Stitch

Years ago, when The Boy was still small, he and I watched the movie Lilo and Stitch. For those unfamiliar with the premise, Lilo is an orphan being raised by her older sister. Stitch is a space-alien-critter who happens into their lives and (of course) endears himself to them over time. There’s a poignant moment near the end of the film where Stitch, referring to Lilo and her sister, says, “This is my family. It is small and it is broken, but it is good.”

This was the moment when The Boy, all young and naive and bright-eyed, enthusiastically said to me, “Just like us, Mommy!”

I had to hide out in the bathroom crying for a good hour or so.

Single parents will understand. That whole broken-family thing will nail you in the gut every time. It doesn’t matter how great a parent you may be, or how the world is changing to accommodate different family structures. Single parents always feel second-best. And they always worry that their kids do, too.

I thought of that Lilo and Stitch moment recently, as I found a copy of the DVD while I packed up the last of my belongings still remaining at my former home in the wake of my recent divorce. Here’s where my convoluted life probably requires some ‘splainin.’ The Ex, about whom I’ve blogged until y’all likely wanted to scream get over it already, is not my first ex-husband.

That’s right — I’m 41 and twice divorced.

Yay me!

The Boy’s father — let’s call him Tee — and I met when I was young and foolish and he was old and horny. He was a lot older than me.

A lot.

So much older that, after my family first met him (whilst I waited for the dropped jaws to to be retrieved from the floor) one of my smartass brothers deadpanned, “Well, I think it’s nice. Dad didn’t have much of a father figure. He could use someone to look up to.”

Ouch.

In the face of such quips, I did the only thing I was likely to do at that stage of my life. I married Tee. It didn’t take us long to realize that what we’d done was idiocy. Two weeks after the wedding, I packed my bags and left.

And then I found out I was pregnant.

In hindsight, I think Tee and I get an ‘A’ for effort. We did our best to make the unworkable work. Ultimately, we parted ways, fought and made a couple of attorneys richer for a while, then settled into co-parenting amicably. Tee adored The Boy and was always a great dad. For a number of years, Tee actually worked for my family, managing their golf business. He played golf with my father and brothers. He joined my family for holidays. It was about as good as it gets for an odd couple like us.

Still, I was ever aware that The Boy and I had this awkward, broken little family. His father was old enough to regularly be mistaken for his grandfather. I wondered if we would ever escape the weight of past errors.

Then I met the man you now know as The Ex. He was handsome and funny and, I thought at first, just quirky enough to fit right into our awkward, broken little family. I dared hope he might be Stitch to The Boy’s Lilo.

Over time, though, their relationship became one of the major issues in our marriage. They were just too different, and I was forever caught in the middle. There were other issues, too — stuff I couldn’t make up for any novel. As one who appreciates life most when it’s drama-free, I knew something had to give.

So, once again, I found myself divorced. I worked my tail off to keep things amicable, and before long I landed in the most unusual of situations: living as The Ex’s neighbor. Serving as his housesitter and dogsitter while he was away on business trips. Continuing to help him with management of our former home and rental properties.

A neighbor teased me as I helped The Ex dig one of our tenants out of the snow that had drifted against the apartment door.

“Forget about you writing another book. He should,” he said, nodding at The Ex. “He took your house and your dog in the divorce, and here you are still taking care of both! Now that’s a story!”

Haha. Funny neighbor. There’s a guy who’s lucky not to have taken a snow shovel to the face.

But a lightbulb went on.

There’s keeping things amicable.

And then there’s being a doormat.

The Ex had not been particularly kind to me for years. I walked on eggshells in my own home. When I begged him to help save our marriage, he was willing to do exactly nothing to that end. And yet, every time he appealed to me for help, I was there.

I began to wonder why.

I also began to wonder if I could truly move on while living so close to him that I saw him daily. We would walk and drink beer together at the dog beach while our pups played. Sometimes it seemed nice, as if we should win a medal for being the Best Divorced Couple Ever. More often, though, it was just weird and painful. Sad.

A child’s movie might seem an unlikely catalyst for change, but when I found that Lilo and Stitch DVD, something clicked.

I’d been small and broken too long.

The question was how to move forward. I took inventory.

The Boy is currently living with Tee, attending community college, and trying to figure out the path ahead.

I have plans for a small house I’d like to build. I need to save money toward that goal while helping The Boy pay for college.

Meanwhile, Tee has an in-law apartment in his home, something he and I had spoken about recently. It’s been in need of renovation since he bought the house years ago, and he wondered if I might be interested in doing the work in exchange for an affordable place to live. At first, I thought he was crazy. It sounded like the sort of thing likely to end in an episode of Dateline.

But then again?

Maybe not so much.

Tee and I have functioned as friends and coparents for over 15 years now. And I realized that, while I have been living in one of the most beautiful places in the world, it’s no longer the right place for me. Every lovely aspect of the area is steeped in memories of The Ex. And if the memories aren’t enough, there he is in the flesh: driving past the front of my house in his car, past the back of my house in his boat, walking on the beach, calling me for help with this or that.

While there may be no geographic solution for most problems, this may be an exception.

One of my very best friends lives right across the street from Tee, on the river where she and I swim together as often as possible in summer. Several other good friends live in the same neighborhood. I don’t know what’s in the water there, but it’s Good People Central. And I need good people around me right now.

So I’ve found someone to sublet my little piece of paradise for the duration of my lease. I’m working on making the apartment at Tee’s my own, an affordable place to call home while I find my way forward. The Ex seems to understand that I need to move on, and has promised to enlist a proper dog- and house-sitter.

Here’s a snapshot of my life right now:

I am 41 years old.

Twice divorced.

Escaping my second ex-husband by moving into an apartment owned by my first ex-husband.

And feeling better than I have in a while.

Truth is stranger than fiction, right?

The other night, Tee and The Boy and I were surveying the progress on my new digs, talking and laughing, and a thought made me smile…

This is my family.

It is small, and it is broken, but it is good.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Midwinter

I was born in Miami.

Because of this, I am quite certain, my body lacks some sort of requisite insulation for the New England climate I currently inhabit. I was built for beach days and balmy evenings, afternoon thunder storms and scorching sunshine. I can weather 100% humidity like a Southern belle, fresh as a daisy.

But winter in New England?

I break out my parka in September. From then until approximately June, I feel like I have ice water running through my veins. Hot baths and hot beverages are my BFFs. Y’all think I am constantly adopting animals because I’m kind? Nope. Just looking for more warm, furry bodies to occupy my bed and keep the heating bills in check.

It’s now February, that time of year when I regularly scour the internet for deals on airfare to warm, sunny places. I dream of escape. This year, though, I have also been trying something new. I’ve been trying to make friends with winter, to reclaim a little of the joy the season used to hold for me as a child.

And whaddaya know? It’s working. This weekend was an excellent example.

Morning: I took a long beach walk with a neighbor, chatting as our dogs ran and played. The sky was stark white and the air smelled of snow. There was no need to worry about leashes or tourists. We had the beach all to ourselves.

Afternoon: I went snowshoeing with a friend. We talked and laughed our way through the pristine winter wonderland surrounding a small pond. The wind stirred the tree limbs above and sent flurries swirling down around us. We scooped up handfuls of snow and ate it like ice cream.

Evening: I drove home on dark, winding wooded roads. Snow fell in my headlights. I saw deer and rabbits. I passed very few other cars.

This, my friends, is something you can’t get in Miami.

Winter in New England is long and solitary. But the days are starting to lengthen, and the snow — while a nuisance — is pretty. How many ways can one weather the bleak midwinter? Let me count a few…

Bundle up and get outdoors.
Catch snowflakes on your tongue.
Sip cocoa by a fire.
Sip wine by a fire.
Paint your toes a summery color.
Eat breakfast in bed.
Eat dinner in bed.
Make breakfast for dinner. Eat that in bed, too.
Bake cookies.
Make snow angels.
Make love.
Tell stories.
Write letters.
Plan a summer garden.
Learn something new.
Make Valentines.
Snuggle.
Read! Read! Read!

Tell me — what would you add to this list?

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Type

What could the dating experiences of little old me - a 40-something, recently divorced mom - possibly have in common with those of a 23 year old gay man?

As it turns out, quite a bit.

In fact, as it turns out, gay men and straight men may have far more in common with one another than either group might like to admit.  A recent chat with my friend Kyle had us both in stitches over the “types” we’ve discovered in the course of our (mis)adventures in dating.

A sampling:

• The Pretty Boy.  I can’t go out with this guy because his hair always looks better than mine.  Ditto for Kyle (and really, this is a crime, because Kyle has fabulous hair).  Ladies and gents, if it walks like a Ken doll, talks like a Ken doll, and never met a mirror it wasn’t ready to make love to, it’s likely The Pretty Boy you’re dealing with.  Nice arm candy, but be warned: he’s only got enough love for himself.
• The Clooney.  This is a tough one.  Dashingly handsome, but with serious talent and substance to boot.  Has avoided commitment thus far, but causes everyone he comes into contact with to swoon in hopes of being ‘The One.’  But let’s get real, kids.  How many of us are truly in a class with Amal?  Keep your head on straight.  Your skivvies, too.
• The Pious One.  Maybe he’s an actual pillar of his particular religious community.  Maybe he’s just religious in his devotion to yoga, meditation, or his vegan diet.  But this is the man who gets you singing ‘Son of a Preacher Man’ in the shower and has you swearing you’ll convert.  You know - right up until the religious exclamations at romantic moments throw a wet blanket over your desire.  Put down the Kool Aid.  You know he’s gonna dump you for a blonde with family money anyway.
• The Trust Fund Brat.  Speaking of family money…  This is that delightfully soft, sweet guy - the one with wild stories, sparkling eyes, and a prep school past.  He’s the one you fall for immediately.  And it’s mutual.  The problem?  He comes with more strings attached than a marionette, and at the end of each is a family member so horrific only monarchies are creepier.  Give it a whirl - but keep scissors and running shoes handy.
• The Life of the Party.  This is the guy whose dating site profile lists him as “fun loving” and features an adult beverage in every photo.  It’s also sort of silly that he even has a dating site profile at all, since Tinder is more his style.  If you’re looking to wake up bruised, hung-over and naked on a yacht you don’t remember boarding, this is the guy for you.  Otherwise?  Not so much.
• The Strong & Silent.  Oh, this one’s a doozy.  He’s handsome.  Mysterious.  Says more with a glance than he ever does with those sultry lips of his.  And you know what?  It’s because he’s got nothin’.  There’s either not a whole lot going on between those lovely ears, or he has some terrible, soul-deep scars that prevent him from expressing himself.  You’d do better dating the Dos Equis guy.  At least he comes with a script.
• The Momma’s Boy.  This man-child starts out looking great (He’s so good to his mother!  So respectful!  So deferent!  What’s not to like?), but eventually he makes Norman Bates seem rational.  His mommy’s got him convinced that he’s Special…and no one is good enough for her boy.  Are you deluded enough to think you are?  She’ll spare no effort in slowly, painfully proving you wrong.  And your Prince Charming?  Don’t wait for him to come to your rescue.  There isn’t even a problem.  There couldn’t be.  His momma can do no wrong.  Advice?  Run.  Just run.  For fuck’s sake, run now. 

We identified a couple of notable others (God’s Gift, The Wandering Penis), but as these types seemed to overlap a bit with those detailed above, I’ll leave them to your imagination.

As for me and Kyle, we have no idea why we’re still single.

After all, we’re perfectly pleasant in every way…  ;)

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Watershed

Up on the watershed

Staring at the fork in the road

You can stand there and agonize

'Til your agony’s your heaviest load

Yep.  Those are Indigo Girls lyrics.  I thought I was done with that angsty duo some twenty-plus years ago, around the same time I decided I really ought to have role models other than Sylvia Plath.

But just a year ago, Pandora landed on ‘Watershed.’  I had to pull the car over.  There on the side of a road in the middle of a sunny winter day, I totally lost my shit.  I was a crying, sobbing, snotty mess.  It was the kind of thing that happens when you realize you’ve been living too long in limbo.

In the months since our second wedding anniversary turned into the sort of colossal train wreck that illustrated all the ways our marriage was not ever going to be what I hoped (and no, he didn’t just forget to buy flowers), I’d known I had a choice to make.  For too long I’d clung to the little moments of bliss: our walks with the dogs on the beach, sunset cruises on the salt pond, the way it felt to wake curled in his arms.  If life were all beach walks and sunset cruises and lazy mornings, I suppose we’d have been okay.  But it isn’t - not in my experience, anyway - and whenever slightest of difficult times hit (a bill that was more than expected, a phone call announcing that his folks would be visiting yet again, the wrong weather on a day off from work), I found myself feeling more alone as a wife than I ever had as a single person.

And then came that damn Indigo Girls song.  I had to make a choice.  I knew that.  The agony was indeed my heaviest load.

I’ve blogged the hell out of what came next.  There was the brutality of separation, the finality of divorce.  2014 was, for me, a year of moving away.  Of treading water.  Of trying not to be dragged under.

As the year came to a close, I realized there is a burden even heavier than the agony of indecision.  It’s the agony of having no goal to move toward next.  If you know me, that may sound funny - I am rarely idle, and I always have about two dozen goals toward which I am feverishly working.  What did I lack?  A larger plan.  A vision of the life I want.

I’ve kept walking with The Ex at the dog beach, kept dogsitting my former dog and housesitting my former home when he’s traveling for work.  Daily, I see what I’ve lost.  Sometimes - when The Ex seems more like the fun guy I fell in love with than the moody man I found myself married to - it’s difficult to remember why I left.  Things always seem so much better from the outside looking in.

Then came Tiny Tim.  If you haven’t read the story of how his life intersected with mine, please do here.  As one who has been rescued by animals time and again, it should be no surprise to me that my focus - my vision of the life I want for myself - crystalized in the very short time I spent with a crippled, abandoned dog at the end of his own life.

I’ll share more in next week’s post, but for now, suffice it to say I feel 2015 is the year I stop moving away and start moving toward.  It’s the year I stop looking back.  (And if I forget this, I know I have at least one good friend who will help me extricate my head from my ass and get back on track.)

There are good things ahead.  I finally know just what they are.

And because life is nothing if not serendipitous, I just received this in an email from my friend Jude, and I pass it on to you:

WHATEVER YOU CAN DREAM, BEGIN IT

Until one is committed, there is hesitancy-

The chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness.

Concerning all acts of initiative (and creation)

There is one elementary truth the ignorance of

Which kills countless ideas and splendid plans:

That the moment one definitely commits oneself, 

Then Providence moves, too.

All sorts of things occur to help one that would 

Never otherwise have occurred.

A whole stream of events issues from the decision, 

Raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen

Incidents and meetings and material assistance,

Which no one could have dreamed would have come

One’s way.

Whatever you can do, or dream you can.

Begin it.

Boldness has genius,

Power, and magic in it.

Begin it now.   

GOETHE

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Begin Again

It’s that time again!  Later this week, we will ring in a new year.  For some, it’s an opportunity to reflect on the year prior.  For others, it’s a time to set goals for the year ahead.  For still others, it’s simply an opportunity to get plastered and behave badly into the wee hours of the morn.  (As if one needs a special occasion for that…)

For me this particular year, the transition feels more significant than it has in the past.  2014 was a doozy for me.  I hate to use that damn cliche rollercoaster metaphor, but that’s all I’ve got.  The ups were great.  The downs left my head spinning and my stomach in knots.

I am so very ready for a new year, a new beginning.

As we count down, here’s a list of random things I’ve learned in 2014:

• Divorce sucks.  It’s the emotional equivalent of being put feet-first through a meat grinder.  Yet if you remember that stuff is just stuff, money comes and goes, and heartache can’t be alleviated by a court of law, you just might emerge from the nightmare stronger and wiser.  Grateful for what was.  Hopeful about what is yet to come.
• Opposites attract.  But long-term, common ground is a must.  Simple.  True.
• Honest conversation is also a must.  If you can’t speak your heart to someone, don’t give your heart to them.
• Some people actually enjoy being miserable.  The more you try to cheer them up, the more you tick them off.  Let them wallow.  Just don’t get sucked into their abyss.
• Parenthood is for life.  I did the happy dance when The Boy graduated high school, turned 18, and got a college scholarship.  Then he chose an entirely different path, and I realized that I will always feel a bit like I did on his first day of kindergarten: a little hopeful, a little worried, a little wistful, and a whole lotta proud.
• Yoda was right: do or do not; there is no try.
• 40 is the new 30.  So is 41.
• Needing glasses isn’t half bad.  They can be a fun fashion accessory.  Like shoes!  (But, you know, for your face.  So…yeah.)
• You’re never too old to do new things and improve your life.
• Online dating is a form of torture.  We should use it to wipe out terrorism.
• Wine and cheese with friends is good.  Wine and cheese alone at 11 p.m. while listening to Dido and looking through old photographs is a recipe for disaster.
• There’s no therapy quite like working up a good sweat out in nature.  Except maybe actual therapy with a counselor who knows what they’re doing.  I’m grateful for both.
• Speaking of gratitude, it works.  Count your blessings and watch them multiply.  Seriously.
• Helping others is a great way out of a self-pity party.
• Sassy boots and red lipstick also don’t hurt.
• Animals are way more zen than most people.  Want to know how to be a better person?  Watch a dog.
• Or watch my friend Veronica.  I swear she’s a dog in a human body (and I mean that as the ultimate compliment).  Always loving, always enthusiastic, always giving.  You know what she’s doing this week?  Donating a kidney to her cousin.  For reals.  I want to be her when I grow up.
• Good friends can get you through anything.  And I am blessed with really, really good friends, old and new.
• Some people, though?  Some people are just assholes.  You can work really hard to find the redeeming qualities in everyone, but some people are simply as deep as a puddle, as introspective as pond scum, and as mean as a snake.  You know what you do with these people?  Stay far, far away from them.
• Or turn them into a despicable character in a novel and then use the plot to torment them.  I mean, I would never do such a thing.  But you could. 
• Never let the assholes define your world view.  They’re in the minority.  Truly.
• Never lose your sense of humor.
• Magic happens all the time.  Expect it.

With gratitude for all who helped me through a difficult 2014, and with wishes for lots of good things and new adventures - for all of us - in 2015!

www.kcwilder50ways.com

Happy

The Boy is home from college.  This is as it should be, since the semester has ended and the holidays are upon us.

What isn’t as it should be?

He’s not going back.

He informed me of his decision just a few weeks ago.  “I’m not sure what my path is,” he told me, “but I’m sure this isn’t it.”

This isn’t it?

This path I’d worked my tail off for eighteen years to afford him - he was just going to meander off it after one semester?  Abandon my hopes and dreams for him?  Turn me into some statistic about how single mothers fail their kids?

Because it was all about me, right?

I told him I felt he was making a mistake, that he ought to just tough it out through the spring semester and see if he felt differently.  But I also silently owned up to the fact that this was opening old wounds for me, and I was going to have to work to keep from imposing my issues on him.

See, I never finished college.  The full story is one for a book.  The Reader’s Digest version is this: I was unhappy at one school, and when I found myself in a downward spiral of Girl, Interrupted proportions, I decided transferring to another school would be the answer to my problems.  Then I decided to defer my enrollment and work for a while.  One year became two, two became three.  I found myself married and pregnant and divorced (more or less in that order).  I chipped away at my degree over the years, but as a single mom working full time and attending night school, I had more than a few moments where I wanted to travel through time and throttle my eighteen-year-old self.

Which, I suppose, is why I wanted to throttle my kid when he dropped his bombshell.  I mean, didn’t he get it?  I thought of all the years I’d have given anything to go back to the days of having a dorm room and a work-study job and enviably few responsibilities.  Didn’t he understand how good he had it?  Couldn’t he learn from my mistakes?

Of course he couldn’t.  None of us ever does.

A few of my friends suggested that I tell The Boy he had to stay at school.  That coming home wasn’t an option.

Ha!

Have you met my kid?

Pretty much since conception, he’s upended my every plan.  My pregnancy (which I’d intended to spend quilting cute things for his nursery) was miserable, thanks to Hyperemesis Gravidarum - you know, the brutal 24-hour-a-day variety of “morning sickness” that everyone now cares about because Kate Middleton suffered it.  And those dreams I had of singing lullabies to a sweet, cooing infant or writing for hours while he napped?  Not a chance.  My baby was colicky for a full six months, which basically meant that he never slept more than two hours at a stretch, and when he was awake he was often screaming inconsolably.  I kept waiting for his little head to spin around like Linda Blair’s in The Exorcist.  And though the colic ultimately passed, his defiance of norms became his defining trait throughout childhood and into adolescence.  ‘Strong-willed’ would be the kind term.

The funny thing, though?  Things have a way of working out for The Boy.  I’ve learned - time and time again - not to sweat his quirks.  He can be frustrating as hell, but he’s also smart and funny and has a better sense of self than anyone I’ve ever met.  And while there may have been times when I wished I’d made better choices when I was eighteen, this much I cannot ignore: the path I took brought this awesome kid into my life, and being his mom has given me more joy than I can quantify.  There’s a lesson in that.

As it turns out, The Boy has a fairly concrete plan for his schooling: spring semester at community college, then transferring to an in-state school for the fall.  He’s done the work to make the shift.  He seems happy.  Truly happy.

And I can’t think of anything I would rather have my son be.

www.kcwilder50ways.com

The Boy and I meet.  And yes, childbirth is exhausting and makes for bad hair.

My little buddy.  I think he’s humoring me.  Do you know how much I love to play in sand?

He hated that buzz cut.  I was not allowed to do that to him ever again.

We’ve got sweet dance moves.  Probably thanks to all those times we watched Napoleon Dynamite.

I am permitted only one selfie per road trip.  Even though he does stuff like shoving a cheeseburger into his face at the last second.

Peace

Last week’s post was wistful and bittersweet, a recollection of a beautiful moment that didn’t quite deliver the happy ending it promised.  Even without divorce in the mix, the holidays mark time in a way that seems to invite comparison and underscore absences.  It’s been nearly four years, for example, since my father’s sudden passing, but December - his birthday month and mine - seems rife with moments that make it feel impossible still that he’s gone.

I am generally a glass-half-full kind of girl, but in these dark, short days, sometimes the cold chills soul-deep.

I’ve written before about some of the things I have found are essential to maintaining my balance: exercise, yoga, massage.  I meditate to stay in touch with the peace within.  I recently realized that there are some things I enjoy during the holiday season that are just as essential to my well-being as any of the things I do deliberately for that purpose.

Enjoying the return of the seals to the waters near where I live.

Walking my dog at night and appreciating the way Christmas lights seem to lessen the chill.

And then there’s the thing that I think gets me in the holiday spirit more than just about anything else: visiting a place called Clark Farms and seeing what the “elves” there have done with their greenhouses for the season.

As I recently stood in the winter wonderland that this local nursery becomes for the holidays, I realized that for as long as I have lived in South County, I have gravitated there after Thanksgiving to take in the lush sights and smells.  This year, when so much in my life is different, my visit was especially comforting.  Their gorgeous displays vary every year, but the smell of pine mingling with blooms, the warmth and cheer - that remains the same.

I’m not a fan of commercialism, so it might seem odd that I am so fond of any place with a cash register in the midst, but this year I recognized that this local business has, over the years, given me far more than the items I’ve purchased there.

It’s a little bit of peace on earth, and a reminder that there are better things to count at the holidays than losses and absences.  Even in the dark of winter, there is life and growth and magic.

Enjoy a little glimpse…

www.kcwilder50ways.com