On Second Chances

There's something much more romantic and uplifting about second marriages to me. I know to say that is practically akin to sacrilege, but for those of us who have been through divorce, we know it's true.

Isn't there something inherently beautiful about giving love a second chance? Isn't there something absolutely life-affirming when you've been broken-hearted, yet you pick yourself up and dare to risk it again?

It moves me, I tell you.

I don't know many people who have gone through a divorce who haven't said to themselves at least once (even if it was just a whisper): "Never again." I think that's a normal human response to pain. "Ouch that hurt" = "Don't do that again." Pretty simple, really.

But when it comes to love, marriage and babies — if you don't do that again, it could mean you might wind up living alone with a lot of cats.

Just kidding.

(Sort of.)

I love the triumph of the human spirit. I love that love can conquer all. Well sort of. In a global sense, I mean. Not necessarily in your first marriage. Ha. Just kidding. (Sort of.) I love that you can be chewed up, spit out and left for dead on the love highway, only to scrape yourself back up again and say: "I believe in me. I believe I am lovable. I believe I deserve love even if I screwed it up once before. Or ten times before. I believe I have learned something valuable here on the pavement of failed marriages. And therefore I will try, try again — except this time I'm a little bit older and a heck of a lot wiser."

The Fiance says he loves any story about the redemption of souls.

First marriages aren't about the redemption of souls. First marriages are about innocence. First marriages are often about a couple of kids who have no idea what life has in store for them. First marriages are about life-virgins. Second marriages are a little beat up, it's true. We've been rode hard and put up wet, you could say. But the two hearts standing there, risking once more to commit a lifetime to another person, they really know how much this can hurt. How much is at risk.

And yet they venture forth anyway.

Their faith isn't dead.

Their belief in love, intact.

You can't break the human spirit, at least not this one. And not the Fiance's. We won't mock marriage or innocence or second chances. We won't laugh at unintended babies either. None of these things are foolish, or accidents, or laughable.

These are acts of redemption.

It's a baptism by love and we can all be born again.

(You just have to believe.)

Writer's Block or The Pregnant Pause

I'm humor-blocked.

I keep waiting for something funny to happen so I can write a blog. I feel as though I've exceeded my allotment of serious posts. Of course my son Cracky says funny stuff all the time, but I feel as though I've exceeded my "funny stuff my five-year-old says" blog quota too. I don't want this to become the "Kids Say The Darndest Things" of the internet.

I've been sick this week, so normally that would provide some dark humor — at least you would think so. But laying on the couch with a pillow over your face so you can block out the painful, painful rays of the sun isn't as hilarious as one would hope. Though it is somewhat amusing that when my 48-hour headache finally abated last night, the relief was so palpable I almost felt like a cancer survivor. And then I washed my hair this morning and threw my neck out. Yes. One subtle move while scrubbing my head and *CRICK* my neck was totally whacked out. So now I'm walking around like a hit-and-run victim. 

*Sigh*

That's a little funny, right?

Maybe nothing's funny because I'm pregnant? (I love burying the lead!) The first trimester I was a wreck because I was afraid I was going to lose the baby (due to some complications). Well, that's not funny blog material. Then I made it out of the first trimester and for the last few weeks I've been waiting for the results from my Triple Screen test for any kind of chromosomal problems.

That's a laugh riot, huh?

The doctor's office told me last Tuesday that if I didn't hear anything within a week, that meant my test results were "normal." So it's been over a week so I'm assuming everything is fine. Of course the little voice in my head says, "Maybe they just haven't called yet." So I called this morning and left a message.

*Taps foot*

Plus I lost weight this week because of the slight touch of the Plague I had. My belly is smaller. Normally this would be a cause for the Dance of Joy, but of course a little voice in my head says, "Maybe the baby's dead."

Am I allowed to say that?

I know there are some things you're not supposed to say, but hell, I figure the only reason blogs are interesting is because some of us say the stuff we're not supposed to say. I don't know why I'm such an emotional wreck over this pregnancy. When I was 32 and pregnant with my son Cracky, I assumed everything would be fine. I didn't worry about losing him, I didn't worry about him being sick. I even went into labor on my due date. He was that perfect.

But this baby scares me.

I'm six years older, and when you're over 35 they play some sort of  Trumpet of Doom that announces you're at higher risk for just about everything. And I realize that even though I thought I only wanted one child and I liked the simple easy life of having one kid and no siblings to squabble with ... even though all that was signed, sealed, delivered and approved by yours truly ... now suddenly it's not.

One isn't enough.

I want my two babies.

Suddenly this baby matters so much.

I wish I could laugh, but I'm too worried to laugh. Maybe I'll laugh when this baby comes screaming bloody murder out into the world. Then I'll laugh at this noisy plan-wrecker of a kid. I'll welcome this baby into the world and let him or her know that it's all going to be fine.

Just fine.

And I'll stop worrying enough to show him (or her) how beautiful this world can be. And we'll all laugh. The Fiance, me, Cracky, the plan-wrecking baby, we will all throw our heads back and laugh and wonder how we ever thought we could have lived this life without him.

Or her.

I hope all of our laughter fills the house and shakes the walls down.

Life Humbles Us. If We're Lucky.

The Fiance went to his 25th college reunion this weekend. Of the stories he told me and the friends he reconnected with, what stands out the most to me is his observation that everyone had been humbled by life.

25 years after college graduation, the kids who knew where they were going and were self-assured that theirs would be a life of success and privilege had evolved into people who had suffered. Loss had come to them in all manner of ways, from death, to divorce to career disappointments. The Fiance noted that even ten years ago all of these folks still had life by the tail, but now they realized that it's life that has us.

It's a humbling thing, this living. When you look back at the plans of your youth, how many of us have followed a straight path from our planned point A to our planned point B? I'm embarrassed to say that I used to tell my friends in high school that my goal was to have a "Jag by 30." This seemed a perfectly reasonable goal, and I was talented enough to get it.

Now I walk around with a banner that reads: "Busted-up Honda by 38."

I laugh to write that, and realize that could really be the banner for my life. My duct-taped Civic is a metaphor for my life. It's got 115,000 miles on it, it still runs, and hell, most of the mechanics tell me, "That's nothing for a Honda."

It's all a matter of perspective.

I may be a busted-up hooptie of a girl now, but I've got a good engine and a reputation for tenaciousness. There are all manner of things I never thought  I would do, endure, survive. I never thought I'd be divorced. You can believe at 21 that you would never get divorced and when you promised through "sickness and in health" you meant it. You meant it like religion, and you would have been quick to judge anyone who failed those vows.

But I did it.

I left him in sickness.

I never thought I'd have a child, let alone a child out of wedlock. Nice girls from Bloomfield Hills don't do such things. I used to joke that my life had become a Jerry Springer show, and the pain of that truth wasn't buried too deeply underneath my bravado.

Strong, feminist, educated women don't let their boyfriends knock them around. Strong women don't disappear under the force of some bully's might. Anyone who has known me, even from our playground days, would never imagine I would take crap from any man. I was always a tough little tomboy. I never knew I would become a cliche.

But I did.

There are all sorts of failings, losses, disappointments and heartaches I never thought I'd go through. And even the ones I have encountered, I didn't handle nearly so well as I'd hoped. I have not gone through life with the poise and grace I'd expected of myself. The rigid expectations and the cocky assurances of my youth have been weathered away by this humbling life.

Though it's taken nearly 40 years, I'd have to say I wouldn't have it any other way. What I have discovered from this life of loss is a capacity for understanding. If I have failed myself and have had to pick up and start all over again more times than I care to admit, I find I am more apt to understand how you could fall. And more likely to help you up.

Some folks don't seem to soften with age, it's true. Some may not be so humbled by life but rage against it still. In their inability to forgive themselves their failings and to recognize their own weaknesses, they'll never acquire the ability to forgive you yours.

I'd take a life riddled with imperfection and messy humanity, if it leaves me sympathetic to yours. At 38 years old, I realize this is what it is to be a good person — not living a life free from mistakes and failures. Recently I'd confided in a friend when I was scared, disappointed and on the verge of castigating myself yet again for the direction my life had taken,  she stopped me in my tracks.

"It is your life, Mandy. And you get to live it exactly how you want."

So yes, it's messy. And yes, it's not ideal. But it's mine, and I'll take it just as it is.

Not That Kind of Dyke

I keep trying to be happy. 

Remain happy. 

Find happy. 

Or at least find equanimity, which to me, is happiness. (Or close enough.) The trouble with maintaining equanimity is that it is an awful  lot of damn work. And even when you work so hard at it, and scrape enough of it together to make yourself a little cup of Happy stew, some Happy-Hater is going to come along and shit in your Happy Meal.

My point is, it isn't easy to maintain emotional stasis. It isn't easy to be okay. It isn't easy for anyone. If you think you've got it harder than someone else, well, sorry, you're just wrong. You don't know everyone's back story, and you don't know what's going on behind closed doors. Everyone is struggling, and everyone is trying their damned best.

You're not special.

And neither am I.

But this happiness thing is hard work for everyone. Sometimes I feel like I've got my fingers, toes and nose shoved into so many holes in an emotional dyke that the unhappiness, dissatisfaction, anger, despair, boredom, cynicism, loss, dejection, abandonment and loneliness is going to bust right through the cracks I can't reach and drown me and this whole town.

I find myself having to shield myself from people lately. The thought, "If you're not bringing me up, you're bringing me down," has gone through my head a lot. It's made me think of the people in my life who aren't supportive, who are chronically negative, who are mostly MIA in my life anyway ... and I get to thinking why do I bother maintaining the relationships?

If you're not bringing me up, you're bringing me down.

Right now I seem to be bringing myself down, and I don't know what to do with myself — sprawled out against this great big dyke, blocking all the leaks I can reach and a few I'm only blocking with the power of good thoughts, good intentions and a Hail Mary pass of hope. I don't know whether to give up and let myself fall into the inevitable waters, or if I should keep trying to block the damn dam?

Maybe blocking the dam is the source of my discontent?

Maybe I won't drown, but maybe I'll swim? Or float. Or grow aqua lungs.

Maybe that's the problem. I don't know what to do once I stop trying so damn hard. I just imagine a cold rush of water and the sound of silence.

Kindergarten Love

"Mom, I have a girlfriend at school," Cracky announced and then caught himself. "Is it okay if I have a girlfriend?"

"Sure, you can have a girlfriend."

"Remember at daycare Miss Kathy said I couldn't have a wife until I graduated from college?"

"Yes, I remember," I said and stifled a snort. "So who's your girlfriend?"

"Her name is Kate and she is very beautiful." He pursed his lips and then smiled a secret smile to himself — half-pleased, half-embarrassed. And then his little cheeks went crimson.

My god. The boy is smitten, I thought.

"What color hair does she have?" I asked, checking to see if he was staying true to the blondes.

"Yellow."

Good boy.

He sat there with the same pleased look on his face and it was so tender, so sweet, I felt I would burst. Did you know five-year-old boys got like this? I didn't.

"Is Kate in your class?" I asked.

"No, she's in the class next door. But I go over there to do the calendar with her. That's our job."

"Oh. Do you get to see her at lunch or on the playground?" I wondered how my little Casanova had wooed a girl from another class. Love knows no boundaries, I guess.

"Yes. I eat lunch with her everyday."

My eyebrows shot up. This was obviously serious.

"She is the most beautiful girl I ever saw."

Because I couldn't contain the adorableness, I immediately texted The Boyfriend to update him on Cracky's new relationship status.

"He's in love," The Boyfriend responded. I paused and stared at the screen. My initial reaction was to laugh, but then I reconsidered.

"Are you in love?" I asked Cracky.

"Yes."

"With who?" I replied, still surprised, half-expecting him to say he was in love with me, his mom, of course.

"With Kate," he said, simply and certainly.

So there it is.

And I won't laugh at it. I still remember the boy I loved in Kindergarten. I was in love with Jason for the first half of elementary school, until he moved away. And then I loved him a while longer — until blue-eyed Eric moved to our school. 

Those childhood loves are still just as real to me as any other I have loved.

Is that odd?

I was always faithful like that. Cracky is too, it appears. He was "married" to a girl in daycare for two years, despite Miss Kathy's Rule.

We are lovers, the boy and I. Romantics, through-and-through. I wonder if Romanticism is Nature or Nurture? Are you born with a willingness, an eagerness to love? Are we all? I do love to see the world through my son's eyes, and to witness the newness and innocence of schoolyard love. As I write this, I remember standing with Jason and Robin in the doorway of the elementary school. Robin had announced her love for Jason, right in front of me, Jason's known best friend and suspected, besotted, unspoken-for girlfriend. 

Robin demanded that he choose.

"I choose Mandy," he said.

And I'm quite sure I stood in that doorway with the same little smile I saw on Cracky's face last night.

Not Waving, Not Drowning, But Treading Water

Yesterday I had yet another unpleasant surprise in a month filled with unasked-for surprises. Maybe that's the problem with surprises, any of them. I didn't ask for them. Surprises are out of my control. 

I don't like that.

So last night I had yet another unpleasant surprise which fully reminded me that I have absolutely no control over my life and I felt the first waves of panic, despair and grief. One right after another. Bing bang boom. I didn't even have time to dive for cover.

I even considered crying, and then pondered why I wasn't crying.

But then I wondered, what good would that do?

(Sometimes I feel like Rain Man. Is this emotional disconnect normal?)

Crying isn't going to make a bit of difference. Crying isn't going to change the fact that I have no control over many, many things. Important things, even. I can cry, wail, despair, throw myself into bed and scream into my pillow, I could call my friends and boyfriend and rage at how unfair it all is ... and what can any of us do?

What could they say?

They can't help me. They can't stop change from happening. They can't stop the fact that life is hard and unfair and full of things you honestly don't feel prepared to handle, but you have to handle anyway. So I can either waste a bunch of energy being impotently angry over all of this, or I can just let it go.

I feel like my new mantra is "Oh well."

I should form a religion based on it. Our sign of supplication will be the shrugging of shoulders.

So I went back downstairs and sat on the couch and watched my son who was sprawled out, fast asleep on the couch. It was only 6:30 but I think playing soccer in the gym with his friends after school had really tuckered him out. His mouth was open and his cheeks were cherub red.

He doesn't need to see me cry over the things I cannot change.

He doesn't need to see me despair.

He needs to see me live my life, one step at a time, with the humble acceptance that I am only human and this is my lot. Good, bad or indifferent, it is mine.  I can either accept it and move on, or I can rage and battle to a noisy and painful death.

I'd rather him not see that.

Besides, I figure most of my fears, anxiety and despair are really rooted in a fear of death. I know that sounds like a stretch, but I think even the tiny and vain fears we have: the alarming appearance of new wrinkles around the eyes, the few extra pounds, the stretch marks on your hips you didn't notice last year, the red spider veins showing up on your ankles — to the bigger and more life-changing fears: the loss of your job, the death of a loved one, divorce — all these things remind you of your death. So rather than go to a plastic surgeon, or rather than wish them away, along with all the other unasked-for surprises — instead I just accept them as they come.

And then I recite to myself lines from the movie Moonstruck, which is one of my sacred texts: 

Rose: "Cosmo, I just want you to know, that no matter what you do, you're gonna die, just like everybody else."

Cosmo: "Thank you, Rose."

These words comfort me. I don't know if this is odd or not, but hey, between Moonstruck and The Dhammapada, I'm keeping my head above water, thank you.

A Sandwich-Sized Life

It's not that I haven't got anything to write about. I have material in spades. There is so much going on, and my mind could be abuzz with thoughts and I could inundate you with new thoughts and new directions each and every day if you wanted.

But that wouldn't be the best thing for me.

Right now I am trying to be still. I'm trying to quiet those voices and silence my thoughts. Too much noise makes for chaos. Chaos is no way to live.

And so where does that leave me?

I pay attention to what I will make for my next meal. I'm enjoying food more than I usually do, and I take more time to make what I like. I read my son an extra story before bed. I play a board game with him instead of saying, "Maybe later." I fill out surveys and online training for work ahead of schedule. Actually, I'm completing every task that comes in as soon as it hits my desk. I'm beating every deadline. I'm not dawdling, I'm not procrastinating, I'm not leaving time to stir up trouble in my brain.

I'm ticking each task off the list. I'm taking care of today, one thing at a time. While this is good for mind, it is not particularly good for blog.

I told The Boyfriend the other day that I didn't think anyone could handle this life in huge swashes of time. Who can bear the weight of one month, three months, six months or a year all at once? It would be enough to bring down Atlas.

The only way we can handle life is in small chunks of time. One day at a time if need be, sometimes one moment at a time, one task at a time, one meal at a time. And so I will thinly slice the tomatoes, the cheese, the pickles. I will carefully line the bread with mayo and mustard. I will put the lettuce on the mustard side and the pickles on the mayonnaise (lowfat) side. 

And I will eat the sandwich.

And it will be good.