Acupuncture Saved Me Again

It isn't like it hadn't been recommended before.
It had...come up...it had...been suggested.

You know, you are carrying an overwhelming burden. Self-care is important. You are doing a great job caring for the children. You need to take some measures to reduce this amount of stress for yourself while protecting them from it all.... It's too much. What has happened could put anyone on the edge, let alone someone with the cumulative amount of shit you have had to wade through recently. This hits it out of the ballpark. Do something. Here are some numbers.

Yes!! Thank you for the great suggestions. I will just reach into my overdrawn bank account and pay a practitioner to help me.

But then the fabulous suggestion turned into a strong recommendation. One might even call it an insistence. Which manifested as a high-five and a heartfelt agreement.

Fine, I agreed. I took the numbers and called.
And I couldn't believe it when I called....was this for real????
Acupuncture on a sliding scale for $25 low end????

It's been rough here.
We're up; we're down.
Up was feeling so good.
Then: Unimaginable Pitfall
Lately...downish.
Too much.
Piled on.
Too much to digest.
Too much.

So I realized I had no more excuses. I had to go and try it out.
I hadn't been to acupuncture in more than a year, and this was a new practitioner.

It was a slightly different treatment than I remembered with the previous LAC, whom I saw for nearly 10 years - this guy tapped the needles in a bit more...err...firmly? I felt it, but it wasn't exactly a definable pain... and then he gave them a distinct twist, which felt like an electrical charge, which made me jump only twice. Or cringe. Or twitch. Any one of those is acceptable.
I was skeptical.
Then I was left to relax with those needles. I was glad for the blanket I had first politely refused - the needles can make you cold! Warm enough, I started to actually relax.
I breathed.
I thought.
I tried not to think so I could relax.
I remembered how badly I suck at meditation.
I tried breathing and tried to not remember how badly I suck anymore.
I think it must have worked to relax me.
Then I cried.
I don't like this bit.
But it wasn't overwhelming snot-wracked sobs or anything.
Just some quiet streaming tears.
I didn't like it a bit.
But yeah, I cried.

And you know what?
IT FELT GREAT.


I am going back.

Unsilenced, forevermore

I have to say.

I am feeling exposed and unheard. Not here - because I am no longer at liberty to share my truth here....for now - but here's what else I have to say:

That's a huge improvement over being silenced.

Because he can try and silence me, but unless he strangles me, I will be heard.

Because I am no longer his.

Thank You, Internet

Yesterday I had six dollars and eleven cents to my name.
I also had two shut-off notices.
I wrote a whiny post about not being able to afford anything anymore - gas, food, and least of all, my daughter's $20 stuff a bear field trip with her Brownie troop....and worrying that when her birthday arrives in three weeks, I will have nothing special for her.

I was defeated, deflated, and sick of my own whining.

I didn't know how I would get to work (gas money), pay the rent, or feed my family next month. I had hoped he would have repaid me by now, or at least have tried. I was deep in the hole and only sinking deeper, in spite of attempts to avoid this quicksand.

I am only one person.
I am full time mother, I am part time father, I am events coordinator, breadwinner and the decider. I am exhausted just trying to tread water. I have been in this cold ocean for over a year. A year ago, I thought it would be better now.
My life is my own, and so that is better.
But my life must be carefully guarded against his (expected) attempts to regain control over me - for once I stepped over that line of friendship to relationship, in his mind, I became his property.

It took one generous, kind and brilliant person, and then another, and about 200 friends, acquaintances, and strangers to remind me that my life is mine. And it is precious.

And we are going to make it.


Supergirl thanks you for Marley's dress and leash.
I thank you for gas money and the smile on her face.
And for doing more for my children than their own father has.
And for the kleenex I purchased after reading all your beautiful comments.

And for restoring my faith in humanity.

You are an amazing community. A year ago I was told to take this blog down.
I am so glad I didn't listen to anyone but my heart.


Thank you.

May 11th, 2010.

Today is May 11th.
Six years ago today, Elijah died.

When I first started writing about Elijah and losing him, these days scared the hell out of me. The anticipation alone was nearly enough to order a 5150. I stumbled from his birthday (3/31) to his death day 5 weeks later, noticing little along the way but the cruel and continuous passage of time.
I was terrified of what the day might bring. What could be even remotely as awful as that day in reality? Nothing.
But anticipation of more grief is a scary thing when you are already steeped in grief. My coping skills were watered down by grief, and chipped away by an unforgiving and full-of-judgment partner.

I did anticipate this day (dead baby day) to be easier than in past years, but I wasn't sure why I expected that. A few good friends asked me yesterday how I was doing, knowing that this time of year has historically sucked for me.
When I was asked, I realized that I was actually fine, because my anticipation of today was not influenced by the fear of being mocked or berated for whatever came up for me.
In the past, if I cried or was sad or depressed on this day, (vividly remembering unsuccessful CPR attempts and images of Elijah losing his breath), then I was 'choosing to be sad' or even accused of 'being ungrateful and not appreciating my live children'.
I am allowed to grieve freely this year, and I'm not even feeling that overwhelmingly grievous.
I miss my baby, I always will, but I am resigned to it being my history. Not fighting the emotions that came with that loss.
And if I am sad today?
This will also be fine.

Sigh: 11 months later, he still believes that choking me wasn't violent

RESPONDENT: I wasn't permitted by law to be at that residence or to remove my belongings at that time.
JUDGE: Because of your conduct which led to the CLETS order. Am I getting that wrong?
RESPONDENT: Yes, you are.
JUDGE: You didn't get arrested and convicted?
RESPONDENT: No. I was not convicted of a domestic violence*. I pled no contest to disturbing the peace.
JUDGE:You are on formal probation?
RESPONDENT: Yes, I am.
JUDGE: Domestic violence counseling?
RESPONDENT: Yes.
JUDGE: A 52- week program.
RESPONDENT: Yes.
JUDGE: You are on three years formal probation?
RESPONDENT: Yes, sir.
JUDGE: That's conviction, sir.




Maybe it's just me, but I don't think those mandatory DV classes are actually working.


*Blatant boldfaced, self-convinced lie.

How Scary Was It??

I need to say something here, and pardon me in advance for being redundant or painfully obvious.

I am so sick and tired of this bullshit. Seriously wearing thin.
But what's breaking me down isn't just the hostility and continued manipulation. It's not the bitter insults and accusations about to be hurled at me. It's not even the angry allegations that I am unfit or poisoning the children against him. Things which are so ridiculously untrue don't bother me.
What bothers me is his absolute devotion to proving his actions were justified. Putting so much energy for nine months into proving he had to chase me into the house to defend himself. Being so dedicated to proving I deserved it. Conveniently forgetting that even he thought it was wrong until I reported it and showed the bruises and confided in fear to a sheriff what I suddenly realized he was trying to do....kill me.

I am relatively sure he never meant to threaten my life - I think that part even surprised him. But the reality is that he lost control, attacked me, let go, chose to attack me again, and folded me into little bits until I could not breathe. Waited until no more sound was coming out to let go. It was, in a word, terrifying.

I didn't think it would take such drastic measures, but I really believe that unless he ever has someone yank his arms behind him, put him in a full nelson, pressure him into a choke hold, and hold his body immobile until the breath is squeezed out of him and his neck is millimeters away from being snapped, he won't ever understand how terrifying it was.

He told the court that the restraining order was 'unnecessary'.....which is pretty revealing about how far we are from ever reaching a point of understanding.

It's his determination to prove that I deserved it which scares me the most. Nine months of probation and half a year of DV classes have done nothing to change his opinion of his own perpetration of violence.

Terrify.
Terrifying.
Terrified.

Another moment in which I put my doubt aside for the greater good...

I am not sure how to feel about this.
My children were offered a heartfelt apology from their father.
The therapist who is supervising visits helped him prepare an appropriate and much-deserved apology, and he told them how sorry he was, how wrong his actions were, and how scary he knew it was. He told them he would never do it again to anyone.
Bubbles has been pretty direct with him, "Daddy, you have to be nice. You can't hurt people!"
This apology means a lot to him. It also means a lot to Supergirl, who has been conflicted about how she should feel about her father, her beloved daddy, since he hurt someone and didn't seem very sorry. They needed this, to be sure. And I appreciate that they got it.
But don't they also need sincerity?
What kind of father agrees to deliver a heartfelt apology to his children, while simultaneously planning for a custody hearing in which he hopes to prove that his actions were defensive and that I deserved it. Not only did I deserve it, but I don't deserve to be a mother. You know, after how many years plus the last 8 months of single-mothering. How does apologizing to his children for doing something terrible while he is trying to take their mother away from them translate into sincerity? Won't the kids eventually figure that out?

I really hoped that the co-parenting class would open up his eyes. I know, I know...that would require putting his children before himself - a tall order to expect.
Every single time I have entered Family Court, he has manipulated the court's time to re-frame his criminal court conviction. THEY DON'T CARE, but he effectively reminds me (and anyone else present) that I deserved what he did to me. This is in the name of the future our children - who are, you know, the reason we are going to Family Court.
Every single professional involved in this case has recommended that the children see their father with supervision, yet he insists I am the only one behind this, and that I am doing it to 'to retaliate'. (retaliate? against?? being choked??) I want to move forward; I hope the therapist he is seeing is helpful and that he is ready and willing to exact change in his own life.

But I have had it with the game playing and the pawn moving and really, it's enough. Everyone can see through it.
Is it worth it anyway for the children to receive an apology, even if it isn't sincere?
Because this isn't about my doubt, but it is about our children and their ability to heal from this, I have hope; I think it is.

Is This A Soap Opera?

The day he admits that his violent and unnecessary actions have negatively impacted our children, and that listening to our child scream, "Stop, Daddy! STOP!! Stop breaking mama's arm!!" should have been enough to stop him from continuing to hurt me, will be the day we move forward for our children.

His action, not his absence, was the catalyst here.


Instead, we are in a place where I have been accused of 'planning' the whole incident to get him out of my life.

Which, if you think about it, makes about as much sense as a spleen.

Yesterday I had an epiphany.

I really did.
Of course, as with most epiphanies, there is companion guilt.

I have been riddled with fear and doubt. I have been the swiss cheese of confidence. I have been in anguish over my childrens' reactions to witnessing violence and living with the ensuing fallout. I have questioned everything I do, every way I help them. I have sought help for them and with them, because I believe it is beyond my coping spectrum, and I don't want to fuck it all up. I am so afraid for the damage already done, for what they witnessed and how they will process that it was done by someone they love to someone they love...I worry what they will consider normal or acceptable behavior.

I call the children's therapist to ask her how to respond to certain conversations I have with Bubbles, and the many questions that Supergirl poses. Bubbles wants Daddy to 'kiss Mommy's arm say sorry'. He also wants to 'get a hammer go bam bam to Daddy, be Mommy's rescue hero'.
I don't pretend to be able to know how to respond to that. If it was your child, or a preschool aged student of mine, I would probably know how to respond appropriately. But it's my child, and objectivity goes out the window when I hear those words. I feel like every response I have, every move I make must be extremely careful and correct. Perfect, even. We're dealing with PTSD here. I want to make sure I do it right. Because for so long I have done it wrong.
I call for help, I ask what to say, how to respond, when to ignore and when it's okay to show my own tears. How much to tell, how little, and always being careful in my response, to separate the truth from a judgment. He is their father, and his relationship with them is not mine. He won't hurt them, they are not me.
I want to believe this with all my heart.

I am surprised then, when their therapist suggests that I am handling it correctly and appropriately.
"What should I have said?" I beg, confused about responding to my three year old's suggestions of violence and rescue.
"It sounds like you handled it just right. You told him you know he likes everyone to be friends, acknowledged his anger, and told him he could not fight with a hammer. I think you managed to validate his feelings and this shows he is continuing to process, which is good!"
Oh.

"I'm worried I am fucking it all up. I can't do it! I can't do everything right all the time," I sob to my own therapist in a rare moment of being allowed to cry without alarming small children.
"You are doing a great job with very little help. You are pulling this off alone! You realize that, right?" She says as she walks my sniffling self to the door.
I smile weakly, thinking that I've fooled her too. I am not doing a great job. Doesn't she realize that a great job does not include hours of sniffly wet sobbing? She disagrees, which is why I schedule another appointment with her.

Yesterday we had a rough moment. One of hundreds since April 11th, the day the man who claimed to love me, took me to the ground in a choke hold. And then did it again when I tried to run away. In front of our child. While he screamed and begged Daddy to stop. Yeah, that's what I think of when I say 'April 11th'.
So there was a moment. A moment in which Supergirl asked a tough question and Bubbles responded with words which may have shocked another adult. I responded as a mother. I looked at my children and all I could feel was love, not fear or dread that I had done it the wrong way. I was confident that I had answered correctly. I didn't need to call anyone to make sure.
And then, the epiphany. I suddenly knew a lost secret of my life:

I am a good mother.



For five months I have lived with the freedom of not being told I am fucking it all up, all the time. For five months, nobody has shushed me, berated me, turned a stereo up to drown me out, walked away from our conversation, ignored me, or told me that 'a nanny would do a better job' (oh yes he did).

I am a good mother, and I let him take that away too, until I didn't even know I had lost it.

I have shed a few covert tears over this revelation.
I mentioned the companion guilt. What kind of mother compromises so very much, that she loses that much of her confidence in her mere ability as a parent? What kind of modeling is that?
What have I done?

If I live in the present, I can say, I am a good mother.
I am becoming the parent I want to be.

Thursday, August 13th: The day my mountain caught on fire...Again.

The Fire.

What can I say? I had hit my very personal emotional wall the night before. Not wanting to be his neighbor; with him insisting on being my neighbor. The person who 'didn't do anything wrong', even though I have clear memory of that person choking me twice. One person can only take so much, right?
I crumpled into a ball of someone who has had to take too much; I tripped over an upended basket of toys I had just cleaned up, then I threw a toy at a basket. Hard. Bubbles noticed and cried, "No Mommy!", I gathered him into my arms and cried. Parenting Fail.

Bubbles likes closure. We have gone through the following process nearly every day for a week now:

Mama, say sorry for throwing my toy.
Bubbles, I am sorry for throwing your toy. I was feeling very sad and it was wrong.
It's okay Mama, it's not your fault.
(Really, it is, but thanks, sweet thing.)
The end.
(Repeat.)

We read some books (Supergirl was on a sleepover), snuggled and fell asleep early that night. I dreamed of helicopters.

5:30 am, Thursday August 13th: Voluntary evacuation phone call.
WHAT??? Apparently there had been a fire raging nearby for nearly 12 hours. I cursed my broken wifi router for its crappy timing.

10:30 am: Mandatory evacuation phone call.

11:00 am: Giggling inappropriately at the act of packing my baby's ashes in a box, for the second time in 14 months, to rescue them from a fire.
After packing 'The Important Stuff', I hit a wall of 50% indecisiveness, 50% ennui. I had no idea what, nor desire to pack anything more.

12:00 noon: I lock the children inside because the smoke is getting bad. Also, they have taken to shoving random things into the car such as individual crayons and tubes of yogurt.

1:30 pm: First visit from the Sheriff. "Sign this or leave," they said.
"We're just looking for the cat..."

2:45 pm: Second visit from the Sheriff. "Sign this or leave," they said.
"We're just looking for the cat..."
"Sign this or leave," they repeated. I nod.


2:55 pm: Telling my eight year old to say goodbye to her house and most of her belongings.
Leaving our ten year old siamese cat, Ocean, behind - because she ran off, presumably afraid of the sudden influx of air traffic.
3:00pm: "Say goodbye to the house," I said.
"Goodbye, house," they both called.
"Say goodbye to Ocean," I choked out.
"Goodbye, Ocean Kitty!" they both shouted, loud enough for any ornery cat with a shred of sense to hear.

We drove off into the smoke, our car crammed full of chickens and ashes and papers and small plastic objects which my children somehow found meaningful and had shoved into the remaining crevices.

5:00 pm: Moving around slowly, the chickens delivered to a chicken foster home (procured by dear veterinarian friends), unsure which move to make next. I knew I had to pick up the recently discharged laptop, so 'stopped by' to visit the friend who lived a block away from there, as she had been one of the nine people who had called me while packing.
Heidi's house had burned down 18 months ago, unrelated to either fire, but she and her (documentary filmmaker) husband lost everything in 1/2 of their house/office; every archive and each and every layer of thought from which it was collected and compiled.
Her response was that of a seasoned friend and refugee.
Her first comment was, "You know you are welcome to stay here, okay? You know that, right? Whatever you need."
Her first question asked was, "I am going to the store. What kind of alcohol can I bring you?"

We stopped by on Thursday and left four days later. Their kindness, our similarly aged and ironically compatible children, their intuitively perfected assistance...their patience with our inherently early vs. late scheduled kids....all added up to the best spontaneous vacation evacuation possible.


One week later: Listening to my three year old tell the story over and over, to anyone who will listen.
"The fire not burned the house! The smoke make mama sick! The cat gone, but she okay! The fire not burn my house!"

We're going home today, to face the endless cleaning of ash and restocking of walls and shelves. I will ponder each item....should I return it to where it was, or should I just pack it up, for we all feel like leaving this place.

We are whole, but we are scarred. We have all had enough.

Do You Have A Parenting Mantra?

Supergirl's birthday is tomorrow. She will be eight years old.
My job is to make her birthday awesomeness even if her world has been turned upside down. Even if she wishes every night so hard that she, my little lithe fragile faerie child, could change the events that happened three months ago.
My little girl has the world on her shoulders.



She wanted to get her ears pierced for her birthday. She wrote a letter to her Daddy asking him a number of questions, including, "Why did you hurt Mommy?" and, "Can I please get my ears pierced?"
She later told me she regretted asking one of the questions because she didn't want to make him angry. Which one? "Why did you hurt Mommy?"
My heart broke in a million pieces to watch her try to navigate this mine field into which she landed through no fault of her own.

His probation officer refused to give him the letter; she didn't want to 'get in the middle' of delivering communication. I was livid. There has to be some way to allow the children to send him a letter, I protested!
No. She said that if I wanted, she could ask for a probation review to be moved up on the calendar so we could amend the order to allow some form of communication. I said, "Yes please. This is interfering with our daughter's ability to even process this!"
I tried to explain this to Supergirl. She said, "But the judge is trying to punish Daddy and he is punishing all of us!"

Domestic Violence is very difficult to explain to children. I hope you never have to.




"Why can't we just get my ears pierced?"
"Because we agreed on ten years old before, and because Daddy gets to have an opinion about it too!"
"But Daddy's not here! Why can't I just get them pierced?"
"Because Mommy's taking the high road here he is still your Daddy and gets to help decide things like ear piercing!"


Am I having a hard time taking the high road? Not so much, because I want the children to have a healthy relationship with their father which should not be connected to our togetherness or lack thereof.
But at times...when the bills come in and I freak out because it's hard to stay on top of bills when I have paid three thousand dollars of his debt just to move forward and live here....when I think of how he has not paid one cent to assist his children through this or support them or supply one morsel of food....I need the mantras.



My parenting mantras as the questions come hard and fast:

There is a direct correlation between hearing negative things about a parent and child's self-loathing.

It is better for her to be angry with me than angry with herself.

The best help through any crisis is to be held through it.



These little mantras gets me through everything right now.

And This Is a Day I 'Don't Work...'

5:51 am - Wake up to Bubbles plaintively issuing his morning credo, "Mama. No say 'no ootine milk'! I want ootine milk.:
5:52 - remind Bubbles for the 18th time that no, I will not get him ootine milk because it is too early.
5:53 - Tell Bubbles that ootine milk has sugar bugs which will get on his teeth.
5:54 -6:18 - Repeat above statements until, after thrashing and protesting, Bubbles finally sobbingly settles on a pathetic bottle of water and falls back asleep.
8:25 - Wake up in panic that I must be at work early. Wrong day. Children both conspicuously asleep....hmmm. Try to sleep more.
8:31 - Unsuccessful with more sleep, turn to the idea of fresh pressed coffee as antidote.
8:32 - Sneak the ootine milk upstairs for the prince to find upon his awakening and lord save us all this morning.
8:45 - Enjoy OMG yum Steve's French with copious half&half and check email.
9:00 - Supergirl is up and ready for business.
9:02 - Cereal and toast with jam for Supergirl.
9:03 - More coffee and creamy toppers for mama.
9:04 - 9:24 Supergirl and I chat and I respond to emails until Bubbles wakes up (happily, because the ootine is there).
9:24 - 9:28 Chase Bubbles around the house with clothes and put them on his body.
9:30 - Brush teeth of Bubbles; attempt to brush his crazy hair but usually only one thing gets brushed on Bubbles at a time.
9:34 - Hand Bubbles some breakfast: juice, vitamins, and cereal in the car, as I buckle him into his carseat to go to speech therapy over in Beach Town.
9:35 - Beep horn for Supergirl to stop brushing her hair and get in the car already!
10:05 - Arrive at speech therapy five minutes late.
10:10 - Back into the car with Supergirl to run errands (boring hardware store and then, if there is no whining, a croissant!).
10:51 - SUCCESS! Croissant!
10:59 - Arrive at speech therapy just in time.
11:04 - Back in car, drive back to downtown for kids' counseling.
11:30 - Drop off child #1 for therapy while kid #2 and I get bagels across the street.
12:20 - Pick up child #1 and drop off child #2 for therapy.
12:25 - Take child #1 to nearby favorite park for some exercise and playtime.
12:26-12:46 - Try, unsuccessfully to do some coursework for school.
12:46 - Give up and chase child #1 around park and spin her on spinning things.
1:05 - Walk back to therapist office to retrieve child #2.
1:12 - Buckle up everyone, it's time for Trader Joe's now.
1:20 - 2:00 - Shop and argue with Supergirl about treats.
2:06 - Drive back up mountain.
2:07 -2:27 - Lively car conversation with such topics as: marriage, divorce, apologies, and consequences. And ear piercing.
2:28 - Pick up Supergirl's playdate.
3:00 - Finally back home.
3:01 - There is begging for treats. Much begging.
3:07 -Quiet now, as they consume sandwiches in order to win treats.
3:15 - Popsicles are dispensed, kids sent outside.
3:16 - Realize, as popsicles are returned to freezer, that the freezer isn't frozen. In fact, the whole fridge is dead.
3:18 - Hand out the rest of the popsicles.
3:20 - 3:30 - Clean out old fridge in garage.
3:30-4:00 - Shuttle salvageable food from giant magnet holder in my kitchen to working fridge in garage.
4:01 - Realize that there is a conference call for my class tomorrow for which I was supposed to have put in 3 hours of study time.
4:02 - Have a tiny little cry.
4:03 - 4:30 - Play on trampoline with Bubbles; attempt super stealth speech therapy techniques.
4:31-4:35 - Convince Supergirl and her friend to walk the full garbage cans up to the top of the road with me (Bubbles needs no coaxing).
4:38 - Get bribed (we'll rake! we'll fold clothes for you!) to take kids to the school playground.
5:20 - Come home, start dinner. Oops. Half the food spoiled in the freezer demise. What will we eat?
5:45 - Dinner: Cream-cheesy eggs, bacon, francese toast with homemade strawberry jam, watermelon and peaches. Side of carrots offered to appease my guilt.
6:10 - Send children outside to have adult phone call.
6:12 - phone call interrupted by chicken chasing.
6:14 -Phone call resumes.
6:16 - Phone call interrupted by Bubbles latest splinters.
6:17 Phone call resumes.
6:21 - Phone call aborted after chased chicken runs in house and poops in living room.
6:35 - Water new plants.
6:41 - Discover the fresh mud that the kids tracked in through house. Decide to water plants later.
6:45 - Playdate's mom arrives to collect her.
6:50 - Kids in bath.
6:51 - Vacuum. Again.
6:54 - Wash kids' hair.
6:58 - Hand out towels, drain tub.
6:59 - 7:15 - Dinner dishes.
7:16 - For the last time, we are out of popsicles, remember?
7:18 - PLEASE PICK OUT A MOVIE
7:19 - Attempt to pay bills.
7:21 - Change the movie.
7:25 - Requests for popcorn shall be answered.
7:30 - Popcorn delivered.
7:31 - Whining admonished (too bad you don't like nutritional yeast. eat the popcorn or don't.)
7:35 - MAMA - BUBBLES DUMPED THE POPCORN...
7:36 - 7:40 - Vacuum. Again.
7:41 - No, you may not have more popcorn. Or chocolate. No.
7:42 - Open Big House Red. Pour.
7:45 - Try to do some coursework. This is a multi-step process.
7:48 - Have all notes, CD's DVD's, laptop and piano keyboard ready.
7:52 - PLEASE LET ME DO THIS FOR JUST TWENTY MINUTES PLEASE!!!
8:00 - (pause) MAMA! I want OOTINE MILK!
8:02 - (play) Resume....
8:03, 8:05, and 8:06 - Ignore phone calls.
8:07 - (pause) Phone again. Answer. I've got nothing but love for the relentless caller.
8:08 - (play) Resume....
8:11 - MAMA! Bubbles peed on the floor!!
8:11 - (pause) Run out of house and hide in the garage for three minutes.
8:14 - Clean up Bubbles. And his pee.
8:20 - Brush kiddos teeth.
8:24 - Tell Supergirl to wash her hands again after putting the chickens to bed.
8:30 - Lights out and blankets for rest of movie.
9:04 - JACKPOT! Bubbles passed out on couch, transfer to bed.
9:05 - 9:12 - Read one book to Supergirl and tell her she can read for 1/2 hour (it's Summertime!)
9:12-9:30 - Clean bathroom next door and clean out some cupboards. Wonder why he saved 23 empty shampoo bottles.
9:30-9:45- (play) Resume.
9:46- (pause) Turn off lights for Supergirl.
9:46-9:50 Snuggle; fight sleep.
9:51 - 10:02 - Make lesson plans for tomorrow's music classes, for tomorrow is a Work Day. You know, unlike today.
10:02 - 10:40 - Enjoy late night and very humorous phone conversation with the BOS.
10:45 - Load up car with instruments, keyboards, drums, parachute, CDs and lesson plans.
10:50 - Pack breakfast snacks for the kids who will most likely try to sleep later than I need to leave.
10:59 - Attempt to write but give up and read blogs instead.
11:21 - Brush, wash, snuggle, sleep.

Prepare to repeat.


(Other than the fact that child support would be awesome.....we're managing just fine....)

What was slipping away...

I replay what happened; sometimes the memory pops into my vision and plays involuntarily, sometimes I choose to review it.

I am drawn to recall a certain moment again and again. There was so much that happened in that moment; so much that could have possibly changed the outcome, for better or worse. That moment still looms like a suspended bubble in my mind, yet that moment is what actually brought the anvil down. It changed everything for me; or maybe it didn't. I will never know, because it happened so fast.
But I guess it might have gone differently if, in that split second, a different decision had been made. I guess I might have been able to forgive. And I wonder then if that would have been the right thing to do as well...because I would have been waiting for the next time.

He had me in a headlock, he was hurting me and scaring me, and I was screaming for help and fighting desperately to get away.
His sister wouldn't help, and I was feeling more frightened...it was as if she was waiting for something else to happen.
In that moment that he decided to let go, or I wrenched free (I will never know), in that moment that it took me to swing around and launch a pathetic smack at him, in the moment it took me to try and defend myself by telling him to NEVER DO THAT TO ME AGAIN, EVER, and in that moment that I then ran for the door to run away, and then....
...in that moment that he then took me down again, harder this time and more angrily, while charging himself with the crime of not having done this to me sooner.....
...in that moment where he then folded me to the floor like a straw...
...in that moment that he heard me lose air and my voice....

...choices were made.

A conscious choice was made to...do it again.
It might have gone differently.
Perhaps not, as it happened so fast. But I wonder.

In that moment, all that was difficult between us then became impossible.
What was worth saving, became no longer worth the risk.
What was once speculative, then became in-my-face-true.
What was somewhat scary, then became terrifying.

What was slipping away, fell like a stone.

He made a choice, in a split second.
He made it twice.

I have choices about my future. I get to make choices about my boundaries and I need to make choices for my safety. I get to decide these things.

Now if only I could get someone else's head out of his [expletive removed] faraway planet, we would all be moving forward, really. Not just pretending.