The Therapist's Wife

Sprite and I were at the playground, having a post-library playdate with a little girl from his kindergarten. By the time Firstborn finished kindergarten, half the mommies in the class were my BFFs. But in typical second-child-neglection fashion, I only know a handful of Sprite's friends' parents, so I found myself making small talk with a stranger during the playdate. She was sweet and charming and spoke joyfully about her family, including her husband, Family Therapist Extraordinaire.

You know how if you see your friend who is a nail technician, you are self-conscious about your nails? And how you brush your teeth extra-well before visiting the dentist? And if you happen to have a friend who is a fashion mogul, you feel the constant need to apologize for your hand-me-down Little-House-on-the-Prairie looking outfit? Well, that's how I felt around the Therapist's Wife.

I figured Mr. Family Therapist probably sees a lot of families through the divorce process. (Heck, my former family and I used a total of four therapists to make it to Divorce Day!) I'm so Type-A that I wanted the Therapist's Wife to give my former family a clean bill of mental health. So, like I inspect my nails before the manicurist, I scanned my family's recent history.

And you know what? I thought we were doing pretty well.

Exhibit A: The Friendship

The Kids' Dad and I are friends. Not just friendly, but actual friends. Just the other day, he texted me a movie recommendation. And I always make him laugh (not in derision, to the best of my knowledge.)

Exhibit B: The Girlfriend

My kids recently went through a major life change when their dad moved in with The Girlfriend. They love her and I appreciate her. She taught my boys to separate light from darks. In her kitchen, mac-n-cheese has been supplanted by chicken-kebobs and edamame. She's not my friend- yet- but we are friendly. And I am happy for the Kids' Dad.

Exhibit C: The Therapist's Blessing

Last spring I wrote an e-mail to Firstborn's shrink to confess to an egregious mother-son interaction. We'd had the kind of morning that I would have sworn would send him to therapy if he weren't there already. And her response was so generous and complimentary that it still brings tears to my eyes:

I think you are a great mom. I have seen you be incredibly patient with Sprite as he passively tries to resist your directives. You speak so respectfully to Firstborn when you come into the session and share the struggles he's had since we last met.

I mentally patted myself on the back. We'd get at least an A- for our divorce, and probably make the Therapist's Wife's Honor Roll. So I cheerfully admitted that we were divorced.

"Oh," she said sweetly to Sprite, "Do you have two houses?"

"Yes," Sprite said with a sad and embarrassed sigh, and buried his face in my lap.

Oops. Maybe we aren't quite ready to go to press with the "A- Divorce" just yet. Maybe there's more loss to mourn and more healing to be done.

And maybe... Sprite is not the only one who's still sad and embarrassed. Maybe he's just more honest with himself than I am.

Meet The Girlfriend

"Are you The Girlfriend?" I asked the poised and polished woman at the table by the window. I could hardly be wrong. The coffee shop was practically vacant at this hour of the day.

She smiled tentatively, looked at me earnestly (almost pleadingly- begging me to be gentle with her) and shook my hand. This was my meeting, and we were here to discuss the terms of our relationship, because the Kids' Dad was ready to introduce her to our boys.

We were both eager to give the other the benefit of the doubt, to create as harmonious a relationship as possible, given the fact that she was dating the man I thought I'd love forever.

"I know they don't need another mom," she said, "and I don't want to be a mom."

"Yes, but what I do think they need is another partner for their dad," I explained.

We're all better when we have partners, right? Someone to bounce ideas off of, to call us out when we're wrong, and to give us a break when we're exhausted. Someone to inspire us and comfort us and evensometimes chastise us. How could it hurt my kids for their father to have a partner like that?

The Girlfriend was warm and genuine, sweet and fun and thoughtful. She was clearly relieved that I wished her no harm, and surprised and touched that I intended to support her relationship with my kids and their dad.

I was equally relieved, but not surprised. I'd given it a great deal of thought and decided that there was no reason we shouldn't have a warm and open relationship, and I'd been proactive about establishing it.

But there was one thing that surprised me. One thing I had not accounted for in all my thoughtful planning.

And that was just how much in love she was.

It caught me off-guard. The dreamy look in her eyes, her breathy overtone when she said his name, the glow on her face. And I am happy. For her. For him.

(But what about me?)

Religious Mis-Education

December 2007

Sprite: Mom?

Mom: (changes the radio station, checks over her shoulder for a car in her blind spot, and trys to burn "toilet paper" into her mental grocery list) Yes honey ?

Sprite: Did you know that some people don't like Christmas?

Mom: Oh?

Sprite: Yeah.

Mom: You mean, like the Grinch?

Sprite: Yeah, like the Grinch (cuddling his stuffed Grinch).

...pause...

Sprite: Do you know what those people who don't like Christmas do?

Mom: What's that, honey?

Sprite: They have Kwaanza!

Snap!

September 2009

Mom: (reading from The Hermit and the Well, a gift from our neighbor) " ...You too may have met your hermit. Maybe it was a rock, a tree, a star, or a beautiful sunset. The hermit is the Buddha inside of you.")

Mom: Okay, sleep well baby. I love you.

Sprite: Mom?

Mom: (pauses at the door) Yes, honey?

Sprite: What is the Buddha inside of me?

Mom: (buys time by walking back to him and sitting on the edge of the bed, hoping for a wise answer to magically occur to her.) Well, what do you think it is?

Sprite: I think it's the peaceful part of me.

Mom: (speechless at the insight of a child's mind) ...

Sprite: (Points to a spot on his shin, right above his ankle.) It's right here.

Mom: (Surprised) Really? Why?

Sprite: Because that's the part of me that gets hurt the least.

Sprite: Oh, and here. (Pointing to his other shin) I have two Buddhas inside of me!

Somehow I think he's closer to grasping eternal mysteries than I am.

Daniel and the Real Girl

I love my urban residential neighborhood.  

Kids, dogs, trees, old people, young couples, martini bars, dive bars, and the occasional homeless guy... they all weave together into a chaotic charm that stole my heart a decade ago. 

On any given day, I might feed six or seven kids lunch, and then have them vanish into a house down the block for Popsicles.  The sidewalks are littered with every two-wheeled contraption ever to come out of Target, plus a couple kid-invented hybrids and dumpster diving gems.

This summer we got a new addition.  

Daniel.

He lives two blocks away, and you can hear him from three blocks away.  He shows up regularly, eyeing my produce ("Yes, you can have another tomato Daniel") and bringing curious offerings (screw-off jar lids, baby bottles, a car tire complete with hubcap.)  He calls me Lizzy and sees no reason to knock before entering.  

Yesterday I was sitting at my desk in the front room, typing a work e-mail while the kids and dog invented games on the porch swing.

"Lizzy, Lizzy!  Miss?  Oh, there you are.  Look what I brought!"

And there she was.  

All 5'2" of her fully inflated.  Long blond hair.  Fully functional orifices (front and back!)  Curiously paraplegic looking legs.  All in Daniel's 8-year-old arms.

Pause.

"All right, Daniel, go on outside now."  I took the doll (Naomi, because I think she needs a name, poor naked thing) and put her in the closet.

Outside I could hear the boys debating.  "Should we destroy her?"  "No, we should put clothes on her and then destroy her!"

I knew I should be horrified, but I leaned against the closet door and laughed so hard I cried.  

I knew I should be coming up with a plan (Poke her with a pin and put her in a dumpster?  Carry her to Daniel's house and tell whatever adult happened to be around that Daniel said he found her in a tree?  Sell her on Craigslist?), but all I did was send my friends picture messages from my phone.

Thirty-six hour later, Naomi is still in the closet.

And I really have no idea what I'm supposed to do about her.

 

Oedipus

I can't remember having a crush on my dad, but my sister certainly did. She simply could not understand why he was unwilling to marry her...

It's a common thing, right? Children want to marry their opposite-gender parent?

I expected it to happen to Firstborn in his pre-school years. But it wasn't until he was eight, showing me his Tarzan tricks on the playground swing, that he announced, "When I grow up, I want to marry you, Mom."

Then Sprite piped up, "When I grow up, I want to marry Firstborn."

Huh.

.
.
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We were at McDonald's Playland the other day- that glorious confluence of corn syrup and freon that affords over-heated moms a few minutes respite- when I noticed Firstborn huddled in the corner, deep in conversation with some girl. She was adorable, with her earnest eyes and her bandanna headband.

"Hi mom. This is Layla."

"Nice to meet you, Layla." And Layla tipped her head back and laughed, with the most unadulterated joie de vivre I've seen in ages.

"Layla has ADDHD, just like me, mom. She talks too much, just like me."

And Layla grinned and laughed again. "I thought he was, like, twelve or something, but he's only eight. Cuz he's so tall, you know, and he has a big vocabulary, so he talks like a 12-year old. But then I was surprised that he's only eight and I'm ten and I'm changing schools next year because my old teacher used too much profanity and I wish he was going to my new school because I'm still waiting to meet a friend for my new school."

Pause.

"I know I talk too much."

More laughing.

They exchanged phone numbers and e-mail addresses and made plans to be in touch within the hour, and the whole time I was staring at this scatter-brained, joyful girl, and wondering why she seemed so familiar.

And then it dawned on me.

She was me.

Firecracker

Summers are the joy and the bane of the stay-at-home parent's existence.

And that goes double for work-from-home parents.

Summer is a whirlwind of highlighting documents during swim lessons (and hoping the client doesn't notice the chlorine watermarks), paying an exorbitant $8 an hour for Internet access at McDonald's playland, and promising Nerf guns and gummy bears in exchange for being seen and not heard in business meetings. But the stress of the late nights and multi-tasking are mitigated by the pure joy of handing out generic Popsicles by the dozen to the neighbor kids, riding the tandem bike at dusk to get ice-cream cones, and watching mudcaked children scramble up a hiking trail.

Still... I live for Tuesdays.

On Tuesdays, my boys run out the door at 8:30 and spend the day, three houses down, with two friends and their work-from-home dad. And I get to work, in peace, for an entire day.

Except yesterday.

Yesterday was rather devoid of peace. I was slightly stressed from the moment of wake-up, so I decided to start my alone time with a nice jog with Love Dog. Except that Love Dog wanted to RUN. Fast. So I spent my jog leaning backward, putting the brakes on, lest I be dragged to my death. So much for stress release.

When Love Dog and I pulled onto our block (and by pulled I mean pulled), the sidewalk was swarming with kids ringing doorbells. Apparently Love Dog had been determined to have gone missing (really? My jog was not that long.) In my brief absence, they had canvased the block, called their Dad, and started a Lost Dog flyer.

Their relief was so great that they all had to hang out in my tiny house while I was trying to shower, caressing and consoling the "lost" dog.

"I need some privacy- I'm changing," I said.

"Don't worry, we won't come in the bathroom."

No sooner did I have my legs lathered and sharp new razor poised than the pounding started.

"I have to pee."

"I need an advance on my allowance."

"Have you seen my goggles?"

"The sprite just used the last Transformer Band-Aid, and you said that I could have it..."

"I need to PEE!!!"

Even when I banished them from the house, they sat on the front porch. The crescendo of dog whine, porch swing squeak, and the constant, "Love Dog, come! Love Dog, come! Come! COME!!!" made me flee the house (somebody please make it stop!) and run errands without my checkbook.

The apex of my angst, though, came at 3, when I was stuffing my bag and a non-quite-appropriate-for-the-dress-I'm-wearing bra into the passenger seat of my car, and Firstborn came running down the block.

"Mom! Mo-om! Oh wait, are you already running late for something?"

"Yeah, I am honey, really late. Have a great night with Dad. I love you."

"Wait, Mom. I need to show you something."

"Okay, honey. Really fast."

I walked around the car to see something that looked like a left-over 4th of July firecracker in his hand. "We found this under the tree and I really want to light it, and Jeff said we had to wait until you were around. So can you please stay so we can light it?"

Ummm. What part of "Mom has to work" does he not understand? I mumbled my apologies, and sped off.

Now I can take off a bra with my shirt on pretty well, but putting one on was trickier. Especially since I was wearing a dress. While I accidentally flashed the guy in the dirty pick-up and the trucker hat at the stop light, I fumed about my son's complete disregard for the fact that I have to earn money to put food on the table.

But later, when I was still running late, I dashed down five flights of stairs in an echoing stairwell. My flip-flops slapped against the concrete, "Bam! Bam! Bam!" I realized was making my own fire-cracker sound effects, and softened toward Firstborn. I wished I could keep my adult problems from infringing on his childhood joy.

So if you'll excuse me, I have a firecracker to go light.

Cinematic Custody

The Kids' Dad and I dreamed up a clever little pro-divorce propaganda move to sway our children: the return of Family Fun Night. Dinner and a movie. Just the four of us. Just like old times. (Subtext: Divorce is good. Boundaries mean we can spend time together without fighting.)

Of course, Family Fun Night would have to be rebranded. Shake the old image and set the stage for a modern non-nuclear family. The Kids' Dad came up with the easy-to-type hard-to-say "FFN". Short for "Family Fun Night" or "Former Family Night" or any number of less polite monikers that we only mouth behind the kids' backs.

Dinner was a monstrous success for the boys, who both got to eat pancakes for dinner and compete in a Love Dog impersonation with their mom. We ate at a time and place that lumped us in with the terrifically quiet Early Bird crowd, all of whom gazed over their bifocals and relived false nostalgia for family values and quality time just by watching our little pseudo-nuclear family.

When deeper conversation might turn awkward, you stick to the neutral obvious. And so it was that, seated side by side in the dark of the theater, the Kids' Dad and I found ourselves divvying up the Coming Attractions. He made a rule ("It's going in the Parenting Agreement, " he demanded): I got to take the kids to any movies with talking animals and he got to take them to anything with guns.

G-Force: Me

G.I.Joe: Him

Where the Wild Things Are: Me

He claimed Percy Jackson and the Olympians, but I'm pretty sure I can amass evidence that minotaurs are talking animals...

And nobody wanted to touch Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs.