The Golden Roll...I mean Rule

In our home, Saturday mornings tend to be more sacred than Sundays.  Regardless of where we are going on Sunday morning, the time is rushed. There is a calm during worship, but then the rest of the day is a marathon to finish all the weekend things and the preparation for the next week things.

Saturdays are different.  Every Friday night, Matt will look at me and say, “I think we should just sleep until we wake up tomorrow.”  And that is music to my ears.  We are constantly running from one thing to another.  Sleeping in is a luxury.

When we do get up, there is a sacred breakfast ritual.  Matt will fix us our weekend Nespresso “fancy” coffee with freshly frothed cream, while I start breakfast preparations.  He hands me my coffee in my favorite mug, a gift from my best friend.  And he takes his favorite New Orleans mug, a gift from his sister, and heads to the computer room to start addressing the 57 things in his head. 

Except he typically gets sidetracked before really getting started because he needs to pick just the right music to listen to while he works.  And that takes him on a meandering path of coffee sipping and rabbit chasing relaxation.

Meanwhile, I cook breakfast.  It is my favorite meal to cook in the whole week.  There isn’t the usual pressure of homework and time.  And it is a meal when we don’t count points or calories.  Also, I love breakfast.  I make pancakes and syrup from scratch.  French toast heavy on the cinnamon-y batter.  Cheesy eggs.  And thick, crispy bacon.  No turkey bacon allowed on Saturday morning.

Today, followed the usual routine.  Matt fixed our coffee and headed off to continue summer vacation research.  I started breakfast.  Bacon.  Eggs scrambled in the bacon yum yums.  And cinnamon rolls.

I bought several cans of cinnamon rolls for crockpot monkey bread on our camping trip over spring break, but I forgot to pack the other ingredients.  So we had a rare can of iced cinnamon roll deliciousness.

Saturday breakfast also happens at the breakfast room table and often lasts an hour or more while we talk.  Many times we plan for the weekend or upcoming activities.  But we also talk about other random things.  Vacations.  News.  Upcoming concerts in the works.  And how Matt has my permission to spend as much money as he wants to secure tickets to Phil Collins, number one on my concert bucket list.  Phil Collins is to me what Rush is to Matt.

Today, as we were finishing up our breakfast and winding down our conversation, I asked Matt if he wanted to split the last cinnamon roll.  I’d been eyeing it the last ten minutes.  One section of this roll was just a touch more toasted.  And without icing, you could see it would be a little crunchier than the surrounding iced, soft yumminess.

Matt agreed that we should split it, so I reached over and turned the pan in order to slice through the crunchy spot so we’d both have part of the extra good section.  I’d been planning this, as I’d been eyeing it, to make sure neither of us got all the crunchy spot.  Unfortunately, my fork cutting wasn’t awesome, and one piece was still crunchier.

Just as I was reaching in to get the best piece to serve to Matt, he swooped in and grabbed the crunchy piece for himself.  I said, “Hey, I was getting that piece.”

He said, “I know.  But I beat you to it.  You can have the good one.”

As we finished our breakfast, I sat there thinking about how good it is to be in a relationship where both people try to think of the other person first.  At the same time I was planning to serve him the extra gooey goodness, he was thinking about how to turn the tables.  And he did.

It’s just kindness.  The golden rule.  Putting someone else’s needs first.  Not that either of us “needed” any more cinnamon roll goodness.

Having been a part of a failed marriage, I’ve had ample opportunity to examine what works and what doesn’t in a relationship.  And while there are a variety of really big things that lead to the end in my first marriage, the underlying ingredient that sets my current relationship apart is kindness.

But not just kindness.  More like a kindness partnership.  It isn’t just my goal to be kind; it’s Matt’s goal too.  It flows both ways. 

I think the golden rule is like a super power.  When partners are both treating the other the way they want to be treated, it creates this circuit of kindness that just keeps growing as it flows back and forth.

And that’s critical because “hangry”…is a real thing.  And so is pumpkin time; it starts at about 9:00 pm for me.

But having this arc of kindness that is constantly flowing and growing between two people makes hangry and pumpkin and cranky--manageable. Survivable.  Thrivable.

I realize that some people would say that Matt and I are still in the honeymoon phase.  But to be perfectly frank, that’s some BS.  In a blended family, there are some complications and nightmares that make the learning, growing, stretching, and struggling much more intense.  And if you don’t believe me, you should spend some time really getting to know a family like mine.

There is rarely a week that goes by that doesn’t include some trauma from our baggage or the blended family predicament.  It is kindness, every single time, that gets us through.

I am not kind all the time.  Definitely not.  I am frequently cranky, hangry or pumpkin.  But kindness is my goal.

And I’m convinced that in the relationships of those around me that I admire, the people who seem to still really like each other after 15, 20 or more years, there must be an undercurrent of kindness and rushing in to take the crunchy piece.

In the very best of circumstances, relationships are hard work.  Daily work.  Moment by moment work.  My advice?  Share the last roll.  And sometimes, trick your partner into taking the best part.

Mending

A few months back I did some sewing for Isabelle. Nothing too complicated. I took in a couple of dresses along the side seams. Isabelle is thin and dresses that are the right length are often too big around. I wasn’t sure how well it would work on these particular dresses, one had an overlay, but both turned out great.

This isn’t the first time I’ve mended for Isabelle, but it is the first time her mom sent over something for me to work on. Apparently Isabelle told her I could fix it. And I was happy to give it a shot.

Before I got started I turned both dresses inside out and had Isabelle put them on so I could pin them along the seam where I wanted to sew. I put several pins, pointy side out, in my mouth to hold them while I slowly started pinning along the seam.

And I was instantly taken back.

I cannot tell you how many times I stood just like Isabelle was standing, arms up, looking down watching my mom with pins in her mouth, as she pinned beside a seam. The way she would guide me in a turn as she finished around the length of a hem. The way she mumbled directions to me around the pins poking out from her lips.

I do not have the sewing skills my mom does. But I have a sewing machine that my mom bought me years ago, and I do know my way around curtains, pillow cases, and most mending projects. I’ve been putting darts in my pants for years. My mom taught me all of that.

As I sat on the edge of the couch that day, pins in my mouth, looking up at Isabelle, I felt like a real mom. I used to imagine making curtains for a nursery. A cover for a changing table. I never got to do those things. But here I was. Sewing for my stepdaughter. And it was one of the sweetest moments of my life.

My relationship with my mom has transitioned into something very different in the last few years as her dementia has changed the person she is. She is NOT the same mom I had most of my life. She is not the rock solid, “I can do anything”, go to person that she was for most of my life. Her memory comes and goes. Mostly goes. She isn’t terribly reasonable. And I think she spends much of the time feeling a little afraid. I think it scares her when she can’t remember things she’s always known. How to do things she’s always done.

For a while our daily conversations got pretty unpleasant. She seemed angry all the time. That isn’t my mom.

The day after I fixed Isabelle’s dresses I called my mom and took a new approach. I didn’t ask her any questions. I didn’t ask her about her day or what she’d eaten or whether she had taken her medicine. Instead, I just told her my sewing story.

I described in detail how I’d fixed Isabelle’s dresses. She was so proud of me. She had no idea that I knew how to sew. Didn’t remember that she had bought my sewing machine. So I told her all about it. And then I told her about some of the projects she made for me growing up.

I reminded her of when she taught me to make some skirts while I was in college. We didn’t have much money for clothes when I began student teaching. So we bought a pattern for a skirt. And she watched over me while I made several variations of that skirt in different fabrics. It was a bargain.

This spring break as we get ready to go camping, our little camper has needed some repairs. I started camping with Mom and John in this camper in high school. A few years ago, after Matt and I had borrowed it a few times, she gave it to us. It is far from fancy, but the price was right.

Every time we take it out we make some adjustments. Alterations. Upgrades. This week I decided to tackle some tears in the vinyl.

I pulled out a needle and some upholstery thread and got to work. It took me about ten minutes to realize that I didn’t have the right tools. The needle I was using was tearing up my fingers and I couldn’t maneuver it easily in the space. I realized I needed an upholstery needle.

I have never owned an upholstery needle. I had a vague idea of what one looked like. But I’d never used one. But sometime long ago Mom and I had conversations about repairing seat covers and furniture. She’d described the unique shape of and use for an upholstery needle. So I went and bought one.

Today, armed with my new curved needle, I fixed the pulls along some seams in the camper. The stitching isn’t beautiful. But it is functional. Rain and bugs won’t be entering through those spots in the camper. But more importantly, the seams won’t get worse.

I called my mom while I was working. Described what I was doing. The shape of the needle. She couldn’t remember exactly what they looked like. Didn’t remember ever using one. But she sure enjoyed hearing about my project.

The hardest part of dementia is mourning a person who is still here. But also gone.

I don’t talk to Mom about the master schedule anymore. I don’t talk to her about school too much at all. She gets frustrated with her own lack of understanding about things she knows she should know. I miss that camaraderie based on our shared love of education.

I miss my mom. Who she was. Even as I adjust to our new relationship. And stop to appreciate the sweet moments we still have. I miss her.

But I’m blessed by her legacy.

What's In A Name?

On the way home from church several months back, Isabelle initiated an interesting conversation with me.

Isabelle:  Do you think it’s strange when a kid calls his parent by their first name?

Me:  Kind of, yes.  I think it’s more respectful to call a parent Mom or Dad usually.  Though if I’m in a room with a bunch of women, including my mom, I’m likely to call her “Judy” to get her attention rather than “Mom” when 9 other ladies might also be moms in the room. 

Isabelle:  Do you think it’s weird that I call you Laura?

Me:  *giant pause to consider my answer to this out of nowhere question*

I went on to explain that in our situation I didn’t think it was strange at all.  Because she already has a mom, and I am her stepmom, it’s perfectly normal for her to call me by my first name.  I explained that I would never demand that she call me by any particular name and that she could pretty much call me whatever she wanted as long as it was nice. 😆

It was a relatively short conversation that took me by surprise.  I got the impression that it was something she had been stewing on for a while.  It never really occurred to me that she should or would call me by anything other than “Laura,” so I was truly caught off guard. 

Just as we were nearing the house she announced, “I think I’ll call you ‘Mom 2’”.

I’m not exactly sure what I said to that except that she was welcome to call me whatever she wanted.  I was pretty much stunned by the whole conversation.  Later when Matt and I discussed it privately we wondered if she was thinking “Mom Two” or “Mom Too”.  I didn’t really care either way, but we were curious.

She referred to me as “Mom 2” later on that day, but then I didn’t hear it again for a while.  In fact, from the beginning I sort of assumed she wouldn’t keep it going, and I wasn’t particularly concerned about it.  We have gotten to such a sweet place in our relationship that it wasn’t something that I needed, and if she forgot about it, it wasn’t a big deal.  I mean, one name is as good as another right? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, according to Juliet.

But she didn’t forget.  When my brother from Portland and his family were in town for Thanksgiving, I overheard Isabelle talking to her cousin in the other room about me.  “Her name isn’t Laura to me” she said.  “I call her Mom 2.” 

I have to admit that hearing her little declaration warmed my heart.  This is the same cousin who had teased Matt and I a couple of years ago for kissing, and when she did, Isabelle told her to leave me and her daddy alone, “they can kiss if they want to”. 

While they were in town, I ended up hearing this new name a couple of times.  Matt asked her more than once how she spelled it, and her answer wasn’t consistent.  So we still weren’t quite sure what she was thinking. 

“Mom 2” continued to come up periodically, and I began to wonder if it might stick. 

On Friday, December 2^nd, the three of us went out for dinner and to look at Christmas lights.  While we waited on our order, we began a round of the Animal Guessing Game.  Matt and Isabelle have played this game forever.  They both excel at coming up with the most ridiculous and obscure animals that I can never guess. 

Isabelle was keeping score on her kid menu, but I wasn’t paying much attention to it as I was losing per usual.  It caught Matt’s eye though, and he pointed it out to me.  It seems the much debated question had finally been answered.

“Momtoo”

I got a little choked up about the whole thing.  It still didn’t matter what she called me, but I had to admit to myself, that I sort of preferred “mom also” over “mom number two”. 

I was truly touched.  And when she and Matt headed to the restroom before leaving the restaurant, I pocketed her abandoned score sheet.  It is a treasure.

Last week before we got out for the Christmas break, we had her with us for a regular Thursday night visit, and she and her daddy spent the better part of the evening being very secretive behind closed doors.  I assumed they were up to some Christmas present shenanigans. 

I found this precious card in our tree later that evening.  I’m no Grinch, but I’m fairly sure my heart grew three sizes that night.  She grinned from ear to ear as she put that card in our tree and watched me notice it.  And in the week since its arrival, it has been the one present I’ve most anticipated opening.

Matt picked Isabelle up at 10 AM this morning to begin our time with her this holiday.  After settling in with our eggnog coffee and bread pudding, we began opening gifts.  Isabelle picked and delivered our gifts to open and the order in which we went.  The very first gift delivered was my “Momtoo” card.  With the perfect gift inside.

What’s in a name?  Sometimes nothing.  But sometimes everything.

As I sit here thinking about this precious girl, I feel such gratitude to have her in my life.  Perhaps because I don’t have children of my own, this name she has started occasionally using for me feels all the more sacred. 

She asks me deep and insightful questions all the time.  We have incredible conversations.  She talks to me about her life.  Her friends.  Her parents.  Her frustrations.  Her fears.  And I listen.  I soak it all in and count my blessings that she wants to share with me.  It is a precious gift.

And I know it may not always be this way.  She will become a teenager.  Hormonal.  Influenced by friends.  An adult.  And things may change.

But they may not. 

Either way, I am going to savor every single moment of this time.  Every hug.  Every offer to be my helper.  Every request for my opinion.  Every tough question.  Every moment. 

Because life is just a series of moments. 

I often use my voice and my experiences to help people understand the difficulties of blended family life.  But I think it’s equally important to honor the beauty that can be born from the ashes of brokenness as well. 

Our journey as a blended family is frequently marked with pot holes and breakdowns, but it is also filled with adventure.  And love.  And purpose.  And hope. 

And I am so grateful for the gift of being Isabelle’s Momtoo.

Wishful Thinking

It may well be the most wonderful time of the year.  But in a blended family, and let’s be honest, in ANY family, it may not always feel like it.  The difficulty in a blended family stems from the pushing, pulling, tugging, guilting, and general heart aching that exists when you are living under orders written by a judge.

I’m growing accustomed to these new holiday stresses, but it often leaves me reflecting on how to make things better.  What can I do for my family to ease this strain?  And that got me thinking about walking around in someone else’s shoes.  Atticus’ challenge mirrors the golden rule.  And I’m working on all of that.  But I’ve also been doing some wishful thinking.

Wishful Thinking

I wish that you

Would share with me

Your little girl's heart.

I wish that you

Could share her with-

Out tearing her apart.

I wish that you

Knew I don't want

To take her heart away.

I wish you knew

I want her love

For you to grow each day.

I wish you knew

It hurts her when

You're ugly to her dad.

I wish you knew

That you're the one

Who ends up looking bad.

I wish you knew

That holding tight

Causes her to tug.

I wish you knew

The strangle hold

Does not feel like love.

I wish you knew

You're fear of loss

Is pushing her to us.

I wish you knew

That's not our goal.

We're not that treacherous.

I wish you knew

How hard I try to

Repair the broken pieces

I wish you knew

I pray for you

That the peace between increases.

Breaking the Jell-O Mold

Currently, I own four bathing suits. 

Six years ago, I didn’t own any, and I wouldn’t have been caught dead, let alone by a camera, in a bathing suit or any other outfit that would have shown my arms or my legs above my knees.  I carefully avoided too short sleeves or anything more revealing than capri pants.

After years of having the Jell-O theme song jokingly sung to me, “Watch it wiggle, see it jiggle,” and being physically shunned and rejected as well as being told I was no longer attractive or desirable, I fully believed and embraced the lie.  That I was competing with the unrealistic plots and images from a lifelong pornography addiction never even occurred to me at the time. 

Long after I left that emotionally abusive marriage, I’d walk past a mirror and the Jell-O song would run through my head.

In the eleven month divorce process following my departure, I’d walk 3-5 miles every day to deal with the ongoing anxiety that occasionally caused me panic attacks while grocery shopping and running errands around town.  It’s no wonder that I became a P!nk fan as I walked the path across the street from my apartment.  Some of her lyrics were pretty therapeutic.  Like this bit from “Perfect”:

          “You’re so mean, when you talk.  About yourself.  You are wrong.  Change the voices in

          your head.  Make them like you instead.” 

The counselor in me recognized the truth of the words and repeated them like a mantra, but the broken spirited me latched on to them and sang them loudly, claiming them as my new anthem.  Much healing happened walking that path.  I began to drop some weight, both pounds and baggage.

I also started spending time at the neighborhood pool with my friend Kim, who let me borrow a bathing suit.  It was scary at first.  But I kept going.

Over the years, as my self-confidence had tanked, I’d come to hate pictures and avoided being in them whenever I could.  But that year several things changed.  For one, I got an IPhone the day after I left.  It was a defiance of the strict “No texting” and “No Apple products” rules.  And I now had a camera in hand at all times. 

Second, I got stuck in the airport and had a profound conversation with a random stranger.  The gist of what I learned from her was this:  Rock what you’ve got.

Third, I began to visit my brothers and their kids more frequently.  Prior to leaving, my visits were very limited.  The emotional price I paid for those visits was extremely high, so they didn’t happen often.  But as I spent more time with my nieces and nephews, I decided that the time was too precious, too sacred, not to be documented.  I determined that regardless of how I might look or feel about myself, I would not only have lots of pictures OF my family, but I would have lots of pictures WITH my family. 

Shortly before moving to Houston, I went shopping for clothes with a very stylish friend.  I asked for her help as I transitioned from baggy, frumpy clothes to things that fit and flattered.  My self-image had begun to change.  And after I moved to Houston, I finally bought a bathing suit of my own. 

Fast forward a couple of years through further healing and forgiving of both myself and others, and I began dating.  Scary.  Dating in my twenties wasn’t nearly as daunting as dating as a 30-something divorcee. 

On July 12, 2013, I snapped a very silly selfie on my way out the door to a pool party with my counselor team.  In our selfie culture, it might not seem like a big deal, but looking at this picture, knowing what I do of my own life, it is fairly significant.  It was a supremely confident moment.  In a bathing suit.  Posted on Facebook.

It was also the same day I had my first date with Matt.  We talked for FOUR HOURS over dinner.  Talk about a good sign.  Who knew I’d marry him a year later?

My first bathing suit had become worn and too big, so as I planned and packed for our honeymoon cruise, I bought two new suits.  In fact, nearly every outfit I packed for that trip was either strapless or sleeveless.  I couldn’t wait for Matt to see them all.

I dressed with confidence.  And I never heard the Jell-O song.

Quite the opposite.  Matt was forever stopping me to take my picture.  He wanted a record of all of my firsts and big moments.  Scuba diving.  Moonlight on the deck.  He loved taking my picture.  It was a wonder to me.  And I loved it.

On our first anniversary, we went to New York City.  I knew it would be crazy hot and we would walk a million miles.  So I packed tank tops.  I didn’t even own a tank top until a couple of years ago.  I’ve never been a big fan of my arms, but somewhere in there, as I’ve become confident in my own skin, I decided being cool and comfortable was far more important than my arm insecurities.

Because of our frequent visits to the neighborhood pool and going to water aerobics with my mom, I purchased another bathing suit, one piece, much better for actual swimming.  

I went on a girl’s trip with my best friend at the end of the school year to a resort in Phoenix.  I knew we would spend much of the time poolside, so I bought another one piece suit.

With that last suit purchase, it hit me.  I now own FOUR bathing suits.  And tank tops in all of the colors of the rainbow. And shorts.  And I take pictures in them.  And post them on Facebook.  And I very seldom think about Jell-O unless I’m trying a new recipe.

I have not become a supermodel.  I have not gotten skinny.  Though I am more active and in better shape than I have probably ever been in my adult life.

But I HAVE had an extreme makeover.  In my head.  And the voices have changed. 

Life is short, wear a bathing suit.  Don’t run from the camera, stop and smile.  Don’t obsess about your imperfections, rock what you’ve got.  And don’t sing about Jell-O, eat it.  With Cool Whip on top!

The Best of Both Worlds

People say the dumbest things.  I recently read a great article about all the things not to say to a stepmom, but I would add one to it.  The craziest sentiment I’ve gotten, on more than one occasion, is “You guys have the best of both worlds!”

The first time someone said this to me, I sat incredulous, with no response.  Let me tell you about our two worlds. 

In our world of time with Isabelle, the key word is “time”.  And it is very short.  We have her with us on the first, third, and fifth weekends, every Thursday night, and on the off weekends, we get her for two hours on Wednesday nights (in which time Matt is expected to feed her, get flute practice in and homework done).  That’s right.  Read back through that and see if you can wrap your brain around it.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait.

Now, imagine trying to get all of your family time, father/daughter time, down time, homework time, flute practice time, concert time, play time, discipline and instruction time, science project time, movie time, and sleep time all in that space.  It makes for busy times.  We schedule time with our extended families around Isabelle time so that she can have the best possible opportunity to get to know her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins.  Matt is the master at packing things in, especially fun, and we have a great time.  But it is exhausting.  Even on the slow times. 

Parenting in this world is daunting.  Our influence is primarily limited to the time when she is with us.  Though Matt and Isabelle’s mom work together relatively well, the first parenting truth you must face in the world of divorce is that you have no control over what happens in the other home.

Sort of.  Because as it turns out, you would think that in our Isabelle world, we would have complete authority over what happens.  But that is not reality.  She talks to her mom every morning and every night when she is with us.  This is an agreement the parents made together way back; and Matt has the same opportunity when Isabelle is with her mom.  But that means our day begins and ends with this outside influence that is frequently upsetting.  Sometimes that influence suggests not following our rules.  Sometimes it suggests what we are doing is wrong.  Oftentimes it tries to control our time. Sometimes it’s helpful and kind.  But often, it is not.

Isabelle time, for me, has gotten easier.  In the beginning, it was tough.  I had to step back to give Matt and Isabelle time and space alone.  And for a while, I didn’t quite feel at home in my new home.  I’ve never been a mom before.  While I’m not an overly selfish person, I was used to doing things a certain way.  That is all very different when you are suddenly living with a child.  It was a difficult time.

Not to mention the emotional struggle of the time together.  There are so many adjustments.  It would require far more than a paragraph to detail the inner conflict, guilt, and struggle of learning to love a stepdaughter.  And she is spectacular.  But I did not give birth to her.  I did not adopt her.  I fell in love with her father.  And I’ve learned to love her very much.  But I cannot overemphasize the challenge and growing pains for all of us as we become a family.

The ending of our times together is the most difficult.  Matt and Isabelle dread it.  They drag their feet in the last hours.  They push for every second.  There are tears.  There are excuses and pleas and extravagant stall tactics.  Sometimes they spend half the day grumpy knowing the time is coming to an end.  Some weekends are easier than others as we approach the goodbye.  But there is NEVER a time when this is easy for either of them.  And my heart breaks for them every time, even in the times when I’m secretly looking forward to our other world.  

In that other world, without Isabelle, she is always present.  So is her mom.  We have the two a day phone calls.  They are frequently ignored or postponed so that the return call comes just as we sit down to dinner.  Or leave for a date.  Or go to bed.  Or start a movie. 

But these calls are sacred.  I do my utmost to always be gracious about letting Matt take and make them.  Not because I enjoy the interruptions, I do not.  But because it is precious contact.  It is an opportunity to say good morning.  To hear about her day.  To say good night. 

I don’t know how long these calls will last, but if they are still happening when she is 16 years old, they will be well worth every moment of interruption.  If she is still inviting her dad in as a teenager, it was all worth it. 

Parenting doesn’t end when Isabelle isn’t with us.  It just gets harder.  Both parents have to make an effort to communicate about ongoing events and decisions.  Often on the slippery slope of texting and email.  We’ve gotten texts about all manner of nonsense at all hours of the day and night.  In fact, there was recently a boundary discussion, which seems to have helped. 

But make no mistake.  Just because Isabelle isn’t with us does not mean that we aren’t dealing with parenting and ex-spouse issues.  We are.  Every day.

And in the midst of that, Matt is missing his daughter.  Desperately.  He is missing hugs and kisses and laughter and tears and even some occasional sass.  He is missing watching his little girl grow up.  He is missing it!  That is NOT the best.  Nothing about that is the best.  It is the WORST!

Our world without Isabelle is not what some people seem to think.  It isn’t this time of frolicking about on random dates and outings and weekend getaways.  It CAN be those things.  But it is typically when we try to accomplish everything possible that needs to happen on the house, in the yard, on our cars, with work and school and overtime so that our family time with Isabelle will be less hectic.

For us, it is also our time of greatest communication, fussing, and compromising.  We spend a giant chunk of our “alone” time working through issues that come up as a result of Ex-intrusion and divorced parenting complications.  There has seldom been a week that has gone by when some wrench hasn’t been thrown in to the works.  This past week, in fact, was a doozy!

Now I get that all parents have lots of issues to work out between them in terms of marriage and parenting.  It’s a constant factor in a good relationship.  And it is not my intention to undermine that work that has to be done WHILE your kids are with you.  But divorce and remarriage and stepparents and stepkids and an ex-wife in law makes all of this even more complicated.  Like a lot.  Just…trust me on this.

So another part of our time without Isabelle is recovering from the time with her.  Matt enjoys this time, but it isn’t necessarily essential to his survival.  It is to mine.  Especially in the beginning.  Recovery happens during the whirlwind of other things we have going on, but it happens for me, in the form of down time.  Time when I’m not wracking my brain adjusting, planning, second guessing, and analyzing all the angles of being the best stepmom I can be with an eleven year old by my side.  I need this time.

So when people tell me we have “the best of both worlds,” I want to laugh.  Or cry.  Because as good as we make those two worlds, they are not the “best” for anyone.  They are the result of sin and brokenness and grief and loss.

And healing.

I think I know what the young mom who has said this to me about our “best” worlds is really saying though.  She hears me talk about a sweet date night that Matt and I had, and she is a little envious.  She is full time working and momming and fighting to have a little energy left over for her man when he looks at her with a twinkle in his eye and she is still dabbing at the smashed green beans that somehow made it in her hair while feeding her toddler.  She is exhausted too.  Just like me.

I’ve contemplated this “best of both worlds” statement off and on since we married nearly two years ago.  It isn’t entirely UNtrue either.  Our time, just the two of us, IS sweet.  But we have to choose it.  We have to choose to stop the madness and enjoy each other.  We have to choose to silence our phones and quiet our minds and just be.

To the outsiders looking in who think it’s the “best,” it often isn’t.  But we are trying (not always successfully) to choose every day to make it the best it can be.  And if your original, first marriage is whole and intact, but you are feeling a little jealous of your remarried friend who gets to have a date night…STOP the MADNESS!  Get a babysitter.  Beg a grandparent.  Call me!  I’ll help.  But make the time.  Prioritize your marriage.  Go on a date.  Go shopping without children.  Eat a meal without the sounds of siblings fighting and little boys farting.  Have wild monkey sex!  Please.  Because you don’t want this kind of “best.”

The best advice Matt and I got before marriage was from our minister, Scott Allen.  We were doing some skype counseling, and he said, “When it’s all said and done, you’ve got each other.  That’s it.  Isabelle will grow up and leave.  You have each other.”  Every single day I thank God for Matt.  And every single day he thanks God for me.  Because we’ve got each other.  And He’s got us.  THAT is the best.

A Gentle Persuit

Divorce is ugly.  In the days right after I left my first husband, I experienced some of the most potent ugliness from friends at church.  I do not believe that they intended me harm.  In fact, I do believe they thought that they were being motivated by their love for me.  Unfortunately, some of the words uttered and emailed to me were sharp daggers that ripped swiftly through my spirit.  And healed with agonizing slowness.  The scabs would occasionally get ripped off, and the wounds would bleed fresh.  But eventually, they did heal.  With deliberate care and prayer and a God who is far bigger than my reluctantly forgiving self, the wounds healed.  And now the scars are fading.

When I left my husband, I also left my church home.  I knew immediately that I would move back to the Houston area to be near my family.  I’d been cut off from them in many ways for years, and I knew that I needed them.  I didn’t think it was fair for me to continue to try to worship at the same place with the man I was divorcing.  It is a good church.  With good people.  And I wanted him to have that support system.  I felt like staying there would cause people to feel like they had to choose sides.  And that wasn’t fair.  I was going home.  That was one reason I walked away.

The other reason was fear.  I was afraid of judgment.  I was afraid of people looking in with judgment on a situation they knew absolutely nothing about.  I was heartbroken and spirit broken and grieving from the top of my head to the soles of my feet, and I did not want to look into the eyes of people who were supposed to love me and see judgment.  And disappointment.  I could look into the bloodshot eyes in the mirror and see all of that I could bear and more.  Shame.

Someone actually said those words to me.  “Shame on you.”  Such a terrible thing to say.  I did feel shame.  I was a failure.  At the most important calling of my life.  And no amount of prayer and faith had healed or fixed the brokenness of my marriage.  And when I hit the breaking point, I left.  

It didn’t matter that I was leaving for good reasons.  It didn’t matter that staying would have destroyed me.  All that mattered is that I left.  And good church of Christ girls like me didn’t do that.  But I did.  Shame on me.

And then I left my church family too.  Because after the initial loving wounds inflicted, I couldn’t bear to stay for more.  More judgment.  More platitudes.  More condemnation.  So I didn’t give them the chance. 

I know now that I also didn’t give them the chance to surround me with love.  To embrace me with forgiveness and acceptance.  To sit shivah with me as I mourned the death of my marriage.  And a piece of myself. 

Later, much later, I let a few people in.  After the divorce and the move back to Houston, I’d visit my second home occasionally and eventually shared my heart with a chosen few.  After some of the initial wounds were healing.  After I began to forgive myself.  After experiencing love and support of family.  After the faithfulness of a few of my non-church friends.  Only then.  I opened up with a few and shared my heart.

And I did experience love.  And forgiveness.  And understanding.  And compassion.  And grace.  And my spirit healed a little more.

Healing is a process.  And sometimes moments of healing come in such unexpected ways.

This afternoon, I received a graduation announcement in the mail.  Such an ordinary thing. 

I didn’t recognize the Amarillo address, and the sender’s name wasn’t included, but the monogrammed sticker on the flap should have given it away. But I was stumped.

My best friend’s son is graduating, but that was the wrong school.  My other friends whose kids are graduating I’m not as close to. 

When I opened it up and looked inside, I understood.  And I cried.  This young man was my student when I was a 5^th grade counselor years ago.  Seven years to be exact.  The most devastating year of my life.  And I’m not sure I’ve spoken with him in the last six years.  I’m not really sure he even remembers much about me.  He wasn’t a kid in trouble.  He wasn’t in need of counseling.  He was one of those great kids with great parents who really didn’t need me at all. 

He might have thought to send me an announcement, but I kind of doubt it.  I’m pretty sure it was his mom.

His mom is a pretty special lady.  She was not a super close friend when I lived in Amarillo, but she was a friend.  We spoke at church.  We spoke at school.  She occasionally asked my advice about her oldest son, my student, and later asked my advice on behalf of someone else.  Long after I’d moved away.

What makes her so special to me would seem rather ordinary to most.  But for me, it’s extraordinary.

During the process of my divorce, I occasionally ran into this lady at school.  She always smiled.  If I saw her around town, she said hello.  Sometimes she hugged me.  When I moved away and finally joined the world of Facebook, she sent me a friend request.  She liked my comments and occasionally responded to my pictures.  I did the same with hers.

I’ve watched her boys grow up on Facebook, and she has watched me live.  Grow.  Heal.  Transform.

She never once asked me why I left my husband.  She never looked at me with judgment.  She might have been curious.  But she didn’t ask.  She didn’t start a conversation innocuously and then maneuver it toward the big questions so many people felt compelled to ask.

She quietly, subtly loved me.  She treated me with kindness.  With respect.  With quiet tenderness.  She asked for my advice long after I walked away.  She valued me.  She accepted me.

I’m not sure why she sent me the announcement.  Possibly because her son was my student so many years ago and somehow knew that it would mean something to me.  And it does.  Because he is precious.  It was incredibly thoughtful.  But it actually meant way more than that for me. 

She didn’t strike out at me all those years ago.  She didn’t quietly carve me out of her life as some did.  She also didn’t let me just walk away.

She followed me.  She pursued me so subtly I didn’t realize she’d done it at all.  Until today.  Maybe she didn’t do it on purpose.  Maybe she is just that kind of caring and gentle and kind.  Probably.  She most likely doesn’t know at all the way she gently nurtured my healing spirit.  But she did.