Soccer Mom, that's me.

So this year I, along with another mother, are coaching the 4th grade boys soccer team.  And it  has been a ton of fun so far.  They are a really great group of boys.  We've had some wins, some losses, some ties.  We are a well-rounded soccer team.

So after one early morning game, William and I are in the car heading to his older brother's game when he says, "I am sooo glad you are coaching us Mom!  So glad!"

"Sure William.  I'm glad to do it."

"And you looked so pretty today on the field kicking the ball with Sam with the sun behind you when I arrived this morning."

"Really?"

"Yes mom, really"

"Aw thanks, William.  You made my day."

I really don't mind being this kind of soccer mom.  Would you?

RIP Beth

I wrote about death a couple years back after my grandmother passed away.  It was expected because she was in her 90s.  She had lived a long full life.  She had loved and been loved.  She had travelled.  She had knocked down barriers for women in the workplace.  Grandma had lived.  So although it hurt tremendously when she passed away (and I still miss her today), I expected to experience that grief.  That was a normal part of getting older.  I may not have liked it but I knew that eventually it would happen.  I was resigned to accepting it because I knew I couldn’t change that simple fact that death always follows life.

But when a death occurs that is totally and completely unexpected, how do you accept that?  How is that a normal part of getting older?  How do you not feel angry and gypped for yourself and for your friend whose life is now over?  I don’t know. 

My friend, Beth, was a sorority sister of mine.  She was a year younger than me.  She was incredibly talented.  I can’t remember exactly how many of her designs became our party t-shirts but I’m pretty sure I still have at least one in my closet.  I remember Beth as a twenty-something because that is how old she was the last time I saw her alive.  I would see her postings on Facebook and be completely speechless at how beautiful she had become (not that she wasn’t beautiful in college but there was an added dimension of wisdom and confidence in her beauty now that wasn’t there in college.  But then how many of us can say we had that wisdom and confidence in our 20s either?) 

I would smile at pictures of her with her girls.  I would “like” her postings.  Facebook made it possible for me to continue to ‘know’ her and be happy for her as she journeyed through life.  And now her journey is over here among the living.  She doesn’t get any more time to love and be loved.  She doesn’t get any more time to change the lives of people she meets.  She doesn’t get any more time to impact her daughters’ lives with nuggets of wisdom (like what to wear on your first date, how to be taken seriously as a woman, how to be able to turn your passion into your career, how to know if you are really in love, and how to care for their own children to come.  I could go on and on but that knowledge hurts too much.)   She doesn’t get any more time to be blissful and joyful, to laugh, to dance, to have a beer on a sunny, breezy afternoon with her friends.  She doesn’t get to be an old woman.   Her journey is over here among us.

There are so many sayings and clichés to help you deal with grief.  There are always lessons to be had in every situation.  I’m not writing this to make me or you feel better.  I’m writing it because it’s true and it sucks.  Big. Time.

My life is fuller because part of her journey included me.  I will always see her smiling and hear her laughing.  I will grieve and I will get past my sadness and anger because, apparently, I am growing up, reluctantly. 

And I promise to live and to love fully every day.

Godspeed, Beth.  See you on the other side.

Cramped space, crammed words

I ran to my room and grabbed my journal. I had to write down my feelings and thoughts regarding Mike again. He had called to say goodbye, that he couldn't do it any more. I wanted to record my pain, yet again. And I flipped through the pages, pen in hand ready to write, when I got all the way to the end of the journal and I had less than 1/4 page available for ALL my thoughts! I sat there shocked because how could I possibly put everything I was feeling down in such a small space? I didn't have another journal available and I really didn't want to continue this story into a new, fresh one. So I thought and thought and finally wrote: "he called, he can't do it anymore. He said goodbye" There was no room left for me to write my endless speculations about whether he will come back to me for the fourth time. There was no room left for me to moan and complain about my "situation." The journal was done. It had run out of pages. No more am I to write about this, it seemed. This journal has patiently recorded and held for me the last 8 years of heartaches, betrayals, hurts, longings, tears, frustrations and epiphanies. It is now time for a new journal and a new journey to start for me. If Mike comes back again, it can only be as a single, divorced man because there is no room for the old re-hashed story of loving me and leaving me in my new journal and my new life.

If feels good to close the old one, lock it up and put it away. It feels good to move past all those hurts and heartaches that continually wove itself through the journal's pages. It feels good to look at a fresh blank page. I am not naive; I know there will be some hurts and more as I continue on my journey but the weight of the last 8 years has been lifted with the last entry on the page: "Thank you for being in my life. I love you and I will miss you. I wish you peace."

Tuesdays with Mike

Tuesdays seem to be the day you make decisions. What happens to prompt you to make them on Tuesdays? You told me in June (on a Tuesday) that you wanted to give her one more chance. So we cooled off and you went incommunicado for months. However, you called my voicemail to hear my voice and drove by my house to check on me. Then you contacted me again in September and said you couldn't live with the instability in your life anymore. So you proceeded with your divorce. Then in October you cancelled it and saw me on a Tuesday to tell me why. You said you were confused and you felt you needed to give her one more chance. I asked how many "one more chances" did she get? So we say goodbye. I am hurt. I am angry. But I believe in my heart you will be back. And you do, you come back one week later. I am cautious but happy to see you, talk to you, hear your voice and touch you. Everything feels right as if it is supposed to be this way - you and me together. I was happy to take baby steps with you if that meant we would be together. You changed your work location to be closer to me. She continued to drink. You continued to be faced with upheaval in your life. I tried to be constant. I tried to bring you joy and smiles. It seemed like it was working. Then Tuesday, one week ago, you called and said you can't do this anymore. That you have to figure out your life. That you want to be open and honest in your relationships and that you love her and have feelings for me and you just can't do it anymore. That you don't want to hurt me anymore. So you said goodbye to me. I was not surprised. I was somewhat relieved because I kept waiting for the day when you would say goodbye again and disappear again. I was sad because I do love you and us together. I hope that when your marriage is over, you try to reach out to me. That you try to see where I am. You said to me that if we are meant to be together, it will happen. I would like to believe that too, but as long as you continue to give her one more chance, you prevent what was "meant to be".

I shrug my shoulders and sigh. I know you are thinking about me and that you will think about me everyday as I you. But I will not contact you anymore. I am moving on and if we are "meant to be", I hope the universe makes it happen in this lifetime and not the next. And preferably not on a Tuesday.

October is the cruellest month

T.S. Eliot says that April is the cruellest month but for me it would have to be October. April is the month that celebrates the birth of two of my children. Their joyfulness, laughter, compassion and kindness makes the transition from winter to spring the least bit cruel.

October seems to hurt me every year. October is cruel because my relationships seem to end then. My ex filed for divorce in October. The last time I spoke to my grandmother before she died was October 30, 2008. Last year, the man I was seeing ended our relationship in October saying he just wanted to be friends. And this breakup was after he had broken up with me earlier, said he wanted to give it another go and then BAM! over. And then today, the current man (about whom I'm not ready to write any blog posts) ends our relationship. And this too after he wanted to give it another go.

Two things I've learned: 1) Never ever 'give it another go' with a man. One break up is enough in any relationship. And 2) Skip October. Seems like it is just too cruel for me and my relationships.