Sunday, the boy squad and I started  up the Jazz Holidays station on Pandora and figured out how to assemble the tree. It was another one of those things that seemed harder to do than it actually was.  We got it done in less than an hour. I put out some more decorations. We even got their smaller tree put up in the family room and all trimmed. We were pretty proud of ourselves.

That night after the boy squad was in bed, it was time to get started hanging ornaments on the big tree. I plugged in the strand of lights...only to find half of them didn't work. I fiddled with moving and replacing bulbs, breaking two of them, then muttered under my breath as I wrapped them around the tree, half-lit, jokingly telling God that if He wanted to perform a Christmas miracle, He could make my lights work. I got everything up at nearly 1 am, smiled that I had finished and our house finally had a little holiday cheer, then sat down at the computer to sort through my bulging inbox. And guess what?

As I was sitting there--the non-working lights...came on.
Not all of them, but about half of the half.

Yeah.

It was as if God was nodding his approval. And showing me He cares. Even about the little stuff.

So--here I am on December 15. I haven't watched a single Christmas movie, there are no lights on the outside of our house, we haven't decorated cookies, the advent calendar isn't hung, and I still have a lot of presents to buy. But, I'm ok. I'm happy. I trust I'll fit it all in, somehow. And my boys will have all the simple, sweet memories of Christmas they deserve.

 I trust in myself. Because even being "fiercely independent"... I have the best Helper I could ever have.

there is no fear in this dojo

You know that scene in Home Alone where Kevin crawls out from underneath his parents bed and shouts, "I'M NOT AFRAID ANYMORE! DO YOU HEAR ME? I SAID, I'M NOT AFRAID ANYMORE!"

Yeah. That's me.

I think.

I hope.

The tide of my life is turning...again. Blessings seem to be pouring in from every direction. As if all the hard work, preparation, and prayers I have put in are all paying off at once. I fashioned a new bow when the old one broke, asked where to go get food, and finally...I'm eating. Now the trick is to just try and enjoy it without continuing to constantly glance over my shoulder, wondering when it's all going to get snatched away from me again.

So, yeah, I'm still a little uneasy. Maybe a little paranoid. I for sure still experience longing, and frustration, and feeling overwhelmed,and the occasional burst of anger (which I channel into kickboxing and writing "bad guy stories"). But you know what I'm not feeling anymore?

Fear.

I mean, if a tiger (or, if I'm being completely honest...a moth) chased me down the road or whatever, yeah--I'd be afraid. But the unnecessary fear, the worrisome kind that turned my insides to bile at night--It hasn't been around for quite a while now.

No more ulcers bothering me. No more waking up multiple times in the middle of the night. Much less heart cramping and palpitations.

 I think, after almost four years of learning one lesson after another about how God works (generally a sweep in at the last minute, dramatically save the day type guy in my case), I'm finally "getting it."

I have to do my part, of course. I have to wake up every day, and work hard, and build upon my talents, and have faith, and serve and be nice to people. But the rest just...comes. Needs get taken care of or suddenly don't seem like needs anymore. Big tasks may not get done in the timeline I want them to, but they always, always get done. I'm even beginning to see the answers to why some people come in to my life to stay, and why others come...and then go. It all has a purpose. If I just sit back, take a deep breath, and trust, somehow it manages to work out in happy ways.



For now: Living without fear has put me in a powerful place.

I'm not afraid to take chances. To send out work and have it rejected. I'm not afraid of where money is going to come from, even if it means I work my patootie off at five jobs. I'm not afraid of my boys making any worse choices than most kids make at their age. I'm not afraid of being single--in fact, I find the longer I'm left alone, the more awesome stuff I accomplish. And even though I'm not dating right now, I'm not afraid to try again at some point. Even if it means another heartbreak.


Of course, this is a much easier thing to proclaim when it feels I'm nearly to the top of a particular mountain rather than only standing at the base of it--but it really is true. All the time. My heart knows this. And I hope it remembers.

angels in our midst

Today a miracle happened. They happen every day, or at least on a regular basis--this I am certain of--though most times we're not even aware of them. But sometimes, like today, BAM! They happen in a way they can't be missed.

Driving home from work this afternoon, I let my mind wander to Christmas. Usually I have my shopping done by October. Not this year. In fact, I wasn't even gainfully employed in October.

Thus far, I'd only bought Z's gift, and a small thing for L and J. Since I have stayed out of debt for 3 1/2 years now, I was dreading having to pull out a long unused credit card to buy Christmas. I knew while the (stupid) credit card was out I was going to have to pay my (stupid) tuition with it as well. Seeing as how it's the last week of class and all, I figured that should be taken care of. I'd hoped for enough income from a design job I'm working on weekends to go towards both Christmas and tuition, but then my (stupid) van needed (stupid) new tires....and there went all that money I'd saved (though I must insert my brother-in-law was able to get me a MUCH better deal on tires than the place down the street, so I can't complain too much. See...miracles! :) ).

Anyway, I didn't like the situation but was grateful I had the means--even if not ideal ones--to take care of it. Then a deep impression came to me: Don't worry. It's going to get taken care of.

Yeah, I thought. I'm going to go  home and pay for stuff with my credit card (once I remember where I put it). It's going to get taken care of. You're right. Thanks!

Then I got home and there was a UPS envelope waiting for me. And in it...a generous amount of money from some anonymous angels in Southern California, accompanied by the most beautiful letter expressing their belief in me and in my boys, and asking that we accept their gift with graciousness and the understanding it was their pleasure to give.

Miracle.

A BAM! kind of miracle.

The amount is enough to cover my tuition, take care of Christmas, AND cover the expenses my paycheck doesn't for two months.

I stood simultaneously laughing and weeping at the kitchen counter, the boys taking note and running over to ask what was wrong. I read the letter to them through my tears, and we all shared a big hug. If you'd run some background music and faded out slowly, it would have been like the happy ending to a holiday movie. Only it was real. My real.

Anonymous angels--thank you. From the bottom of my  heart. My words feel so inadequate. You have no idea just what you've done for the boy squad and me. Not only financially, but the impression you have left spiritually. My children won't soon forget what it means to give, even when it's uncomfortable--for truly there are a lot of things you could have purchased for yourself with what you gave to us. We won't forget. Ever.

There have been many angels at work in my life over the last several years. Angels who fix computers, or blow out sprinkler lines in winter, or clean up the giant branch that falls off my tree, or repair bike tires, or help me with my lawnmower. Angels who show up at my house late at night to visit and just tell me they're happy I'm around. And now the angels who saved Christmas and kept me from going into credit card debt.

I know that prayers aren't always met with such rapid miracles. Trust me, I know.  But, you know what...sometimes they are. Believe. And do your best to act the part of an angel every day, too.
--

 (p.s. The angels specifically mentioned I get/do something for myself. I'm going to bring back our Netflix subscription so we can finish watching all the episodes of Top Gear and Yo Gabba Gabba. I may also treat my werewolf toes to a pedicure :) )

it's good to be me

It's been a really good week to be me, yesiree. I don't often get those weeks that go right,every day. So I'm really letting this one sink into my heart.

Thursday, I got to help my friend (and now boss) with her interview radio show "The Writer's Block." She taught me to run the sound board, record, cue, etc BECAUSE....I will be guest hosting for her on February 1. An hour to talk writing with guests of my choice...um, yes, please! I'm very excited. Green Eyes also met us down at the station that day to give me a copy of his newly completed (and most excellent) CD. My friend was so kind that she took it from him and played three of the songs during the music slots in the show. Hooray for being able to help out!

I got the call on Friday that I'd placed in the 101 word fiction contest I entered. It's sponsored through a widely read, local, weekly newspaper, and it's kind of a big deal around here to win it since all the really good but not yet professional writers enter. I will find out on January 4 when the winner's issue comes out just how I did, and then will get to participate in a special reading the next night. If I happened to get first place, there's a $400 prize. Not too shabby. And enough to cover the cost of the tires I had to replace on my van.

Friday night was my annual Festivus party, surrounded by old friends and new, sharing lots and lots of laughs.

Then Saturday, I was offered the Literary Director position at Fusion Magazine, where I've freelanced and run social media since April. It doesn't come with a lot of pay, but some, which is good for working it into my nights and weekends. And I get a huge say in shaping the tone of the magazine. Would love to steer it towards the direction of Harpers or Esquire. We certainly have the pool of writers around here to do it.

Anyway, I was really happy. It was so nice to have a week where nothing/no one pushed me down . Of course, I'm resolved to always see my blessings and be happy, no matter what--but wow (!) What a nice feeling when it's an EASY thing to do :)

Then, tonight, I did one of the hardest things I've had to do. Ever. And I didn't even know I would have to do it. It was Z and E's Christmas piano recital, and I sat in the same room with my ex-husband and his new wife and their baby. I've never had to do that in the two and a half years they've been together. Brad has just come to family stuff alone. But tonight, he brought them.

 I hadn't seen his baby before. She was cute. Not as cute as our kids, of course--but cute like babies are. I watched family members fawn all over said baby (which is fine--I strongly encourage baby fawning!).  I listened to Brad two rows behind me introducing "his wife" to people who hadn't met her, and heard a voice not mine saying, "Hello ______." And I sat there, alone, in the front row, being brave.

I held it together. My boys played brilliantly. I came home. I put them to bed. I stood over the sink and had a brief, intense, shoulder shaking, silent cry; my mind trying to wrap itself, again, around the fact that this is my life now.   For now and for how long I don't know, it will be just me and the boy squad. Then, I took one giant inhale/exhale and...let it all go.

And I was fine again...

Perfectly comforted in the fact that one day Brad WILL feel what I have felt, just as I have felt it. More than being thrust down to hell or made to roll a rock eternally up a hill or whatever, that's the only "justice" I ask for him from God. To feel without filter. And understand what he's done. Not just to say he does, but to really, really understand.

A rough situation that may have taken me days or weeks or even months to get over a few years ago, I now got over in the space of a half hour.  I think that's some great progress.

Yeah. A series of happy victories and one awesome display of strength and grace. Good to be me :) Hoping you all had a good week of being yourselves, too.

why i'll never be skinny

Me: college: 1993

I had a wonderful Thanksgiving. My tummy was happy-- full of warm, starchy comfort foods, and my heart was happy to be surrounded by loved ones. I enjoyed leftovers of my famous pumpkin cobbler with the ginger-maple whipped cream for three days afterwards. Following an extended weekend of indulging, I'd put on 3 pounds, which I knew meant wearing my *big pants* for the next week while I ran, kicked, and climbed it off.  It's all part of this continuing love/hate relationship I've had going with my body for about 22 years now...

When puberty finally caught me at age 15, I went from a boney kid to a hip-heavy 145 pounds in one summer. I stayed there for the next two years--eating both well (salads and fruit) and not so well (entire jumbo bags of peanut butter M&M's). I always stayed active dancing or biking, though not really giving much thought to the idea of what exercise was or what it did. My body was just comfortable where it was. I didn't even think to compare myself to any of my friends.

Fast forward:
When I married the last week of 1994, I was 103 pounds soaking wet. That number was a result of a solid year subsisting on 900 calories a day, and at least two hours of intense exercise--most of it involving sprinting the stairs of my college's stadium at midnight.

In October of my freshmen year of college, for some reason, I just decided I was fat and I wasn't going to be fat anymore. And I wasn't going to be fat anymore as quickly as possible.

 At my worst, my periods became sporadic, my hair started falling out in big clumps, and I nearly passed out every time I stood up. I tried binging and purging, but with no gag reflex, I couldn't throw up, which only served to tick me off and send me further restricting my diet, counting even the calories in the toothpaste I used and the stamps I licked.

 I can remember being so hungry that I'd pour sugar substitute and a little cinnamon in a bowl and eat it by licking my finger and dipping. I thought about food all. the. time. About eating it. About not eating it. About how I'd rather die than put on a pound, and yet obsessed about when I could eat my  next 100 calorie "meal."

People complimenting me on how I looked (which was actually not too bad since I always wore clothes too big for me) only fueled the fire.

Then, about 110 pounds, something changed...people stopped telling me I looked great and started telling me maybe I needed some help. A friend from church calmly suggesting I get help after I fainted in the foyer. An old roommate. My now fiancee. Thinking I was fine and that I'd prove them all wrong, I made an appointment to see a counselor on campus. The session did no good, in fact, all I remember is the counselor talking about corn on the cob and some other nonsense.

Months passed. Then a year. Then two. I got married. I settled into our new life. I didn't get any more formal help, but I did go inside myself and realize the motivating force behind it all was being in such out of control circumstances as were my late teenage and early 20's years.Eating (or not) was one thing I felt I COULD assert some power over...but it wasn't making me happy.  I started to let go of the compulsive need to control. I started to believe my  husband when he told me I was beautiful. I started to be ok buying larger clothes. And the scale settled upwards, once again, at 145.

The one thing about my years as an anorexic I took with me was that the alternative to fat or thin can be STRONG. I appreciate the beauty in going to the gym every day--or at least regularly--rain or shine, snow or wind. I know the machines will always be there for me, and that if I insert myself in them and go long and hard enough, they will nearly always make me feel better. I know I can take a kickboxing class and beat the crap out of someone in my mind, I can lift a weight a little heavier than I was lifting two months before, and I can lift it a few more times. I am fit enough that I worked out the day before having all my babies, and would be back and working out 2-3 days after.

Following my bout with Rheumatic Fever 3 years ago--the 6 weeks it forced me to stay in bed in excruciating pain, the 30 pounds (of post baby and depression from my mom dying weight) I lost in a month, and the resulting heart damage it left me with--my doctor told me I probably shouldn't do any more than walk or moderately exercise for the rest of my life. I couldn't and wouldn't believe that. And so I ignored his advice and have pushed myself harder and further than ever before, now running 25 miles a week in addition to classes and weights. Unlike college when I exercised just to be thin, now I do it because I cannot seem to live with being weak. And though I workout hard, and generally 5-6 times a week, it's still just a PART of my life, not it's entirity.

Currently, at 5' 7", I fluctuate between 135 and 145. When I'm heavier getting lighter, I feel focused and motivated. When I'm lighter getting heavier, I'm eating some marvelous food and generally feeling settled and content. Up or down, my pant size stays the same. I'm comfortable in my skin once more...mostly (I mean, I AM human :) )  I have been tempted to get all crazy about my eating again. It's hard competing against thin, beautiful women for the small amount of eligible men, and I think maybe the control over something would be nice again...Then I look back on my super skinny, size 2 photos and remember what it felt like to be consumed by food that I wasn't consuming. If the trade off for a  slight badonkadonk butt is a balanced life and the ability to eat a piece (or three) of pie....I'm ok with that.