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.”
