C'est la vie, 2013

It is here. Day 365 of 365. The finale. Another year gone by. Memories made. Possibilities on the horizon.

In the past this was a night in which I'd put on my best sparkly clothes, extra lipstick, poof my hair up a bit more, head out to a party at my favorite Chicago dance club (RIP Polly Esther's) and drink top shelf liquor until the wee hours. I'd dance in the middle of the dance floor with my best friends and scream the countdown to the New Year with a rebel yell of glee and happiness. New Year's Eve was always one of my favorite nights of the year. I can't recall one that disappointed.

Those memories makes me smile. (Go ahead, remember some of your best New Year Eve parties, memories, moments. They don't' disappoint, do they?)

And now, my New Year's Eve of the present, I am watching the snow gently falling while drinking coffee out of my "Who Let the Girls Out" mug (Thank you, DeAnna) remembering my past and looking ahead to my future. I am not putting on extra lipstick tonight or sparkly clothes. There will be no dance club floor with my scuff marks on it. Tonight, I am celebrating with my two most favorite people on the planet- my children. We are putting on our best pajamas and heading down to our favorite neighbors' apartment for dinner and drinks (which they get from the top shelf of their kitchen cabinet). We're all going to write our New Year resolutions and put them in a jar to read 366 days from today. We'll play games and listen to good music and laugh and be happy... and free.

I can not say 2013 was a stellar year. There were many dark days in it for me. It was one of my hardest and most frustrating.  There wasn't one aspect of my life that I did not feel unraveled or became hard to manage. I withdrew and lost my confidence. Those dark days left me feeling so unlike myself.

As the education reform sweeping the nation finally reached my classroom, school became a challenge. The profession I once adored is being transformed into something I am not entirely sure I want to be a part of for the rest of my career. Let me clarify by saying that I am not only talking about the Common Core State Standards, but that this year I actually had to wear a t-shirt that said "No Fight Zone" on it and was also told by the assistant that we would no longer use the word consequence in our school because it is a "bad word".

Sleep eluded me for most of the year. Name an hour of the wee night and I have looked it square in the eye- not on a dance floor nor full of top shelf liquor. Lose sleep and you're looking at a myriad of troubles. None of which I'd like to discuss at this point.

Being the only parent of a kindergartner and third grader presented so many new challenges. (Besides the third grade math.) They want to do more things, be involved, have school projects to complete, and tougher questions to answer. They fight more, have egos that bruise easily, and in an irritating way, find anything to do with poop amazingly funny.

The struggle of raising children who are moral, kind, generous, well-rounded, curious... and hilarious... grew as they grew. They are out there... in the world... navigating it for themselves and I am wondering if I did enough with the lull-a-byes and hugs and bedtime stories to aid them through it. Hence, part of the reason for my sleepless nights in 2013.

I realized recently (meaning, it really hit me) how LITTLE my children were when their Dad left- just turned 2 and just turned 4- and I wonder how I did it. How did I change the diapers, get the baths done, wipe the tears... get them to daycare, preschool, and manage to make them smile as often as they did...without losing my mind? Why didn't I break long ago?

Continuing to carry the stigma of an ex-wife with an ex-husband in prison did not get any easier this year. (Even I snicker at the absurdity that I thought it would.) It is probably most what robs me of my confidence. I am so afraid of what people think about that. I know it is what hinders me actually having a second date and letting someone new into my life.

The saddest thing of all was how little I wrote in 2013. There are some days I wanted to write so badly it hurt. It actually physically hurt. My fingers ached and my forearms had to be stretched. My head spun so fast with thoughts I had to sit down.

There were nights I'd lie awake for hours processing sentences and phrases over and over in my head to the point where I could actually hear them. Right there in my room, they whispered and called to me begging me to just write.

But, I did not. Every thought, idea, post, word worried me that I'd offend someone (shocking, I know), or anger someone, or it would be so stupid people would stop reading. I was my worst critic.

When we go to our New Year's Eve pajama party in a bit, the resolution I am putting in the jar is to write more. Write and write and write. Through writing, comes healing and peace and freedom from all that holds me back. I know this New Year's Eve won't disappoint.

I am certain I was born to write. It is a great skill to have and not just to BS your way through college papers. I am certain I was born to write so that when life threw me a curve ball- I'd make it through. And then I realized, if I piss someone off or turn someone away with my words... well, then I am a writer.

In 2014, I am a writer.

A Problem of Obtuse Proportions

I am 39 years old and I can not do math.

There are many people who believe you should never utter the words, "I can't" for if you do you are holding yourself back.

I am all good with being held back.

I first realized I could not do math the summer I turned 8 years old. My mother, being the good teacher she was, believed that children "lost so much knowledge" over the summer. (For the record, I do not entirely buy into this theory.) So, before school let out, she'd trekked over to the teacher store (they actually have these stores- the teacher store- filled with posters, classroom supplies, bulletin board boarders, workbooks, stickers, anything and everything a teacher could ever want) and bought my sister and I summer workbooks for reading and math. She came home and showed them to us, smiling as she said we'd have to complete one page from each book every day of our summer vacation. Every. Day. We would have to do math. Problems. This was certainly a problem for me. I probably started to cry right then and there, before the brown workbook had ever been open.

I dreaded the endless problems of addition, subtraction, multiplication, division. The story problems, the symbols, the numbers- the whole lot of it, I just, despised. My mind never worked when it came to all those things. Numbers frustrated me, it was hard. They never worked right in my head. It took me FOREVER to solve simple problems. Forget long division.

And so there I sat, every day of my summer vacation, with my little legs sticking to the vinyl kitchen chair, doing math problems. My pencil rubbed tally marks and answers, only to be erased because they were wrong. What was wrong was that I was even sitting there, baking in our tiny kitchen, adding up numbers I did not even care about. If I'd known then what a calculator was, I would have snuck one in so at least I could get outside to enjoy some of  the daylight.

To make matters worse, my sister was a whiz at math. She finished her problems with such speed and gusto, it made me hate math more. I am pretty sure her legs never had time to stick to the vinyl chairs.

By the time I got to junior high, I really hated math. In eighth grade, my teacher, Mr. Johan, would teach us algebra. By the end of May, all I knew about algebra was that you could call it "alge's bra" and that was thanks to the completely immature boy that sat behind me. Mr. Johan had no use for me because I was not good at math. He would fire graded papers  back at us like missiles. (I think he secretly delighted in this, as he struck with such force, more so with the papers filled with redmarks- like mine. It is surprising I did not lose an eye that year.) At the end of the year, he told us what math class we would take in high school. I would be placed into the "fundamental classes". He was clearly disappointed; I was relieved.

In high school, I stayed in that fundamental track all four years. Those of us in that track (I interject to inform all those mortified by the term "tracked", that I turned out just fine, even after being labeled.) affectionately coined the term, "fun-for-mentals", for all our math classes. "Fun-for-mentals" geometry 1, "fun-for-mentals algebra 2 and so on.

My sophomore year, one quarter, there was a big fat F on my report card for "fun-for-mentals" geometry. Obviously, I was not having so much fun in that class. I tried to explain to my parents (who kindly let me live after getting an F on a report card) that slopes of lines and names of shapes and pie X radius squared (Ha! And you were beginning to think I'd learned nothing!) really did not matter. I tried. They did not believe me and therefore, I spent the next quarter of my life in complete and total math hell. I can not even type about it, it takes me back to such a bad place.

Once in college, I knew there would be more math classes to take and unfortunately, my university did not offer "fun-for-mentals" level math classes.

Then came the first day of math methods. Methods classes are for education majors. In these classes, you learn to teach all the different subjects. Since I was an elementary school major, I would have to learn to teach math. I am pretty sure there is not a point in my life that is a bigger oxymoron.

My professor was in love with math. In love. She was a beautiful woman who dressed to the nines, had nails painted shades of deep red (which often reminded me of Mr. Johan's graded paper missiles), and spoke in a grand voice about the wonders of math. She was high on math. Every day.

Her task, so she told us, was to show us all these fabulous new ways to teach math. Clearly, I had missed something- new ways to teach a subject thousands of years old? In a great flurry, she would present these methods and everyone else in the class would scribble away in their notebooks, while I sat there completely dumbfounded thinking, "What in the great hell have I gotten myself into?" She'd assign problems for us to solve and walk around to look at everyone's work. My paper- blank. Her expression- annoyance.

Math methods got so bad I had to have my boyfriend  tutor me. He was a mechanical engineering student. All the people at his university loved math. He loved math. Everyone at that point in my life loved math. I was a complete and total outcast.

Somehow, I managed to pass math methods and soon found myself standing in front of my own classroom! Of sixth graders. Who would need to be taught math. I truly do not know how, but I managed to teach them math. One of my former students from that class recently told me that I'd taught it so well. I told her it was all smoke and mirrors.

Eventually, I became an eighth grade English teacher and never thought about math again. Occasionally, in study halls, students would ask me to help them with their math. My response was, "I do not speak math." They'd giggle and show me their problems. I'd say, "Yep. That is a problem," and walk away to find them a math teacher.

Then, I became a mom. Not long after we brought our sweet baby girl home, my husband and I sat in the living room, gazing at her and discussing her future. We talked of when she'd go to school and what her experience would be like. We laughed about how I would never be able to help her with her math homework. We made a deal, right then and there, a promise, that he would help her with all her math homework and I would help with all her English homework.

A deal and a promise, breezily made, but one which I took completely to heart. I knew then that I did not want my daughter to know the frustrations, the aggravations, the disappointments, the resentments I had known about math. I was relieved that she would have someone with her, helping her, guiding her, and sharing his love of a subject with her.

My daughter is now in third grade.

And her Dad is not here to help with her math homework. I am.

If you know nothing about current third grade math, let me sum it up for you by telling you that the teacher has to send  links to tutorials every night for parents so that they can learn how to do the math. Every night. Tutorials. For the parents. Who went to third grade.

I watch the tutorials. I listen to the methods. I see what is happening on the screen. My eyes begin to blur. My ears fill with fog. And my body fills with hate.

Not hate of the subject, hate of my ex-husband.

It is the first time, in five years, I have hated him. Truly hated him with every ounce of my being. All the wrong he did, all the pain he caused, all the things we have had to endure because of him, and now I truly hate him because he left me here to do math problems. He broke his promise. And that is a problem.

My sweet girl looks at me, sees me watching those tutorials, listens to me shouting about how in my day math was not like this, and says, "It's ok, Mama. I can help you." Sweet baby Jesus, how did I ever get such a good little girl?

I can't say that one day I will love math. But I can say that I love helping my daughter with her math homework. Even though I still don't get it.

*This is for Cindi. Thank you for getting me to write again, friend.

A Query or Two

Maybe you're wondering why it has been so long since I have written.

There are countless posts just sitting in my dashboard. Most are half written, half deleted. A few only contain one sentence. Or a quote. Most trail off and lose their focus half way through.

They all depict my frustrations as a writer. The frustration of loss of words, explanation, feeling, motivation, and... most importantly, loss of pride.

Of all the arts, I believe writing to be the most difficult. One must paint the picture, activate the mind, leave room for thought all in one piece. Lately, I just haven't felt I could do that.

Then something happened yesterday and now, the words just have to come out. That's how writing is. The words build up inside you... no matter how long you've kept them in there... and finally, they have to come out. 

Yesterday, we took a quick trip to Target. I wanted to get in and out in under forty-five minutes. So, why is that when a mom is so focused on such a task, her child picks that moment in time to start asking the "hard questions"?

Less than two minutes away from the store, from the backseat came the most heavyhearted voice I have heard in a long time. 

"Mama? It's not fair we can't have Daddy at our house. He can't play with us. It's not fair," announced my five-year old son.

I can not be certain what prompted his sentiment, perhaps it was that we'd spent the afternoon at the elementary school fun fair where Dads galore played games with their children, or maybe it was that later that evening they were headed to a friend's house to watch the original Star Wars with their friend's Dad. Whatever the case, his declaration was there, hanging raw and heavy in the air.

And I had no idea what to say in response.

As tears welled in my eyes, I replied, "You're right Bud, it's not fair." Choking back a sob, I willed this conversation to cease.

But, he went on.

"It really isn't, Mama. He has to live so far away. They should let him come home one special day to play in our house."

I wanted nothing more to get into the Target parking lot, so I could call out that it was time to help me look for a parking spot. Or to have some stupid driver cut me off so I could yell out something, thus distracting my son. I searched every corner of my brain for something else to talk about. No words came.

Sometimes, the questions have to be asked and the conversations just need to be had.

He went on.

"Mama, what did Daddy do? Really, Mama, what did he do? Why was he bad?"

I resorted to my standard answer, "Bud, remember. Daddy did something bad, that grown-ups aren't supposed to do, so the police said he has to live in Robinson for a while longer."

"I know, Mama. But, what was it?"

There was never a moment I wished for a car accident more than this one.

Long ago, I told my ex-husband I would not, not, tell our children what he'd done. One, for now, they are much, much too young to even understand what he did. There are absolutely no childlike terms to describe his crime. Two, I will be plagued with enough grown-up things to tell them. In fact, just this morning I narrowly ditched a sex discussion with my daughter. Parents should share responsibility in serious discussions with their children. And, three, most simply, it is not my story to tell. It is his. He needs to find the words to explain it to their. He has to answer their questions. He must take the ultimate ownership of his actions and relay his life-altering actions to them.

My son continued as we finally pulled into Target's parking lot. "Mama, did he hurt somebody?"

Exasperated, defeated, tired, and deeply saddened, I quietly answered, "Yes, Bud, he did."

His little voice grew louder, "What's their name?"

Putting the car into park, I turned around to face my children. I said, "I can't tell you their name. Some day, Daddy will tell you about it. But, for now, let's remember that Mama & Daddy love you very much, no matter where we are."

It must have been our guardian angels because, he seemed content with that answer. My children looked at each other and my daughter said, "It still isn't so fair that we don't have a Daddy."

I affirmed their notion and simply said, "You're right. It isn't so fair that you don't have a Daddy that lives with you. But, you have a Daddy that loves you. Now, let's get our shopping done. Who wants a Starbucks?" I was wishing Starbucks' shots were of the alcoholic kind at that point.

They declared they both did and scrambled out of the car. My daughter grabbed for my hand, and asked me, "Mama, have you had any luck finding us a new Daddy?"

I looked up at the sky and sighed. Seriously? What happened to my simple trip to Target? I ignored her question. It was too much.

But since that moment, her question has played over and over in my head.

Why haven't I found them a new Daddy? (And for the record, I hate this term- "new Daddy". No one needs a new Daddy. I don't want them to have a new Daddy. I more want them to have a "bonus Daddy".)

I have been  on internet dating sites. I have gone on dates. People have set me up with friends of friends. There has been laughter and twinkling eyes and decent conversation.

I've watched other recently divorced people meet someone who sweeps them off their feet in a matter of months. At this point, I am not recently divorced, so I have started to wonder, "What is wrong with me?"

All the Daddy talk and Daddy questions and Daddy wishes leave me wound tight. And sad. And lonely.

Maybe I am like my son, asking the hard questions. Still examining all the facts I have. Attempting to make sense of a life that is not what it should have been. Still piecing back together a wounded heart. Trying to understand why I won't let anyone back into my heart.

There comes a point in your life when you have to answer the hard questions. And I think it is time I start answering my own hard questions. Yet, going forward with that isn't as simple as typing out this post. I think what needs to happen is best summed up for me in this quotation from ― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart. Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books written in a foreign language. Do not now look for the answers. They cannot now be given to you because you could not live them. It is a question of experiencing everything. At present you need to live the question. Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it, find yourself experiencing the answer, some distant day.”