One day you’ll be sitting at your computer and you’ll open your inbox.
You’ll see your ex-husband’s name and you’ll think, “Crap!”
You’ll take a sip of coffee and think to yourself, “Geez, this day started out so well. It’s not too hot out this morning. The coffee’s excellent. The kids are still sleeping and I have a bit of time to gather myself for the day. And then this – an email from him.”
“Damn.”
The green index card in my purse is my backbone fortifier. The card contains notes on how to handle verbal attacks. A friend on Twitter sent me a link to Martha Beck’s post on the subject. I had to create a short-hand version of Martha’s approach so as to fit it on one side of the card. I wanted a quick cheat sheet to refer to when necessary.
(No, I haven’t actually pulled the card out in front of an attacker. Not yet.)
I refer to this card when I’m standing in line at the grocery store. I re-read this card when I’m in the parking lot waiting for Will to finish 18 holes. Looking in my purse to find chapstick, I see the green of the card and I’m reminded of the key points.
Here’s the version that has helped me.
1. Fighting Stance. Continue reading →
I’d only seen her a handful of times since college. She would come into town from the ranch and once in awhile our paths would cross. My kids were younger than hers. Her kids were stretching out in that teenage growth spurt phase. I never seemed to recognize them.
We’d compare notes on kids and life. Her life was foreign to me – ranch wife raising two kids while teaching in a one-room school and helping her husband as much as time would allow.
She had that outdoors look – lots of sun and wind and the way the elements make creases in places she didn’t like, but ways I envied.
One of the last times I saw her, the creases appeared deeper. Her eyes had lost their sparkle. She was beyond tired. I assumed she was exhausted from keeping up with teenagers, school work, ranch life and marriage.
She didn’t have time to chat. I didn’t ask any questions. Continue reading →
This morning I saw a tweet that linked to an article about a guy who said he has felt like an ATM machine ever since his divorce.
I didn’t read the article.
I feel for the guy.
For a nanosecond I wondered if Mark felt the same way. There’s no need for me to wonder since he has told us plenty of times – actually lectured in the way a nun might do just before she slaps the back of your hand with a ruler – that the only reason we get in touch with him is because we need something.
“But dad, I don’t want that kind of putter. I know what I want and I’m paying for it with my own money. I’ve researched this putter on the internet. Dad, I know what I want.”
As they drove away without a new putter, Will’s stomach started to act up.
Once they arrived home from that day’s dad visit, both kids unleashed.
“He doesn’t know anything about golf. Why is he telling me how to spend my own money?”
“Why do we have to go to his office for visits when he only sees us two times a week?” Continue reading →
There is a wall of glass separating the narcissist from everyone else. This isn’t the kind of glass found in the famous proverb about people in glass houses. You can’t throw a stone and break this glass. This is impenetrable, thick, cold glass.
You can see the narcissist because that’s how he wants it. You can see him preen and strut and show his face to the sun.
You can hear the narcissist and his word salads. You hear his mockeries and his bragging and his endless stories of his successes.
You will encourage your children to stand against the glass so that he may see them better. When he doesn’t notice, you will exaggeratedly wave and point at your kids so as to try to get his attention.
He won’t be watching. Continue reading →
“And that’s why I hate my dad…” is what I heard after I explained what happened in mediation yesterday.
I can’t hide it.
I can’t shield him from the sour truth of his dad’s greed, ruthlessness, and revenge.
There will be items obviously missing from the home. I can explain why I agreed to give him these things that disrupt our space. I can look to the sweetness and say we can save for new things and bit by bit have our own way. But, I can’t explain WHY his dad is the way he is. I can talk about NPD. I can talk about his childhood and how it contributed to this disorder. But I can’t explain WHY he doesn’t get it.
WHY does he need our things when he has his own?
“He has three wine racks, why does he need one more?”
WHY doesn’t he see that the stuff he gains will ruin him in the eyes of his son.
“And that’s why I hate my dad…”
We looked at each other and without words understood the struggle.
We have to accept that we are the sweet and he is the sour.
Nice feels good. Nice looks good.
Nice smooths rough edges, makes conversations less awkward, and hides ugliness.
There’s a plaque above my cupboard that says, Because Nice Matters. Another sign at the front door reads, Be nice or go away.
For a long time, I firmly believed that the world would be better off if we would all be a little nicer. What if we always made casseroles and brought them to those recuperating from surgery? What if we remembered birthdays and sent cards? What if we gave up our seat on the bus and held the door and remembered to shut our mouths when we couldn’t think of anything nice to say.
Over chocolate milk, Rice Krispies and coffee we had a venting session about yesterday’s dad visit. It used to be that our rants were punctuated with tears and “How long do we have to do these visits?” Now the rants are filled with laughs, OMGs, “Can you believe hims?” and “How long do we have to do these visits?”
“Why does everything have to be about him?”
“You know the answer, Bud. It’s like the ground shifts under him when things stop being about him. He needs everything to be about him to have some sense of control. It doesn’t make sense. It’s frustrating. Imagine what it’s like to live like that.”
A story…
She is standing at the stove when he walks in. “Mom, when’s dinner gonna be ready?”
“Soon, honey. The sauce is ready. Salad’s in the fridge. Garlic bread is in the oven. There’s nothing more for me to do besides cook the pasta. I’m just waiting for the water to come to a boil for the spaghetti. We’ll eat when dad gets home.”
“K. I’m just gonna get my soccer stuff for the game tonight.”
I watched the desert dust go down the drain and reached for a towel. As I stood up after wrapping my hair, I saw the spider. It had been hiding in the folds of the towel, minding its own business. I stepped from the shower and laughed at myself.
In the old days, I’d have let out a scream. I learned to stifle screams at a young age. The best deterrent for a little girl is to have her dad make fun of her when she screams at a big hairy spider. (Those screams inside my head were louder than the ones I dared to let out.)
More recently, I would have grabbed a shoe and attacked the critter. If Jenny had been standing there, I would have gone into action and saved the day.
I pulled the shower curtain closed, leaving the spider to crawl up the damp stall.
I got to thinking about what scares me now.
I’m not afraid to travel alone with two kids.
I’m not afraid of heights, but I do hang on to Will and Jenny when they venture too close to the edge.
I’m not afraid of the dark or spiders or monsters under the bed.
I’m not afraid of strangers or big cities or camping in the woods.
I’m not afraid of wrinkles or gray hairs or mirrors. (I am making progress on getting over my fear of swim suits.)
I’ve lived with narcissists.
Not much scares me any more.
Leaving town is easy. As you take off from the runway, you will breathe deep and relax. You may even splurge on a cocktail for yourself and a couple of pops for the kids. You will count out loud the number of days that will happily pass without the stress of a dad visit.
She will exclaim at the wonder of being surrounded by family members who think she is wonderful. She will not guard against snide comments. She will wear her hair however she chooses. She may not even pack socks. She will smile until her cheeks hurt.
He will laugh louder and not worry about saying the wrong thing. He may not have to accommodate for several days because he will be with people who love him even if he doesn’t spend each moment trying to please them. He will pull pranks and howl at the moon.
You will relax knowing your kids will be respected, enjoyed and nurtured. It’ll be okay if they are loud and a little messy. You won’t have to coach them about what to say and what not to say.
He shut off the blender and yelled from the kitchen, “Mom, do you think it’d work to put some of those leftover brownie crumbs in my milkshake?”
“Sure. Try it. It’d be like a Blizzard.”
The blender starts whirring.
I look at Jenny and say, “Honey, I know that when we first talked about emailing your dad, we agreed that it wouldn’t make a difference. But it’s been a week now, and I know it’s still bugging you. Have you changed your mind? Do you want me to let him know how you are feeling?”
She looked up from the sewing machine and pushed the shimmery purply-blue fabric to the side to keep from sewing the end of the tail closed. “I don’t think I wanna make it so I can walk in it. Mermaids don’t walk anyway.” Continue reading →
Last night, no amount of bathroom humor would tease her out of her funk. She plotted a daughter’s revenge – cryptic drawings on paper that would then be tossed in the wood stove.
I asked if she wanted to have a slumber party in my bed. “I’ll tickle your back. You can tell me anything or nothing at all.”
She brushed her teeth. I braided her hair. She pushed the cat aside and crawled in my bed and said, “I’m sick of all of this.”
___________
Today she discovered how to make different sizes of paper frogs. She colored them brightly and called them Baby and Mommy and one of them was even Dad. Right now she’s beating her brother at a dice game, and when a favorite song comes on Pandora, she dances by me twirling and whirling and smiling and not thinking about anything but good stuff.
That is the resiliency of kids.
That is the roller coaster of life.
I was stirring the fettuccine as the door closed behind him. I looked over and noticed she didn’t look up. She didn’t speak. She kept her head down as she focused on her project.
Dinner was almost ready to hit the table. I turned to Will and said, “Buddy, dinner is close, but I’ve gotta talk to Jenny first.”
So what if the pasta was going to be mushy.
I pulled my stool next to Jenny and quietly asked her to look at me. When she did I said, “Honey, I want you to know that I remember how that feels. I know what it’s like to be in a room with my dad, have him talk to my brother, and leave before saying a word to me. I know how that hurts, but I don’t want to project my feelings on to you.”
“What does project mean?” Continue reading →
