Tuesday, August 19, 2008

The Boys are Back in Town!

Of course most mothers feel attached to their children. And some of those mothers have more trouble cutting the proverbial apron strings than others. It's safe to say I fit this category.

When my oldest son was 3 I signed him up for preschool because I thought it was the right decision for him. But it didn't feel like the right decision for me. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving him in the care of someone else, I'd surely fall apart. So I calmed myself with the decision that I would drop him off and just wait in the parking lot each day. Ultimately I was able to leave the parking lot. I knew I had to let go, and he thrived and I stayed intact.

I never liked the boys riding in other people's cars or sleeping over at friend's houses. Cub scout camp was only barely tolerable for me because their dad went, too. When he was at outdoor school, I would wake up each of the 3 nights my son was gone and imagine him getting lost in the woods trying to find the bathroom. The first time the boys went to a movie without an adult I arrived early to pick them up and practically camped outside the the theatre doors to meet them as soon as they emerged. But I let them go, and they, of course, thrived and I still managed to stay intact.

When their dad and I split up I knew I would need to face the inevitable travel without me. The first summer of our separation my husband decided to take them on a 12 day road trip to visit Grandma in California. The boys were thrilled at the prospect but for me he might as well have sent them down into an abandoned mine shaft. 1500 miles of driving -- each way! Perhaps letting them go unattended into a rest stop restroom! Staying in earthquake country! With a woman who was most certainly never a fan of me! No amount of fruit picking could assuage my anxiety.

But 12 days passed and they returned, tan and beaming and full of tales they will have to recount forever. They definitely thrived. And there was I, still somehow intact.

This summer their dad proposed another road trip with a slight twist, they would drive there and, gasp, fly home! I'm not a flying fan for me, let alone for my children. At least while driving I could call or text them and know they were ok. But last night they traveled home. On a plane. At departure time I checked the airline website. Five minutes into departure I checked the flight status again. And so it went until they landed.

They are both here with me now. Tanned and beaming and full of tales they will recount forever. And they continue to thrive and I am admittedly still intact.

The thing about cutting apron strings is that while you let go of a little fabric, the apron itself is still intact. I realize that raising children is about gradually letting them go so that when they are adults they can not only stand alone, but thrive. If you give them the opportunity to be independent, to explore on their own, but always be there with open arms when they return, the relationship you forged with them since birth will ultimately remain intact.

Thursday, August 14, 2008

Crystal Clear

Today is my, sorry, our 15th wedding anniversary, traditionally known as the crystal anniversary. I wonder, had we stayed together, what we might have done to commemorate 15 years. Such speculation is pointless; there's no way to know what might have been, but I do have 15 years of what was, and it wasn't all bad.

We, like most couples, registered for gifts. We registered for all types of things we would never buy for ourselves but thought we needed since someone else would be buying. Like china and cloth napkins and a toasted sandwich maker and, yes, crystal. Waterford crystal wine glasses with a gold rim. Many people bought these for us and I carefully put each one of them away in our china hutch. I could look through the glass doors at that sparkling stemware and feel like a grown up married person.

One January morning, a few months after the wedding, a violent earthquake hit the San Fernando Valley where we lived. Our house was in ruins. The house pitched so dramatically that it flung open cabinets, closets, even the fridge, hurling the contents across rooms and onto the floor. In shock, I wandered into the dining room. The china hutch doors were closed but the crystal wasn't inside. Those doors, too, had been thrown open, jettisoning the contents onto the floor and then slamming shut again. On the rug lay shards and jagged fragments of Waterford crystal. I picked up the broken base of a glass, the label still on it. I hadn't even had the chance to drink out of my grown-up married glasses.

Among the rubble and tipped over inside the china hutch, a few whole glasses remained which I have kept and used and treasured ever since. So it is fitting to me that this is our crystal anniversary. Like the Waterford our marriage ended up mostly broken, but there were good, solid pieces, too. And I have those to keep.

Monday, August 11, 2008

Zen and the Art of Fruit Picking

I suffer from anxiety yet I refuse to take drugs for this problem. Most people I know take some sort of anti-depressant or mood stabilizer. And they are better for it. Perhaps I would be, too. The problem is I am too anxious to take medication. So I have to cope the best I can with creative, non-medicated anxiety-busting. During the summer I am the least anxious of any season thanks to fruit.

We live in a small town situated in a quasi-country setting. There are numerous berry farms and orchards just spitting distance from our home. Starting in June with strawberries, I head to the U-Pick farms and commune with nature. I love the heat of the sun on my bare arms. I love the rustle of the bushes as the breeze blows. I love the smell of warm, ripe berries rising up in the sun. I love my stained hands and the full plastic buckets of juicy, sweet gems. I pick blueberries, raspberries, blackberries, marionberries, boysenberries, loganberries, etc. I pick cherries and peaches and then apples, pears and plums.

Fruit picking makes me happy. Being outside is calming. It's a simple pastime that brings me peace in a complex world.

My freezer is filled with bags of fruit to use later for making baked goods. And then there's the jam. I make batches and batches of freezer jam for my family to enjoy as well as to share with others.

In those dark, wet grim winter days, a simple jam-coated piece of toast transports you back to summer and reminds you that warm days will come again. Just like taking a pill is intended to ease a dark, troubled mind full of worry and allow you to see the light of day. So until I can swallow a Prozac or Xanax, I'll open my freezer and pull out a little dose of berry-flavored Zen.

Wednesday, August 6, 2008

How did I get here?

It's coming down to the wire now. My divorce. I guess it's our divorce. My soon-to-be-ex always hated it when I referred to what was ours as mine. Like my wedding. My kids. So, our divorce.

Next week would have been our 15th wedding anniversary. I guess it still is since we're still technically married. 18 years together and it's all reduced to a dollar amount. I can't seem to separate emotion from business. Which, by the way, is why I'm not a business person. We're volleying back and forth with the "help" of expensive lawyers who keep asking for more money with little to show for the expense. My husband hates the idea of paying me spousal support. He doesn't view it as a responsibility to his children. He views it as a burden. And his summary of me is one who has taken advantage of him.

I am looking for full time work which is hard enough for people who did not leave the workforce 14 years ago and who are younger than 42. I'm trying to focus in on a field I can embrace and thrive in while the boys at 11 and 13 still need me around. Helping them with homework, ferrying them around to various activities and social events, being supportive of them as they navigate puberty and adolescence, providing a loving, safe home in which they can grow and learn. But there is no quantifiable value in motherhood. I need to be "self-supporting" and stop "taking advantage" of my husband, their father.

I don't know what the final settlement will look like. My husband complains that things are taking too long. I know this is my fault; as I try to review the numbers that are faxed back and forth, they start morphing into memories of happier times when I still held fast to the dream of an intact family. Of laughter and togetherness and love. All those things that can't be assigned a number. But divorce isn't emotion. It's business. And as I said, I'm not a business person...