family dysfunction normalcy.

Amidst all the anxious parenting and daily fears that I'm messing them up, there are occasional glimpses revealing otherwise...

Last Thursday, Syd was scheduled for a routine counseling appointment. All was according to plan until the last five minutes before departure. I was anticipating a quiet drive followed by a peaceful hour to finish homework while my oldest stayed home with my youngest. My oldest, however, had other plans. Basically, we all had this idea in each of our minds of how the night was going to go, none of us consulting another. Somer wanted to be home, Sav wanted to go to a sidewalk sale, I wanted to catch up on school, and Syd just wanted to get through therapy.

We all piled into the Honda. And, on our way to the appointment, it hit the fan. As in, major, female, hormonal explosion.

It's easy in such moments to feel that such troubles are reserved solely for the divorced.
But, it's universal. It's normal. It's family. It's life.
We arrived at the counselor's, a bit tattered and scathed.
"Can you walk me in?" Syd asked.
"Sure, honey."
The other girls followed.

"Wow, the whole family!" our counselor said joyfully, as the four of us faked smiles.
"Look at you, you look so OLD, Sav! And, Somer, you're so TALL! Are you ready, Syd?"

I chimed in.

"Syd's actually hoping for a family session," I said, "But, Sav's not really feeling it. Somer is neutral and I'll do whatever." I was fighting tears, feeling young and inept in my mothering, wishing for someone to just take over. The thought of joining a fundamentalist cult was suddenly not just reasonable, but appealing.

Sav bravely obliged and the four of us managed to enter a cozy counseling room, each of us discarding our shoes as we settled in on comfy couches, preparing for battle.

"Stop," Syd whispered immediately to Somer who was obliviously, yet noisily, stroking the sequins on her fake Uggs.

"She's ok," our counselor whispered back, "She's distracting herself."

I swallowed a lump in my throat, missing simpler days when my biggest problems were finding matching jumpers for my toddlers and contemplating the perfect paint color for my dining room.

Somer quickly fell asleep, abandoning both the sequins and questions while Sav eventually found safety and unloaded, though not without caution.  Syd acknowledged all sides before melting down about her diabetes. I went numb and "escaped to logic" as the counselor pleaded, "But how do you feel?"  I paused. "I think both Sav and Syd need to feel significance...And, I think that is normal, human, and possible. I think I need to work harder to make that happen." She asked again, "I don't want to know what you think. I want to know how you feel right now after hearing their words."

Feigning stoic, I paused again.

"I feel like a failure."
"I feel like a bad mom."

And, then I cried.
And, they cried.

We managed to hash things out without anger, getting a lot of needed stuff out into the open for discussion and solution. I was, once again, forced to confront my weaknesses and vowed, like many times before, to work on them - like [my lack of] order, structure, planning.

I said things I loved about each of them.
They reciprocated.
"So and so," Syd said, choking back tears, has a really bad relationship with her mom. But, I really love my mom."

I realize they won't always like me. Despite how hard I try to fix my shortcomings, I will fail. They will fail. But, amidst our failures, we will hopefully remember nights like these, and try again.

s, s, and s...xoxo

shaken, not stirred.

The other day, one of my daughters asked when we were going to finish shopping for school clothes. I began calculating paydays in my head as I tried to come up with something definitive.  

"Soon," I told her.

She responded by saying this was "stressing her out" and then went on to say, "Well, at dad's I'm used to..."

The words were like nails on a chalkboard. Tin foil on a filling. I'm sure my knee-jerk reaction that followed defied all parenting books. All the stuff I thought I had taken out to the trash had suddenly resurfaced. I yelled. And I said all the stuff that I was used to - like not having to say good-bye to them every other week, sitting down to dinner at the table now shared by her dad and stepmom, and holidays unmarred by "parenting time".  

It was frustration meant for a friend, not my daughter. She has her own wounds and to pile mine on top is unfair. But I was upset. I felt insecure and defensive about not providing at the same level as her father, as petty as that might be.

And, I wasn't really mad at her as she was just being a teen-ager. I was mad at the situation. Mad at my ex. Mad at The Sat with it's broken window and squealing serpentine belt. Mad that I couldn't provide better. Mad at society for all of its materialistic definitions of success and value. Mad that after all the loving and giving and trusting - to a church, to a god, to a man - I got screwed over.  

My daughter got angry. I cried. The next day we went out, just the two of us. We talked it out without all the heated emotions and bought her some mint jeans.

I've since delved into the recesses of my mind reflecting on the details. Why did I get so angry?  Why couldn't I have just been that pragmatic parent that responds with, "Too bad. This isn't dad's house. Stop manipulating," and go about my merry way? It's not like she is wearing shreds. Do I still have the picture in my mind of how life is supposed to be?  Of the mom I am supposed to be?  And, how my daughters are supposed to act?  I only know what I know - what I've seen and how I was raised, all of which have conditioned my instincts. And in an effort to reprogram my instincts, I tried to imagine best case scenarios of how I might handle future situations like this and how to better react, because let's face it, this is life with teen-agers, whether married or divorced. 

And, I thought about being screwed over. Sometimes I feel like I can't say that because it makes me look bad. An unattractive victim. A martyr. In the big picture, my life is so much better.  But, it is what it is and frankly, I did get screwed over. And, I laugh about it and give failing speeches about my car and such, but for whatever reason, it was just one of those days when I felt screwed over. I felt injustice and I couldn't brush it off - and, all the positivity in the world would not have helped. And, in these feelings, I ventured into the past, not to blame and discard responsibility, but to keep sorting, keep making sense of the pain. Because I believe the power does lie within our grasp - to shape our lives into whatever we wish to be, regardless of our pasts. But, at the same time, we are naive to think our environment, heredity, and life's changes do not affect us. Sometimes, shaping our lives requires us to return to the scene of the crime, face the pain, and deal with our issues in order to end up with a self we are happy with tomorrow. 

I read a great blog post today by a guy I follow on Facebook - John Shore. He is an author who writes a lot about toxic Christianity and abuse. In this piece for HuffPost, he is speaking in particular, to Independent Fundamental Baptist (IFB) survivors, but this stuff exists beyond the IFB denomination. Spending much of my adolescent years in a cult with similar expectations (as well as consequences for not following) and then running into a dysfunctional marriage (within the church) at eighteen, I sometimes fight feeling...duped. Gypped. And, frustrated at my naiveté - especially when certain circumstances of the present are a direct result of that naiveté. I feel dumb that I didn't know any better and wonder why it took me so long to see clearly. But, when you're in the vortex and it is done in the name of God or love - when bits of truth are mixed in with the lies - it is easy to get lost. Anyway, I found the following excerpt to be especially validating and comforting during my contemplation. (Though I have a hard time believing that buying into the doctrines and submitting to the abuse is a "sign of strength", and I'm still confused about the lines of self-sacrifice. As far as reasons for one's allegiance to the doctrines being "nothing more than that you love" - not so sure. I don't argue that these victims are, in fact, deeply loving individuals, but I know from experience that codependency also plays a huge part in such loyalty. Other than that, it's good.)

disclaimer: not here to discredit any positive church experiences or healthy relationships. If yours is among them, count your blessings. Bask in the normalcy. I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about closed systems. The absence of checks and balances. Control. Misuse of power. Because I am guessing there are many more who have been there - or, are there. Or maybe church had nothing to do with it. Maybe it was your marriage. Or your own family. Perhaps you trusted. Perhaps your innocence was taken advantage of. You believed they were good, because you're good, because you didn't know such narcissism existed, let alone what the word even meant.

So, without further ado, John Shore...

(for purposes of universality, I've changed Shore's IFB acronym in order to relate beyond survivors of the IFB denomination. My words will be in gray.)

"The one thing I do want to say for anyone just making their way out of the darkness of (IFB) abuse is this: that you once so thoroughly bought into fundamentalism (IFB) is a sign of your strength, not your weakness. Beside the fact that you were likely born into fundamentalism (IFB) and so never chose to believe anything about it one way or another, your allegiance to it (IFB) means nothing more than that you love. You love passionately, deeply and inexorably. And like everyone else in the world you want that love to mean something, to be incorporated into and desired by something worthy of it. And what can possibly be more worthy of a person's love than God and family?

You brought the goods to the table. You showed up, ready to play. You brought the best of yourself. You brought all of yourself.

You gave. You trusted. You loved, and loved, and loved some more. You loved when you had no more love to give.

You loved when the cost of that love was to negate the best parts of yourself.

You did what you were supposed to do: you sacrificed yourself.

It was they who didn't truly commit to the truths upon which they claimed to be basing their lives. It was they who lied -- first to themselves, and then to you.

They didn't sink deep enough. They didn't give over their will [to God]. They didn't sacrifice who they were.

They kept what they wanted. They kept what they needed. They kept what worked for them.

They pretended to be something they weren't. They insisted upon that ignoble facade despite the too-clear harm it was causing. For their own dark reasons they kept that wicked dance going.

They lied.

They lied, they lied, they lied.

And they used the best of who you are, and the best of what you have to give, to feed those lies.

They used you as fodder in the war between themselves and everything they fear.

And because of your trusting love for them, you let them. You served them that way. You loved them in that (and a million other) ways. And in a real and important sense you will always love them. And out of that love you gave them the best of who you are to do with whatever they felt they needed to. And if they failed to treat that greatest of gifts with the sacrosanct respect it deserves, then shame on them.

If they really loved [God] they would have loved you and everyone else in a manner befitting that love: properly, carefully, consistently. It really is that simple.

Here's the best part...

And despite all you've been through, here you are now! Dented, maybe, a little -- but definitely not broken.

Slightly wobbly, but still on your feet.

Shaken, not stirred.

You were right; they were wrong; and no sane person in the world would say otherwise. And screw 'em if they do.

You have left them now to themselves, and stepped into your own world. A world where you say what is and isn't good. Where you write the rules. Where you claim what's true.

Finally, now, it's time for you to dance to your own song.

And how marvelous will be your dance.

How you will soar."

for the complete article, click here.

on coolness.

Some of the coolest people I’ve met are those who care the least about being cool. They just are who they are, without effort. I would like to think that I am among them, but sometimes I still want to be a part of the cool club.

Exhibit A: The vintage Fuji.

My hunt for a cheap road bike began as something legitimate. Not that it ended up illegitimate, but I will admit some superficiality did contribute to the final purchase, compromising my original intent. I wanted to do a sprint triathlon and my trail bike would have slowed me down. I mentioned this to my friend, 26, who brews kambucha, bought a share in a local community garden, and has his own collection of bikes - all of which are some pretty good qualifications for the cool club.

So, he started sending me Craigslist links.

I passed up a lot of them either because of price or height, including a really awesome, bright red “Lady-Ace” with white handlebars. There was no longer a triathlon in my immediate future, but it was clear having such a bike was among cool criteria.

“Did you check out the Fuji?” He asked, taking a sip of his fair trade,  shade-grown espresso.

I had. It was no Lady-Ace, but it was short enough and affordable.

Later that week, I paid a measly $65 and was on my way, feeling legit as I drove away with a vintage Fuji on the back of The Sat. I put my prescription-free glasses on for good measure.

The next day, I grabbed my helmet and went for a quick jaunt around the neighborhood. Resembling neither cyclist nor hipster, I felt illegitimate; a poser. I returned home and googled some stuff, mostly so I could name drop - not that I’m often in the presence of club members - but, if I needed to I could at least rattle off, “Yeah, it’s got some sweet components. Single-butted steel seat-tube.”

Other than that, it sat in my shed until I joined 26 on a ride.

I waited in my driveway, the Fuji displayed quite nicely. He arrived and looked it over, quickly saying, “You’re going to want to get rid of that kickstand ASAP. Not cool.” And then, “Looks like your seat-tube is single-butted. Nice.” I was pleased. “Yeah, pretty sweet, right?”

We were just about ready to take off when he noticed my tires were flat and the chain needed greasing. Note to self – if you can drop the term “single-butted seat-tube” you should really own chain lube and know when your tires are low on air.

26:  “Dude, you didn’t ride this, did you?”
36:  “Yeah, they’re not that bad, are they?”
26:  “Dude, you’ll bend your wheels! Where’s your tire pump?"

Having neither chain lube or tire pump, we rode over to campus, where they at least had the latter.

"What’s the PSI?" He asked.
"PSI?"
He closed his eyes, shaking his head as he filled the tires.

We left campus and were barely on our way before a gear shift was needed. Other than the fifth grade Ross my parents had purchased at a garage sale, the last time I had attempted a gear shift was a long time ago.

“Dude, you know to change gears on that thing, right?” he asked.
“Yeah…just haven’t yet.”

I peddled slower, hoping to create some distance so he couldn’t watch. I moved the left lever. The chain sounded loud and faulty as it struggled to settle into its new position.

He jerked his head, yelling behind him, “Dude, that sounds terrible. What are you doing?”

I suddenly felt very 36 and uncool. I tried hard not to laugh as I managed to find the correct gear and stop the awful sound. The rest of the ride was uneventful and enjoyable, other than a few gear shifts. 

I’ve come to the conclusion that despite my collection of skinny jeans and scarves, despite chunky glasses and thrifted furniture, despite the vintage Fuji and my love of PBR,

I am 36.
I am divorced.
I have a child, let alone children.

Any of which quickly disqualifies club initiation. In fact, I’m guessing my application was not even considered.

It seems as soon as we settle into one phase, life propels us to the next, often before we’re ready. Single…married…divorced…no kids…babies…school kids…teen-agers…empty nest…grandkids. But, I’m convinced that through each change, space is being created – space for new opportunities to see things that startle us, space to feel things we’ve never felt before, and space to meet people with different points of view.

But, I will still leave room for Converse All Stars.

For those interested in beefing up your application, this might help.

Contemporary Women Art Exhibition

Downtown tonight at [Scene] Metrospace with Savannah

"My print series "Pressing the Issue" is about contemporary women's body issues. 
Each model was turned into a human collagraph, 
strategically coated with handmade ink and printed on frosted mylar. 
The series sets out to show every woman that she is beautiful no matter her height or weight. 
The whole idea is meant to be empowering for women, so that they can realize 
their inner strengths and see themselves as the truly inspiring human beings that they are." 
Artist, Kimberly Lavon


{real life: the two of us were getting into it, really feeling it...and then this tall, skinny, 
model-looking girl walked by and Savannah was all, "Oooh, I want to look like her,"
and then we laughed really hard.  And, now we're sitting here laughing some more, 
and now she's pretending to look at art and says with a fake smile, "I LOVE my body now!  
I just feel so EMPOWERED!"  


It's nights like tonight when I'm amongst art, when I'm laughing and talking 
about real life with my girls, that I feel good in my skin - that I feel empowered - far more 
than I do in a great pair of jeans, new highlights, or nice shoes.


Now watch, I'll probably wake up with my face all broken out tomorrow, think my blog is dumb, 
and I'll want to grow my hair out because Savannah said it looks like Owen Wilson.


Until then, cheers to the moments when you actually feel like you just might 
be an inspiring human being.}

A Day in the D.

 Snapshots…from an afternoon in Detroit. First stop, Detroit Institute of Arts. Because of poor planning, we arrived hungry. So, for the first half hour, Sydney was grumpy. Then, Savannah was grumpy about Sydney being grumpy. Not to be outdone, Somer started whining that Savannah is always mean while I began to question my parenting, why we ventured out hungry, and why I had kids. We made our way downstairs to the café and watched, as if in slow motion, the gate close right before our eyes. At this point, I was trying pretty hard not to get frustrated – with myself, with the museum, with life, and with Sydney as a scene began to unfold, revealing her age of 12 years and 362 days. After just paying the admission, I really didn’t want to jet for fast food after only a half hour of culture, so we walked a bit further, Sydney dragging up the rear, in search of vending machines. Classy. I crossed my fingers and prayed to all I hoped existed as I led my girls on a hunt for funyons and famous amos. We had hardly walked a few feet before hearing music – and then, there it was, just around the corner…a large, sunny courtyard that seemed to appear out of nowhere…with high brick walls all around us and a glass ceiling way up above. We tiptoed in and there in the back, behind the rows of people, was a tiny little café. With food. And, WINE. We stocked up, found a table, and waited for applause before opening our cellophane wrapped sandwiches and bags of chips. It seems these moments are always magical in our minds as we plan them, and then reality happens - whining. fighting. yelling. But, I sat there with my girls, our snacks, and my glass of wine, happy it had all just happened exactly as it had. Our rough start had made the moments that followed even sweeter. And, that may have very well been the best glass of wine I've ever had. For a moment, I felt like I was in a European country as I sat and sipped, taking it all in...the brick, warm sunlight, beautiful music, and my happy kids. The concert concluded and we browsed more galleries, mimicking sculptures and falling in love with a bright stairway along the way. When they closed at five, the friendly docents said good bye and insisted we return on a Friday night for activities and more live music.  From there, we headed to Greektown, via the people mover, for hummus and spinach pie. It was a really good day, much like this one.

enjoy today.

After healing and adjustment, there is much about living alone that I've come to enjoy.

Like, right now.

Candles, low lights, and Thievery Corporation on Pandora playing loudly from the Mac, all uninterrupted by fighting, complaints of hunger, lost belts, and no toilet paper.

The music is trancelike...I feel like that girl. Cosmopolitan. Like her. Living in a Scandinavian country with a short haircut and minimalist furniture.

But, like anything, there is a flip.

Amidst the happy hours of heels, popped collars, and firm handshakes, amidst the clanking glasses as smiling faces yell, "cheers!",  reality bites.
A text from daughter saying, "I miss you."
At an appointment with attractive psychologist, he asks why my hands are orange.
My face turns red, complimenting my orange palms.  "Sunless tanner."

In moment of boredom, I jump on Match to see shirtless 39 year old, "hotloveready", and a winning caption of, "Lookin' fo someone ta hang whit." 

A reader asked if I was as hard on myself as I seem, and if so, why?

Yes, I am hard on myself.  I can think of a million reasons why, but to come up with something truly definitive and conclusive...tough.  

Insecurity?  Possibly.

Martyrdom? I hope not.

I do know I want to grow.  

I want to be more.  

But, so do a lot of people.
And, lots of people are hard on themselves.

Finding the balance between being enough and striving for more is difficult.

At what point do we just accept our dysfunction and make the best of it and at what point do we fight like hell to overcome and be more?

Another reader, "with the confidence of a mouse", asked what I might tell my 24 year old self.  And, I've been thinking...

(btw, I'm always afraid these anonymous commenters are people I know)

First of all, 24 (if you're real), you have more confidence than you think you have.  You have more than a mouse if you've acknowledged your lack...if you've asked.  You're no poser.  You're searching.  Keep searching.  Keep asking.  This I am today, that I will be tomorrow.  And, that, is how you will be what you want tomorrow...if you acknowledge and accept who you are today.  Everyone has insecurities.  Everyone. While I feel like I've grown and am more comfortable in my skin, I don't know that anyone ever really...arrives and is like, yeah, I found it.  I'm super badass confident now. Oh, there are days when I might feel like that.  But, two days later I don't.  It's just holding your head high and taking leaps in spite of how you feel. It's knowing despite all the stuff on the outside, we're all the same on the inside.  Be 24.  Do everything 24 year olds do.  Move.  Do.  Leap. Try.  Make mistakes. Reinvent.  I've learned more from bravery than from shrinking.  As much as you yearn for what lies ahead, try not to.  It will come soon enough. No one is thinking about you or caring what you're doing like you think they might be.  If at all possible, do and be what you want, with less worry of...cool. 

I had a youth pastor who said something like this...

You grow up always wishing for the next stage.  You can't wait to turn thirteen and be a teenager.  When you're a teenager, you can't wait until you can get your license and drive.  When you get your license, you can't wait to be 18 and a real adult.  When you're 18, you can't wait until you're 21 and can drink legally (he actually left that part out...conservative church...drinking was taboo at any age).  When you're 21, you can't wait until you're married. When you're married, you can't wait until you have a baby.  When you have a baby, you can't wait until they can walk.  When they can walk...

And, then, before you know it, you're looking back on all that.  Before you know it, you could be divorced with orange palms, perusing hotloveready on match.  

Morale of the story:

Enjoy today.