Artistry

(Written over the course of several days in May)

How?

How did this happen?

How did I let this happen in my life?

One of the most challenging questions I dwell on is 'How did I let him make me believe that I was less than I am?'

Finally one night I asked the question out loud and rather than try to answer it, get upset or become angry- I was still and silent.

He was a sculptor. He took the piece, flawed, but whole, and began by sanding the edges. There were new grooves and fuzzier corners, but the piece remained easily distinguishable. Hammer to scalpel, he slowly removed splintered chinks, one by one. Where there once was a unique flaw, a void remained after his handiwork, but the actions to get there were so minute it was difficult to see the changes from day to day. After many months, the piece was small and insignificant.

I was small and insignificant.

My confidence was gone and I thought I was alone. I thought I was trapped. I feared I would live for years among the put-downs, the yelling, the silent-treatment, the raging temper, the secrecy, the isolation and the manipulations. I took my vows seriously and that I was living in the "for worse" portion of those vows. It meant "for better" was attainable. I wanted the "for better."

I thought I was dealing with someone in a valley of mental illness. I thought he was self-medicating. I thought his self-medication was interfering with a prescription. I thought he wanted to get better. To be better.

I thought wrong.

Starbucks Holiday Cups, Church Signs, and the Zingbot

I love Starbucks.

Really, I do.  I cried when I saw them building a Starbucks in Danville and knew I was moving away.  The Starbucks on the corner of Friedrichstrasse and Kochstrasse in Berlin knew my order when I walked in and would bring it to me, rather than make me wait in line with the tourists.  I've been known to leave my house 40 minutes early to drive to Marysville for a Starbucks confection and return to Bellefontaine for work before 7:30am.  I especially love the delightful fall and winter holiday drinks. (Tell me that the words "Pumpkin Spice Latte" don't cause you to salivate.  What, Pavlov's dog?  Exactly.)

What I don't love is the preachy Starbucks cup.

I just don't need my coffee with a side of "I told you so." 

Like the Starbucks cup, there is a church on my morning commute with outstanding and smart, but preachy signs. It is a church and therefore permitted to be preachy at me. 

Usually, I can chuckle at the sign or take a moment to consider the thoughtfulness of the words or the interesting plays on phrases they make.  This week, though, the sign knew.  

It knew me.

Sometimes I want so badly to call out the people who have hurt or are continuing to hurt my family and me.  I just want to fire off a list of grievances. Take that! And that! And THAT! 

I want to tell them and others all of the ways they have wronged us and I, like the Zingbot 3000, want it to be bitingly painful. I want them to feel at least half of the pain they have inflicted.  (And I hate that I want to hurt their feelings, but it is true.  Sometimes I do.)

So, I was driving down Ludlow Rd., making internal lists of things I wish everyone knew about a few, select people, when the sign reached out and punched me in the throat.

"Don't let the littleness in others

bring out the littleness in you."

-Preachy Sign 2012

I was letting it happen. I was letting their smallness bring out the evil in me. I was allowing myself to be controlled by their hate.  I was brimming with hate and vengefulness and spending my time imagining retaliation.  None of it was worth my time or energy.  None of it was worth sacrificing my character.  

So, as much as I want to write and post a blog entry about the wrongs that have been committed and the wrongs that still seem to be coming at me from a few individuals, I refuse to let hate control me. 

God is love, so I choose to be fueled by love. (With a side of fair trade coffee...)

Back to School

I don't want to go back to school.

There. I said it.

I love my job. No, really. I LOVE IT.

It's just... I love my days with Peanut more.

Just the thought of spending my days away from him tightens my chest and encourages sneaky, lurking tears to make an appearance. I'm so jealous of mothers who can spend each day, all day raising their children. Although I love my job and having the opportunity to spend time with other incredible children, I want to be with mine. (Stomps foot.)

I've never felt bummed about the start of the school year and it weirds me out, to be honest.

Usually I'm eagerly doodling bulletin boards and researching new ways to teach inferencing by July 15th. When August first hits I've knocked off at least 6 professional books and have bought out the majority of Staples. My classroom is generally ready to go one week before school starts.

Not this year.

I'm trying to soak up everysinglesecond of Peanut time I can. I pause while walking the hallway to smell his neck, ignore phone calls to enjoy his coos, and have super simple meals to spend more time singing The Wheels on the Bus. It is amazing how my world has shifted and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'd love to say that "I have to go to work," but the truth is that I choose to go to work. I suppose I could quit my job and be at home with Peanut all day. I just don't like the consequences of that, including losing my house and being unable to support my child. (Note: August is Child Support Awareness month. As I learn the ins and outs of this system- which currently feels entirely ineffective- I hope you'll take a moment to read the stats provided here.)

When you get down to it there are SO many things I'm looking forward to this school year. I'll have a new group of students, get to implement The Leader in Me with the Western staff and be a member of the Lighthouse Team, truly co-teach with 36ish 4th graders, 2 teachers, and 1 room, continue to develop a rigorous and engaging reading/language arts curriculum with a great team, and much, much more.

It would be just peachy-perfect if I could do this while baby-wearing...

Grey's Anatomy Is Good Medicine for a Pity Party (See what I did there?)

When I really get down about all of the restmüll (German reference) in my life, I turn to Grey's Anatomy. No matter what else is going on, the characters at Seattle Grace can really put life into perspective. Let me tell you some of the ways their lives suck more than mine.

1) I'm not sharing a pole through my spine with another man and the only way to save him is for me to be slid off the pole and die before my fiance can get to the hospital and we can say goodbye.

2) I didn't cut the LVAD wire on my fiance's heart device in order to put him higher on the transplant list (which worked, bt-dub) but then watched him die of a stroke. To make matters worse, he was a millionaire and left 8.7 million to me and I'm paralyzed with grief and can't use it.

3) I don't have the syph via Alex Karev via a nurse.

4) I don't have a lesbian lover who got pregnant via a mutual friend while we were broken up and I was in Africa. Then, when I asked her to marry me got into a car accident and I nearly lost said baby and said fiance.

5) I'm not a world famous surgeon with a secret hand tremor.

6) I don't have my hand on an unexploded bomb inside a man's chest.

7) I wasn't in labor while my husband's brain was exposed on the operating table after he got in a car crash rushing to the hospital.

8) My mom wasn't a world class surgeon who developed Alzheimers and asked me to keep her secret. Oh, and she had an affair with my boss's boss's boss while I was growing up.

And, even though their lives clearly suck MUCH more than mine, sometimes they say things that hit home.

Addison: I never thought I'd end up alone.

Callie: You have not ended up anywhere.

Addison: Yeah, you're right. I know. It's just that... um... sometimes it feels that way. This is one of those weeks it feels that way.

Yuppers, Addison. I totally feel you, girl. And it sucks.

The other day I was having dinner with a friend and she commented, "How will you ever trust someone again?" She is absolutely right. I don't feel like I could ever let anyone else into Peanut and my life. I don't want to think about dating, much less remarriage. I've already given Peanut one crummy male role model, what if I do it again? (In the same breath, will I let STBX steal romantic love from me? Forever?  That seems, well, uncool.)

Being alone is easier than risking love again. Because, that is the truth. I absolutely, unequivocally, whole-heartedly loved my husband. I loved who I thought he was and I believed he loved me that way too. He wasn't who he portrayed himself to be, and I can't afford to be wrong twice.

Meredith Grey: At some point, you have to make a decision. Boundaries don’t keep other people out. They fence you in. Life is messy. That’s how we’re made. So, you can waste your lives drawing lines. Or you can live your life crossing them. But there are some lines… that are way too dangerous to cross.

Risking love seems too dangerous. At least, for now. 
(Though not as dangerous as having my hand inside a stranger's chest touching an unexploded bomb, so that's something.)

"I Just Don't Know What to Say!"

Countless times I've encountered someone in crisis and not know what to say or how to say it.  Usually I refer to my honest stand-by "I'm praying for you/your family,"  but there have been occasions where I've done the Wal-Mart turn around.

You know it. You see someone coming down the aisle at you and rather than have to deal with a difficult situation you either become engrossed in the varieties of chicken stock and make your decision with the weightiness of deciding whether Luda or Coolio is the greatest hip hop/rap artist since Tupac or turn your cart around with a sudden desire to return to the pet food aisle. Perhaps the 28 lb. bag will be insufficient.

Having been the recipient of many Wal-Mart turnarounds, I want to share what I've learned. (And if you said anything on the negative lists to me, do NOT feel bad. I know you had the best intention, and I love you for trying.  I'm posting this because I think we can better help others in crisis.)

Things to say when someone is in crisis:

I'm sorry.

You don't deserve this.

Whatever decisions you make are the right ones.

You don't have to make any decisions right now.

Life will get better.

You are bigger than this.

You are special.

I'm thinking about you.

I'm praying for you.

I'm here for you.

We can talk about what is going on if you want, but don't feel like you need to.

I want to help you. I will... (bring food, take your child to the park, clean your bathroom, rake your leaves, change your light bulbs, walk your dog, bring you copious amounts of chocolate...) and I won't take no for an answer.

How do you want me to feel?
I went through something similar.  If you want, we could talk about it.

Ask any concrete question about life.

One friend made it her mission to make me laugh. It was wonderful to hear funny stories and receive her daily text messages of affirmation. How can you be desolate when you have a stuffed dog shaking his hips to Sir Mix-a-Lot's best hit, "I Like Big Butts."

Things not to say:

I know exactly how you feel. 

You need to pray for the strength to forgive.

What are you going to do?

How can I help?
God has His reasons for this.

How are you doing? (Followed by sympathetic head tilt.)

The worst:

Say nothing.

My Secret Shame

From March 22, 2012

I don't know whose brilliant idea it was to make a pregnant woman pee in a cup on a weekly basis, but I'll bet all the impulse buys in Target that it wasn't a woman in her 3rd trimester.

You see, as the rate of doctor visits increases, the circumference of belly increases, and the volume of liquid reduces due the frequent need to release said liquid due to baby's increasing size and strength of kicks. This creates the opportunity for a perfect storm in the OBGYN's tiny water closet.

For those of you who are male or have yet to enjoy the privilege of carrying a 39 week fetus, I have a little experiment for you to try.

Supplies

Twelve ounces of drinkable water

One available toilet

One Dixie cup

One blindfold

Two extra large pillows

One roll of duct tape

One XL bag of white flour

Procedure

Step 1: Drink water.

Step 2: Lie on floor . Place bag of flour on your stomach below your navel. Place extra large pillows on top of flour. Duct tape pillows and flour to your person in a belt-like fashion. Make it tight. Tighter.

Step 3: Stand. Waddle the floor for 15 minutes.

Step 4: Head to the toilet with a dixie cup and blindfold. (See where we're going?)

Step 5: Tie on blind fold.

Step 6: Eliminate waste into Dixie cup. (Note: This may take a fair amount of Cirque du Soleil-ing.)

Did you have success?

Yeah, me neither. Every week I am weighed (thankyouverymuchfortheextraslidetotheright, nurse), handed a little cup, and marched into my own version of urine misery. Not only is it nearly impossible to aim, it is definitely impossible to see the stream, and incredibly difficult to manage the volume of product.

If too much product makes it into the cup I feel embarrassed about my output and generally pour the superfluous liquid into the toilet. Sometimes then, too much is poured out and I feel the need to refill, increasing the likelihood of splashing. On other occasions, I struggle to eliminate anything, much less allow it to make it into the cup. This is far worse, as I then apologize profusely to the nurse as she tips the cup angularly to check my hCG level.

After a few mortifying sessions (yep, I'm the cautionary tale person who dropped the plastic cup into the porcelain), I imagined bringing a funnel to assist. Its true. I'm a problem solver.

And, it worked.

(Now, you know my secret shame. And, because I know you're wondering... I threw the funnel away at the doctor's office. My freezer jam is safe to enjoy.)

Happy? Un-niversary

Three Years Ago

Three years ago, today, I vowed before God, my family, and my friends to love honor and cherish my husband. I gleefully and whole-heartedly promised to love him and to be faithful to him. My heart was light with joy and soppy-full of happyhope. I thought that 8/8/09 was the beginning of my happily ever after. Just over 30 months later I signed papers filing for divorce. I felt (and sometimes still feel) like a failure.

Going to a Christian counselor was one of the best decisions I made these past 6 months and he has really helped me handle this feeling, "I am a failure." Basically, he explained that just like it takes two to tango, it takes two committed people to make a marriage. When one person refused to be committed and actively chose to break vows repeatedly, the other cannot make a marriage alone. It just isn't possible. Even so, I regularly have to talk myself through his example to keep from getting down on myself.

I'm not sure how to celebrate this 'un-niversary.' Technically, today I have been married for 3 years. Do I cry about the loss of the marriage I thought I had? Do I hide out in my living room order to spare anyone the uncomfortable situation of seeing me today? Do I go on as though life is normal? Does Hallmark even have a card for this? (If not, I bet someecards.com does...)

(And, they did!)

I feel some sadness at the loss of those dreams I imagined. On our wedding day, I could picture being surrounded by family and friends 10, 25, and 50 years down the road. I never visualized that exactly three years later I would be alone listening to the deep breathing of our sleeping son and he would be serving jail time. Who could have forseen this?

I don't miss STBX (soon to be ex- which is the nicest acronym I can come up with) and don't want him back. (Ever. Evereverevereverever.) I don't want my marriage back. I'm so much less lonely now than I was living with him.

Even so, today I'm mourning. This should have been a day marked with celebration, or at least happy acknowledgment, but instead it commemorates a lost dream.

Time to dream a new dream.

He Doesn't Owe Me Squat

May 8, 2012

In the days between January 25th (the afternoon I found out about STBX's- Soon T Be eX- infidelities) and April 2nd (when Peanut was born) I worried. A lot. To those of you who know me or read this blog, it should come as no surprise that I worried.

Throughout those weeks, I was so fearful about life. I felt certain that something would be wrong with my little Peanut. Colic. Birth defects. Stillbirth.

My brilliant therapist said it best, "If I were driving my car along a road and it felt a little off, I would think, 'No big deal. I'll stop by a mechanic's shop and have the engine looked at. This is a problem I can fix." Then, while driving to the mechanic's out of nowhere a MAC TRUCK plows into me. I would then think that life was unpredictable and scary." (Metaphorical genius, he is.)

That was exactly how I felt about life.

When I shared my concerns with many others they assured me, "Your baby will be just fine. He will be born healthy, happy, and beautiful. God wouldn't add any more difficulties to your life. He knows just how much you're dealing with."

And then, I would feel better. 'Of course. God loves me. He doesn't want hardship to come to me. He will protect Peanut. He wouldn't give me more to handle right now.' I would be smug and comforted by the thought until the fears would return.

One day I shared my fears with one of the most faith-filled women I know, who also happened to be a colleague. She looked me in the eye and told me that my worries could be true. Peanut might not be healthy. She shared, "God doesn't owe you anything, Ashley. You owe him everything, and for everything he gives you, you should rejoice and be thankful."

Owie.

Her words stung, but the more I thought about and prayed about them, the more I knew she was right. God doesn't owe anyone anything. He loves us and wants the best for us, sure.* But it is in hardship that many find faith or deepen their relationship with Him. Isn't that a blessing in itself?

It was only through her words that I gained true relief. Whatever happened to Peanut and me would be okay because we had a powerful, loving God who gave his son for us (and you). He doesn't owe me anything, so I should give thanks for everything.

Everything.

*I assume and hope based on the experiences of my faith journey. It seems awfully cocky to say I know what God is thinking.   

Sleep Training Isn't for Sissies or In Which I Get Belligerent with a Book

Mommy hearts aren't meant to let their sweet babies cry. As I sit here in the overstuffed armchair my dad reclaims on every visit to my home, all I want to do is go rescue my adorable son from his loneliness. You see, we are sleep training. He is in his Rock'n'Play. Alone. I am in the living room. Alone. The dog is pacing the hallway, clearly unsure of why I am letting his little brother cry (evidenced by the way he nudges my hand or knee every three laps.)

Peanut is sad. I am sad. We are sad. (Je vous en prie, repete, "Peanut est desole. Je suis desole. Nous sommes desole.")

(Aside: That French was probably VERY inaccurate. Since studying French I've attempted German and Russian. Truthfully, I stink at them all. Sorry Madame Hodge, Keeta, and Maike.)

I could fix our saddies SO easily. Walk into the room. Pick up Peanut. Cuddle. Problem fixed.

Yay! Mommy fixed the saddies!

For now.

Unfortunately, I want Peanut to learn to self-soothe. For a few nights I've attempted to put him to bed awake, but drowsy after our nighttime routine. Every night except last night he fell asleep before I put him down. Last night he was drowsy and whimpered for a few minutes before crashing.

Tonight he was drowsy, but has now worked himself into a frenzy equal to the crowd waiting in line for deep fried Oreos at the Ohio state fair. 

In an effort to keep my tush in this chair I am reading and rereading Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child by Marc Weissbluth. My belligerance with this author is increasing. Example:

HSHHC: This may be the first time you will ignore your child's protests.

Me: No shit, Sherlock. Baby cries. Mommy fixes. Repeat. I want him to know that he can rely on me. Always. Leo+Mommy=Rainbows, push up pops, and cherry kool-aid happiness

See how happy cherry kool-aid can make one?

HSHHC: When your child is crying and he is not hungry, say to yourself, "My baby is crying because he loves me so much he wants my company, but he needs to sleep."

Me: Precisely! I will cuddle him as he sleeps. Agreed! (Begins to get up from chair as the next sentence catches her eye.)

HSHHC: I know the value of good sleep...

Me: (Warily agreeing) Yes...

HSHHC: ... and I love my baby so much that I am going to let him sleep.

Me: Damn you, Weissy. (Internal dilemna) Now if I go get him, The Weisster will accuse me of not loving him enough to give him quality sleep. Grr. (Booty resumes imprinting on chair.)

HSHHC: At some future point you will teach other health habits such as hand washing or tooth brushing... Later still, you're not going to risk brain damage by letting him ride his bike without a helmet.

Me: You're seriously equating picking up my crying, lonely 4 month infant with potential brain damage!? If I refill his disposable water bottle at socer practice when he is four, I suppose I'd be supporting cancer too, huh.

HSHCC: Starting early and being consistent are the keys to establishing good habits.

Me: Grrrr. Every once in awhile I agree with your drivel, and there you go, hitting my beginning of the school year theory perfectly. Rats. 

Hey... Leo is silent... Thanks, Dr. Weissbluth. (Until tomorrow, you blizzard-hating sadist.)

Soldier On

I'm totally overwhelmed by the response to this blog.

April 19, 2012

When I found out that my husband made choices which caused him to lose his job via resignation and deeply threatened the fiber of our marriage, I got out of bed. Despite the fact that I was 32 weeks pregnant, I got out of bed. Even though all I wanted to do was hide in bed with my dog and a box of Puffs Plus Lotion or do a full-out Jimi Hendrix on my kitchen floor, I got up.

Why?

Simple. I didn't have a choice.

I had a mortgage. I had a classroom of twenty-eight 4th graders who were in the middle of writing personal narratives. I had a car payment, a credit card bill, and utilities to pay. There were pets to feed. I had a baby on the way and a life to make for him.

I'd love to say it was my faith, or my family, or my friends, or my own determination that gave me the power to go on with day-to-day life, but the truth is starkly clear. I had no choice.

My life was falling apart all around me. If I laid in bed it would only continue to collapse, and I felt like I was dealing with enough problems for the moment. Someone had to step up and use the initial bits of duct tape and WD40 to begin to repair my life. That someone, by default, was me.

So, if you wondered how I went to work, or the grocery store, or to the doctor those days immediately following January 25th, now you know. I didn't have a choice.

woManning Up

From July 24, 2012

While revising and editing another blog entry I felt my spine tingle and then a trickle of wiggling snaked from my right shoulder to my left and back.

Was is a poignant observation?

A moment of foreboding?

A tickle of woman's intuition?

Nope. It was a bug. A shiny, jadeblack, six-legged creature. On my person.

Twelve months ago I might have shrieked and called in back-ups to kill it. I would have wiggled and itched and been creeped out simply by sitting in the same chair.

Not any more. When I reached around to scratch the wiggly spot and felt the bug move between my fingers I grabbed and threw that sucker to the ground in surprise. Then, I grabbed a paper towel and tracked down the invading creature, determine to destroy (or perhaps trap under a glass and release in the wild) the cretin.

I found. I smooshed. I flushed.

Victory.

Do You Think God Uses Microsoft Publisher?

How do you know when you've really, truly, waydowninthedepthsofyourheart forgiven? Is it when you don't feel angry, sad, or lost at the mention of their name? Is it when you can calmly occupy the same space? Is it when you can pray that good things will come to them?

I'm still not sure.

Beginning in May I began giving real effort to forgiving those people who hurt me. I prayed for peace in my heart. During May, June, and the early part of July I cried every time I said the Lord's Prayer.

What kind of a hypocrite was I? Daily, I would ask God to forgive me as I forgave those who trespassed against me (or whatever language you use- debtors, sinners...) yet I was holding on to pain and anger and not forgiving.

I told myself that I had to do it, even though they weren't asking for forgiveness. I wasn't forgiving them for their sake, I was forgiving them for my sake. Finally I talked about this with my counselor. I wanted to know how I would know that I had really forgiven. I think I asked about a certificate signed and dated by God with a shiny foil seal. (Maybe stamped with a cross or a Jesusfish...) He laughed and then mentioned that perhaps it wasn't them I was failing to forgive.

It was me.

I couldn't forgive myself for not giving my sweet Peanut an intact, loving, two-parent family. When I got married I did it believing I was choosing the best father for my children- a real man who would provide spiritually, emotionally, financially, and physically. A man who would put his family before himself. I come from a long line of men who have done this and Peanut was named for two of the greatest examples I've known of what it means to be an upstanding, loving man.

I chose... poorly. (Indiana Jones reference intended.)

I couldn't forgive my inaccurate assessment and the way my choice in a partner would affect Peanut's life forever.

Now, I think I'm closer than ever to forgiving myself. The grief is not as stinging and comes at less frequent intervals. Above all, it took the two of us to make the one amazing little Peanut. I would go through the hardships of the past 8-10 months one million more times just to have him again.

So when it happens, I'd really like a Microsoft Publisher certificate acknowledging my achievement.

Beginning with the End in Mind

I loved being pregnant. Every day felt like an opportunity to give my sweet baby the best start that I and life had to offer. In spite of the weight gain, bad skin, lack of red wine, and morning sickness (one of the best kept pregnancy secrets is that puking can't tell time...), I felt like I held the most glee-filled, chocolate doughnutty, confetti tossing secret ever. I was making a person. A bone fide eyelashes, spleen, and toenail possessing b-a-b-y.

Despite my love of pregnancy, life at home wasn't good. I'm sure I'll share more details about life during those months as I continue to blog, but in short, I was spending a lot of extra time at school. I felt capable and respected there. I didn't have to tiptoe to maintain peace or fudge the truth to make others believe that all was well. Neither I, nor any of my family members, nor any friend knew all of what was lurking beneath the surface of my well-manicured life.

I mentioned here that I was using my blog as an escape. It wasn't that I lied in my blog, but I made the decision to look for the most silverypink moments in my life, take the time to document them, and be grateful for the beauty God was giving me.

Please accept my apology for keeping many truths from you. This blog will be different. It is a place for me to heal, to find humor in life with a growing (far too quickly for my liking) baby boy, to help others in crisis, and to regain the heart I nearly lost. 

Gratitude List

Coffee at Sweet Aromas with mom and Peanut

A 40 minute late morning nap

Getting two 'prep for school' tasks finished

Watching G-Mac improvise an awesome dino story for Peanut

Safe travels for the 'Six Pack'

Wolfie was fine after taking a tumble in the backyard

Dinner and HP1 with Robbie

Blogging while snacking on one of Margie's chocolate chippers