How Does It Feel?

On Tuesday morning the phone rang and my attorney said, simply, "You're divorced!" The judge had signed my petition and my divorce had been granted. Since then I've been asked over and over again: "how do you feel?" My immediate answer was "kinda relieved, kinda weird..." I couldn't really put my finger on how it felt.

But I've had a few days to process now - talking to friends, reading back on my old journals and blog posts, generally thinking. So I'm gonna tell you how it feels.

There are certain events in life that are of epic importance yet are not celebrated or even marked - at least not in the Western world. There are three that immediately come to mind: losing ones virginity, becoming pregnant, and getting divorced. If you've done any of these things, then you know how it feels.

Remember the day after the first time you had sex? Wondering if people could "tell." Or how about the first trimester of pregnancy when you carried around a little secret that no one could see or feel but you? And then there's divorce. A piece of paper signed by a judge; the news delivered with a phone call. Kind of a vacant hole in the face of a major transition, don't you think?

So how to "celebrate" or at least mark the moment? A lot of people asked if I was gonna go get drunk ... (which I did) or have a party (at the bar). Though fun, neither seems sufficient. Maybe I've not "processed" or thought through this enough to find a way to properly honor the event. It deserves a ritual or a yearly memorial. Something.

I'm looking.

The House Across the Street

My house has a big window in the living room that looks east. In between the buildings I can see the Berkeley Hills which I find calming. Directly across the street is a lovely home with wisteria growing down the front stairs (left). I find it a source of intrigue and, recently, some sad nostalgia.

When I first moved in, almost a year ago, the neighbors in that house introduced themselves. Two school age girls, their dad and a male roommate. Their mom lived elsewhere.

We haven't talked much over the months but my "view" has made it clear that the girls live there only half time. Sometimes, during drop-off, mom and dad talked, or argued, on the sidewalk. The girls would disappear into the house. Moments like these would make me turn from the window, uncomfortable. Seeing something meant to be private. And so familiar.


Then, last month, there began a series of trucks coming to the house. Boxes and boxes of things being moved. On and off for weeks. Then, Memorial Day weekend, there was a big push. Suddenly mom, dad, roommate, kids and friends were working together to move everything out. It seemed an awkward collaboration where each was on their best behavior. Smiling extra wide.

Yesterday, bringing out the garbage, I had an opportunity to ask my neighbor if he was moving. "yes yes. I'm moving in with my girlfriend in Marin. Since the divorce, four years ago, I cannot afford this house."

WHUMP.

Like a time warp I'm brought back two years, three then four....

We lived in a classic Berkeley bungalow. Nine hundred square feet with a finished garage I used as an office. It worked well for many years. Then there was Moses (the dog), Joseph (first born) and finally, baby Maia, It became a squeeze. We considered selling and buying a new house - and even put an (unsuccessful) offer on one. Eventually, my husband, the architect, convinced me that he could add a second story to our existing house for under $100 grand. He introduced me to the contractor who would do the work. And so, the decision was made - we'd build up. Go.

We emptied the house and moved to a rental (oh how simple those 9 words are, the process was SO MUCH more, but I won't bore your here.) Construction began. When they ripped off the roof I was visiting my parents in San Diego and a friend sent me a picture. I gasped when I saw it. There was no turning back now.

Construction went on for 10 months during which time we plowed through two contractors and countless subcontractors. (yet another story) Eventually, my husband took over as GC and pieced together the work. It would save money, he said. But the reality was (is) that he is an architect and NOT a GC. And an architect who is given charge of his own project's construction is a dangerous proposition.

Needless to say we went waaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy over budget. More than $250g over budget. The house (left) was basically beautiful (if finished quickly) but the situation itself was a disaster.

We scrambled to pay our new humongous mortgage just as the economy was sinking and our business were struggling. Our families were generous and helped us so we lived there for two years... and then I decided to end the marriage. It seemed sudden to everyone but me.

I moved into the garage, sleeping on an air bed and we struggled to find solutions as to how we might "save" the house.... could one of us live in it with a roommate? Could we rent out the garage as an office? None of the "solutions" came close to being able to cover the mortgage. There was no choice but to sell.

We were lucky. Even in the down economy we received four offers with one at sixty grand over asking and no contingencies. Done. HE and I secured our individual apartments and settled into being single parents.... (hahaha - that makes it sound so easy, doesn't it?)

Now, looking out the window has become like gazing in the mirror - a reflection of the pain of divorce, financial struggles, and finally, moving on (or out, as the case may be.)

I wonder who will buy the house across the street. I'm thinking it'll be a young couple, babe in arms. Maybe a dog. I'll bring them champagne and cookies and wish them the best. The window will cease being a portal to the past and, instead, a promise for a future.... at least for now.

Making My Bed

I'm still not divorced and Sunday was my eleven year wedding anniversary.

Back in the day I'd be greeted on May 23 with a humongous bouquet of flowers - delivered to the front door. Nice, right?

It never failed to irritate me. WHY spend a $100 on flowers (that would die) and delivery when you live with me in the SAME house? What a massive waste of funds. Furthermore, floral delivery indicated that little to no time or effort was put into the gift. It was always a disappointment and it's probably jaded me forever.

Of course, THIS is "the day" NOW, and the anniversary was forgotten until the memory (upon looking at the date) assaulted me on Sunday morning... The wedding itself was beautiful. A sunny May day in Tilden Park's Brazillian Room. The band was great. Everyone danced. I hear the food was good, but I didn't have any because I spent half the night in the bathroom puking.

OK, maybe that's an exaggeration. It wasn't HALF the night. It about 45 minutes. And it happened after I was lifted up in a chair and flung around the dance floor like a giant beach ball. My girlfriend held my hair back as I heaved over the toilet. Somehow my dress stayed clean.

I tried very hard to keep the marriage together. Telling myself often, "I've made my bed, I must lay in it." It was absurd to think that I'd end what appeared to be the perfect success story (marriage, house, kids, businesses, etc etc). But it was all an APPEARANCE. A face for the world.

It wasn't until I EMBRACED the absurd - the end - that I was able to get out of the proverbial bed and start anew.

So, yea, my linens aren't silk and satin, but they ARE 100% cotton, the bed is ALL MINE - and I can make it any way I like.

Mother's Day Coupons Get Real

On Wednesday mornings I volunteer at Joe's school and today I was hanging out in the office putting packets together. A kindergarten teacher was making Mother's Day coupons for her students to fill out and give for presents. They were to get five coupons and needed to come up with a different offer for each.

"What do you think?" she asked. "Hugs? Kisses? Drawings?"

Well, those things are great, but I get them every day. Naturally I started to think about what I'd want if those coupons were somehow to come to me.... here's my five:

REDEEM THIS COUPON TO RECEIVE:

1. Clothes in hamper (as opposed to floor) for a whole week

2. Ten toys picked up and put away before bed for two nights in a row

3. One made bed three mornings in a row

4. A whole day without ANY whining (good for one time only) *I'm a realist*

5. An attention span longer than two minutes (for two minutes) *again, I'm a realist*

What do you want?

The Groove is Good

The combination of Joe's 8am school bell and my lack of morning humor can add up to potential meltdowns, so it's no suprise that the most difficult days of the week for me are Wednesday, Thursday and Friday - the days the kids wake up here and I have to get them out the door by 7:45. Ugh.

In the old days, before we were separated, David - who likes to rise with the sun - would run the dog and take Joe to school. I'd stay home and have a leisurely coffee while Maia ate breakfast. Her preschool had a more flexible start time so we'd stroll in around 9:00.

Oh times have changed.

Getting two kids out the door is a challenge and I've discussed some of the strategies I use for coping in previous blog posts. But it's gotten easier. And this week, it was really easy. Like almost FUN easy. Everything was just smooth - like a well oiled machine. And I tell you, when the morning goes well,  it makes for better day all around. And a better day means a relaxing evening. And that, in short, is how this week has been.

We're in the groove and it's really good.

Two Phases of Understanding

Tonight, while tucking the kids in, we were chatting, as usual. Maia was having a hard time settling into bed. She said (whined), "oh... Mommy, when I'm with Daddy I miss you and when I'm with you I miss Daddy. I want you BOTH." Maia is 4. Her dad and I have been separated since she was two and a half so she doesn't really remember the four of us as a unit. But she DOES understand - and tonight was able to put into words of the first time - that she loves us both and wants us together. This comprehension of the nature of divorce is new and self-learned. It makes me sad. It would make me sadder if Joe didn't respond the way he did.

The 9 year old - who has always maintained his hatred of the divorce and its inane wrongness - said to his little sister, "divorce may not be happy for me or for you, but mommy is happier and that makes me glad."

Holy. F*cking. Sh*t.

My boy just forgave me. Not that I need to be forgiven. But if he WAS blaming me (and given that his dad told him that the I left the family on my own accord, I believe he did blame me) then he just then, in that moment, that sentence - that lesson to his sister - forgave me. He showed such immense empathy and compassion that I could do nothing but break down in tears and tell him thank you. He understood the significance because he hugged me tight and told me he loved me.

That boy of mine.
He is an old soul and I admire him.
We're gonna be ok. And Maia is damn lucky to have such and awesome big brother.

Quinoa Killer

A few years ago I discovered quinoa at a potluck party. The dish was made with tomatoes, basil, garlic and roasted eggplant. I loved it and began replicating it at home. It became one of my staple foods.

Here it is a few years later and my kids won't eat it and I don't bother making it for myself. Until today.

What I really craved was a bowl of hot polenta with nuts, raisins, butter and maple syrup (a'la Guerilla Cafe) But I didn't have any polenta and it was pouring rain so there was no way I was going out. I DID have rice, bulgur and quinoa. I decided on the quinoa and cooked it up according to package direction, using apple juice instead of water and, at the end, mixing in walnuts, raisins, blueberries and butter. The chewy texture of the quinoa didn't satisfy the need for smooth hot porridge, but it tasted delicious and I ate a bowl.

Fast forward 2 hours and you see me in fetal position on the sofa. Moaning because my stomach felt like it was twisting itself in knots in an attempt to exit out my navel. The pain was excruciating. I won't go into the details of the illness, but it wasn't pretty. And it lasted all afternoon.

At some point I felt well enough to get online and google my symptoms. Suspecting the quinoa, I added that to search. Sure enough, I landed on a blog post called "Just Say No To .... Quinoa." Although the writer had different motives for consuming quinoa than I, she had the exact same experience - calling it a "quinoa hangover" and blaming it on saponin - the natural oily residual on the grain that needs to be WASHED OFF because it is bitter tasting and used to make DETERGENT.

I didn't wash my quinoa. My stomach hurt bad enough that I will not chance eating the grain again. EVER. Washed or not. There is no guarantee I can wash it well enough - each and every tiny grain. I don't want to take the chance. It's sad, cause I liked quinoa and it's very good for you (saponin not included). But, I stress again, for me, it's not worth the risk. Ouch.

Can't wait to get my hands on some polenta.