These prints belong to Nina, the world’s most patient cat. She left them on the front step while she patiently waited for one of us to remember to let her in.
I hope this last day of February finds you happy and healthy.
I hope you have let in those you love, and that those you love have let you in, too.
I was up all night with Jenny. I’ll spare you the gory details, but she was afraid of falling back to sleep for fear she’d get sick again. I held her pretty much all night long while she drifted in and out of sleep. I looked at her long lashes and perfectly arched eyebrows, her long delicate fingers and the wisps of hair around her forehead. She’s not a baby anymore, but when she’s not feeling well, she seems as fragile and vulnerable as when she lived in my arms.
I had a lot of time to think last night, and Jen’s being ill reminded me of the scary time she spent in the hospital with pneumonia. She was four years old. It was the last weekend of ski season. Jenny’s fever started Friday afternoon. Mark worked his usual Saturday shift, and by Saturday morning I was running out of the fever fighting duo – Tylenol and Motrin. I called him at the shop and asked if it would be possible for him to leave to bring us some medicine. He said that he could leave long enough to run and get it, but that I would have to come down to the shop and get it from there. So I got two kids out of bed, buckled them into their cold car seats and made the 20 minute drive to the shop to get the meds.
He did come out to the car to make a show of checking on his daughter, and then we zoomed back home.
That afternoon, he was able to get out of work early enough to head up to the ski hill.
When he got home from skiing, he found me sitting on the couch next to a lethargic Jenny. I was able to manage the fever, so at this point I felt we were just letting the bug run its course. Quite frankly, it was easier to care for an ill child if Mark wasn’t around demanding to be center stage. Continue reading →
There is still snow on the ground, but the days are getting longer. Will just informed me that Spring will arrive in 28 days. The angle of the sun makes things melt like crazy, even if the temperature doesn’t warrant it. And while eating lunch today, we marveled at the icicles and how they go from dripping slowly to dripping continuously, and then back to a slow drip. You can hear the birds chirping and almost smell the wet soil, where the sun has melted the snow and warmed the earth a bit.
Gardening season will soon be upon us. Okay, it’s not going to be here that soon, but it’s fun to plan. Last year, about this time, I was making plans for our little garden and flower beds. I always draw the garden out on paper so that I remember to rotate plants. That way I won’t keep planting things in the same place each year. I was sketching out where to put the Early Girls, the Sweet 100s and the Norland Reds, when it hit me. I don’t like potatoes. Baby reds are nice once in awhile, but I don’t like them enough to devote all that space in my tiny garden to just potatoes. I had been living in my own house, and I was still planting what Mark liked. It took me about three years to figure out that I didn’t have to plant potatoes anymore.
Just when I think I’m making all this progress, figuring out how to make my way after this bizarre relationship, I realize I’m still clinging to aspects of my old life. When I first moved into this little house, I remember walking around with nails between my teeth, a hammer in one hand, and ‘Frieda’s Dream’, by Monte Dolack under my arm. I was trying to figure out where it would look best. As I’m walking through the house, mumbling to myself, I caught myself thinking, “I wonder if Mark would like it there?” In the next instant, I realized I didn’t have to take Mark into consideration when decorating my own house. That realization was as sweet as the waking from a bad dream, when you realize it’s all just a bad dream, and that sense of relief washes over you.
There were a lot of delicious thoughts running through my head when we first moved to this address. “I get the remote. I’m going to watch Food Network, HGTV, Lifetime movies and whatever I darn well please. No one is going to make fun of me for reading Martha Stewart Living. I don’t have to eat waffles on Sunday mornings anymore. I can have a glass of wine (or two) while cooking dinner, and I’m not going to feel guilty.” Now that we’ve been living here for over three years, it’s interesting to see how things are shaking out. I haven’t picked up a Martha Stewart Living Magazine in probably five years. I have probably checked out the Food Channel a handful of times. Each time I watch, I think to myself, “Why was I desperate to watch this? It’s not like they are gonna do a whole show on the glories of peanut butter and jelly.” Lifetime Movies make me cry, so there’s no point in that. I haven’t had a waffle in almost four years. Yes! And I do enjoy a glass of wine while making those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. (That I also serve at dinner, not just lunch. Just so you know I’m not also sipping the vino at noon.)
But all this got me thinking about what it is I like and don’t like. What are my preferences? I thought I knew what my preferences were when I still lived with Mark. I seemed to want to steer toward the things that he didn’t like. Maybe I was trying to make a statement. It’s a lot like the child that is denied candy and cookies. They want those treats all the more when they are told they can’t have them. When there aren’t any limits put on the sweets, the child may or may not be interested. But they certainly aren’t feeling desperate to have the Tootsie Rolls. When my world was so limited, I found myself clinging to stuff that had been off-limits. Now there are no limits, the world is wide open, and I’m not obsessed with HGTV or romance movies. But I could watch, “You’ve Got Mail” every week. And now I can, if I want to. Continue reading →
This post is from Pat, who sent a beautiful comment yesterday. If you caught the comment, you know how insightful it is. And it is definitely worth reading again.
A man was resting under his favorite tree. As he rested and daydreamed, he felt a wet, sloppy splooge land on his head. Taking out his handkerchief to wipe off the mess, he looked up and saw a large, green, crested bird with red and yellow speckles on its tail on the branch above him. The bird cocked its head and smiled at him. The man understood the bird was just doing what birds do, but he hated what the bird had done to him. His handkerchief wasn’t large enough to clean off all of what had landed on his head, so he went home to wash his hair and finish the job.
Sometime later, the man rested again under his favorite tree. Presently, he felt a large plop on his head. It stunk. It was repulsive. It ran down his neck. Incredibly, it was from the same large, green, crested bird with the red and yellow speckles on its tail. As he stared in amazement at the bird, the bird cocked his head, returned his stare, and smiled. The man was tolerant of the bird, which had only done what birds do. But he HATED what the bird had done to him. His handkerchief was no larger than the last time. He went home to take a shower and change his clothes.
When next the man felt the need to rest, he hiked again to his favorite tree. He hoped the bird would not be there. Settling under the tree, the view of the countryside filled him with a sleepy kind of peace. He raised his arms to cushion his head on his hands against the tree, and closed his eyes. Unfortunately, the large, green, crested bird with the red and yellow speckles on its tail once again interrupted his pleasure. Incredulous, he glared up at the bird. The bird cocked its head, gazed at the man, and smiled. What fell from the bird this time was by far greater in volume than any time before. It reeked. It was foul and disgusting. It ENRAGED the man. This time, the awful, slimy filth had not only covered his head and run down his neck, but had landed on his hands and run down inside his sleeves. Though he had come with towels, just in case the bird was there, he still was not prepared with enough towels to clean up what was on his clothes and in his clothes. He wondered if he would ever be clean again, even after a long, hot shower.
There came a time when, after a long day’s work, the man needed a rest. Tramping through the countryside toward his favorite tree, he walked more and more slowly. He thought about his tree and about the bird that had come to inhabit it. He loved his tree; he wanted to rest under his tree. But he did not want to have his restful time ruined by the large, green, crested bird with the red and yellow speckles on its tail. He remembered what the bird had done to him, and he remembered how it made him feel each time he rested under that tree. Maybe he should find another tree. It would make him sad not to be able to enjoy his favorite tree, but he definitely didn’t like what happened there anymore. Yes, he told himself, a different tree would be better. He told himself he might even come to love resting under this new tree. It would become his new favorite tree. Continue reading →
His knees make this strangely hollow sound when he smacks them together. Imagine taking two 2×4’s wrapped in fleece, and hitting them against each other. Will is a thin 11 year old. He doesn’t have a lot of padding, especially around his knees. He’s gone through an interesting series of nervous ticks. I don’t think of the knee-knocking as a nervous tick, but I’ve noticed that he does this when he’s playing a game on the computer, or when he’s talking on the phone with his dad.
We went skiing with grandpa yesterday. It was another great day at the ski hill. As tired as I am of the snow, it has made for some amazing conditions this year. Jenny and I don’t feel the need to ski every single day. Will doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with skiing every single day. As we were driving home from the hill yesterday, we were talking about what to do on Sunday. Will has a standing invitation to ski on Sundays with Mark. (Jenny sort of has a standing invitation. That means that Mark has invited her to ski on Sundays, but has implied that it will really be more fun for her when she can ski the more challenging runs. “Daddy loves to ski with you on the days you go with mommy.” That means he makes an appearance on the green run, exclaims loudly how his little girl is skiing so beautifully, and then ditches her for the black diamond runs. We all know that Mark won’t sacrifice a full day of skiing to spend it with Jenny on the easy stuff. The only reason Will has a standing invite is because he can ski everything on the hill now.) Jenny and I had made plans to go to the library this Sunday. Will was saying that he felt like maybe he should stay home and go to the library with us. Grandpa couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and he said, “What? You can’t decide between skiing and the library? Are you feeling okay?” Will knows that sounds ridiculous. You’ve heard the expressions: “A bad day of golf is better than…” “A bad day of fishing is better than…” We always say, “A bad day of skiing is better than a good day of staying at home.” It’s more than a little embarrassing for Will to weigh the prospect of skiing versus a trip to the library.
Will called his dad last night, knees knocking, and he couldn’t decide what to do. “I can go skiing with dad and the snow will be awesome. I can practice those jumps I’ve been working on. The moguls on Muley will have a fresh dusting of powder. I know it will be great. But dad will make fun of me and hurt my feelings. I don’t want to deal with that.”
Here’s where I say all the mumbo jumbo that I’m supposed to say to help my son deal with a narcissistic dad. “Try to develop a tougher skin. Let what he says ping off your coat of armor. You can’t limit the things you do in life because you are afraid that someone will say something that hurts your feelings. Focus on the good/fun part of the day. Let what he says role off your back. Or, better yet, actually come out and tell him that what he says really hurts your feelings. Stick up for yourself. Be tough. Be like Bode Miller. Be strong and ski like crazy and ignore your dad.”
In addition to the knocking knees, I’ve noticed that Will always asks his dad if anyone else will be going with them on Sundays. I don’t know if Mark has noticed that Will only likes to go with him if someone else bums a ride. Will doesn’t like to be alone with Mark. Will and I talked about how dad says his sarcastic, cutting comments when no one else is around. No one else hears those comments. That’s why it is hard from grandpa to believe that Will wouldn’t want to go skiing. That’s why the guys at the ski hill may be thinking that Mark is a pretty good guy. They don’t hear what Mark says to Will on the chair lift when no one else is around. Continue reading →
I stepped out of the shower this morning, head full of what to make for dinner; are they on track for home schooling; did I figure the taxes correctly; gotta order some firewood …. And I found this on the bathroom floor — a love note from Jenny. Sweet words sung to the tune of ‘Clementine’. It doesn’t get much better than that.
Mark used to write me notes. He wrote a lot of letters to me. For obvious reasons, I can’t bring myself to look at them now. But I remember they were quite wordy, windy, and showy. I hadn’t ever received love letters before. What did I know? There’s the classic examples of love letters that you can find in literature. To me, that’s a lot like the Latin Lover with the rose clenched between his teeth. No thanks. When I think back on Mark’s letters, I remember thinking that there was a lot of stuff about Mark in them. It wasn’t so much about how fabulous I was, it was about how fabulous he was. Maybe he saw the necessity, even then, in trying to convince me.
And he kept track of my responses to his letters. He wouldn’t write to me, until he’d received a response to his most recent letter. He was definitely keeping score. At the time, I thought that there must be some sort of protocol for love-letter writing. I know, now, that love isn’t about keeping score, it’s about giving freely with heartfelt intentions. A genuine expression of love ought to be as innocent as a note from a child. When Jenny penned that little note this morning, I’m positive she wasn’t thinking, “Okay, I’ll write this to mommy, but I sure hope she writes one back to me.” That was not her motivation for writing the note. She loves me, and wanted to tell me. There’s no agenda.
But love is also about some measure of reciprocity. It’s also about loving yourself, and realizing that you deserve love. It’s not stomping your foot, demanding acknowledgment or recognition. It is giving freely without expectation of return. And love is also about respecting yourself enough to move on to something healthier when you keep giving, and getting nothing back.
When was the last time you wrote someone a love note? Write a note to someone — maybe even to yourself. It’s not as silly as it sounds. It’s sending good words out there, that you deserve. You can make it flowery, if you like that sorta thing. Or make it straightforward and to-the-point. Just don’t sit around waiting for a response. That ruins the genuine intent of the whole thing. And if your choice comes down to writing to yourself, or the narcissist in your life, please write to yourself.
I got distracted by these plump little fairy godmothers. Jenny set them up for Rita, and I fell in love with their sweetness.
If I hadn’t managed to get a bunch of stuff crossed off the list, I’d have walked by these little sweeties, without a second glance. Because I got some things done, my brain was clear, and open to seeing new things. I’m always telling the kids that they will more enjoy a good time, if they get the chores out of the way, first. (Plus, if they get the jobs done, they won’t have to listen to me harping at them.)
And then I was thinking about getting ‘chores’ done on a larger scale. If we attempt to really deal with the big uncomfortable stuff, the good stuff won’t be over-shadowed. We can continue to go through life, avoiding the major problems, and missing the magical little details; or we can try to deal with those issues, and free ourselves up for more of life’s sweetness. It’s one thing to be bothered by a clogged sink drain, it’s another to be weighed down by the major problems in a relationship. Can we afford to ignore those problems? How much sweetness are we missing out on, when we walk around carrying the weight of a failed relationship?
We are not going anywhere tonight. No one is coming over. I’m going to cook a simple dinner. We have planned not to make plans.
Isn’t that how it is?
You plan not to do something so as to focus on what is at hand. Then, life gets in the way, and once again, you are afforded the opportunity to avoid what really needs to be addressed. And you are so thankful for that bump in the schedule, because you would give anything to keep from handling the real life stuff.
I see it all the time with my kids.
The light is blinking on the answering machine. In fact the light blinks on the four phones around the house. Uniden, the company that made our cordless phone, probably thought that was a great feature — a selling point. “Our phone will conveniently remind you when you have an urgent message that needs to be answered.” It’s enough to pretend that Mark didn’t call. We don’t need the phone to continually blink its little red light to nag us about calling him back. Continue reading →
I was going to work on my taxes today. I was going to try to unclog my bathroom sink. I played all day yesterday, so I’m feeling like I’m supposed to be productive and accomplish something today. (As if spending a wonderful day enjoying the company of my kids isn’t productive.)
Then I remembered, “It’s Valentine’s Day!!”
*sigh*
I don’t have anything insightful to say about Valentine’s Day. If you’d like a chuckle to go with your obligatory box of chocolates, then check out a previous post on narcissism and gift-giving.
Enjoy this quote on love, or this one, too. Continue reading →
The first time I set foot in our little house, I got teary. Granted, I wasn’t very emotionally stable at the time. I had decided to leave my husband. I had been living at my mom’s for a couple months. I had to get my kids settled, and the weight of the transition was heavy on me. The realtor unlocked the maroon door and we stepped into the open living room/dining room area. I took one look at the wood stove, glanced at the dark red walls in the kitchen, and I knew it would be our home.
I always wanted a wood stove at Mark’s house. I’m always cold, and I wear layers, even in summer. We deal with a lot of winter, and a wood stove provides a comfort that you don’t get from an electric blanket or forced air heat, or a narcissistic husband. Besides, I love the ritualistic aspects of burning wood. There’s the physical labor of finding and cutting and hauling and stacking the wood. And there’s the continual feeding of the fire. Will and I even cleaned our chimney this year. I don’t care that it’s messy. I love the smell as much as the warmth. It’s basic to survival. It connects me to the process of life.
Mark doesn’t like burning with wood because it’s messy, smelly, and hard to control.
__________
It was our first winter here, and I jumped up to put another log in the wood stove. Without realizing I was doing it, I started singing a song from my college days. Continue reading →
