Sunglasses on for maximum observation without detection, I am enthralled. And keeping up a very convincing nonchalant sun bathing charade. I am in a perfect spot. It could only be better if I had binoculars.
The park is clean as a whistle, neat and orderly. And to stay looking that way, with throngs of the unwashed public roaming about trampling things, the park has taken a few precautions to maintain its appearance. The most obvious of which is also the most annoying, to be frank. I've grown accustomed to it over the years, but there are those that are still somewhat stymied by it.
The little beach chairs that are neatly lined up around and in front of the water park sections stay immaculately orderly because they are zip tied together. Almost invisibly, but very tightly, leg to leg, base to base, so that 20 or 30 of them in a row, remain, well, in a row.
The effect is that all the chairs become like rows in a movie theater. In order to take a seat, you have to walk from the end all the way down the row to the vacant chair. So movie theater etiquette applies.
Or you would think.
Maybe it is because they are low to the ground, or maybe because they are much coveted, or maybe because people are in a hurry to ditch their towels and run (like the mooning middle aged mom with with hangy bikini bottom) but people just seem to lose control of their sense of decorum when confronted with the inexplicably immobile chairs.
As I sat, staring from behind my Foster Grants, I observed the following departures from standard beach chair diplomacy:
The woman who yanked and yanked and yanked on a chair, disturbing all the occupants of the chairs in the row, breaking a sweat and huffing as she strained, insisting on pulling the chair from its moorings. Only her kids could convince her that it was futile. Probably because they were impatiently waiting while she engaged in her foolishness. She eventually she gave up, and stepping back, discarded her beach coverup a few rows back and tossed the towels and bag and terry cloth muu-muu from 15 feet back, lobbing them over my head, and claiming any chairs they landed upon.
There were several people, men and women, who were incensed at the tethering situation and, refusing to go around to the end of a row to walk past other people and chairs that were spoken for to claim a vacant chair, instead opted to climb over, in all cases, not very gracefully, to reach the empty chairs of choice. I observed all manner of butts, crotches and shoe bottoms up close - waaaay too up close - as each person struggled to cross the divide by walking on the strappy seat surfaces of the chairs. And I was baffled how some were unapologetically willing to step on your stuff. Shoes, towels, book, beach bag. I secretly hoped to hex them with a bad sunburn.
But the beach chair etiquette breaches could not compare to the flagrant abuses at the food courts. When the kids had had their fill of the giant slides and the showers and pulleys and sprinklers and fountains, and were famished and ready for lunch, we headed off in search of food, and then in search of chairs. We found a table eventually, and had a front row seat for some very childish adult behavior.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friday, August 17, 2012
Water, Water Everywhere
And once we are on our own, the kids and I look to our list of remaining tried and true traditions.
Minor league baseball game.
Amusement park.
Outlet shopping.
The minor league baseball game is half the distance to home. And although it is a blast to attend, and we always have a great time, and it is by far the best bargain in baseball, it is, I repeat, half the distance to home. Not to mention the fact that I no longer have Scott's GPS and always, always, always get horribly lost. If I am ever a newlywed again, and venture onto the show The Newlywed Game, my spouse can clearly complete the statement "My spouse is at her worst when ______" by scrawling on the poster with the Sharpee, the words "She is lost in her car and realizes she is going around in little circles and may actually be in the wrong state."
It's true. I become the worst version of myself. Short tempered. Frantic. Decidedly unsociable.
We can cross Minor League Baseball Game off the list of Must-Dos.
By show of hands we opt for the amusement park. And "amusement" is the operative word, for sure.
We get up early and eat a hearty breakfast. The longer we can avoid the outrageously overpriced, nutritionally vacuous dining selections available inside the gates, the better. We make sure we have water park appropriate gear and ride riding appropriate gear stowed in a bag. And of course, all of this must fit in a rented locker that would barely hold a frozen oven stuffer roaster. At the last minute, I woefully inform Hil that she does not need to pack her mascara, concealer, hair spray, or jewelry. The lip balm can make the trip if it has a decent SPF. I am not packing a beauty kit, neither shall she. If my wallet has to go, then the makeup bag has to stay. We are packing like astronauts.
We are on the road early so as to get there precisely when the gates open. By now, I remember where the Giant food store is that sells the discount tickets so that I do not have to refinance my house to buy them.
I take the long road into the park that is designed to let you see how vast and exciting it is so your kids pee their pants in the parking lot. We park in a primo space and head on in with our pre-purchased tickets.
We plan to spend the day in the water park and then at "change of shift" when people start to think about dinner and departing, we'll change and hit the rides.
We make our way to the water park section of the park, a park within a park, and find some chairs to roost upon. The kids dash to the big giant water slides and I slide into my beach chair to work on my tan, conserve energy and consume an iced coffee. It is a matter of survival. We will be here until they start to turn off the lights.
And amusement.
The water park within the park is by far the best people watching I have born witness to in ages.
At first I would have said I'd be content to just stick my nose in a book for an hour while the novelty of the giant slides wears off for the kids, but the people are just too captivating.
The first to catch my eye is a woman, about my age, whose bikini eligibility is long expired, wearing a bikini she obviously found in the bottom of the drawer where she keeps her trove of skinny clothes. And she has the nerve to sprint with her kids to the sprinklers. Sprint with such abandon that she has not noticed that the bottom of the bikini, the elastic of which is completely shot, has migrated several very noticeable inches below the crack of her considerable ass. She's running and shining a hands-free moon at everyone she passes. God love her indifference to the whole matter.
And that, my friends, is just where the fun begins. It is a Dr. Joyce Brothers-worthy study in human nature that should be mandatory for all PsyD students. Well worth the price of admission. (Which is about the cost of tuition for a PsyD program at a reputable school - I am glad we are getting to enjoy the rides and water features as a bonus.)
First lesson - Chair Etiquette Gaffs and Candid Camera moments.
Minor league baseball game.
Amusement park.
Outlet shopping.
The minor league baseball game is half the distance to home. And although it is a blast to attend, and we always have a great time, and it is by far the best bargain in baseball, it is, I repeat, half the distance to home. Not to mention the fact that I no longer have Scott's GPS and always, always, always get horribly lost. If I am ever a newlywed again, and venture onto the show The Newlywed Game, my spouse can clearly complete the statement "My spouse is at her worst when ______" by scrawling on the poster with the Sharpee, the words "She is lost in her car and realizes she is going around in little circles and may actually be in the wrong state."
It's true. I become the worst version of myself. Short tempered. Frantic. Decidedly unsociable.
We can cross Minor League Baseball Game off the list of Must-Dos.
By show of hands we opt for the amusement park. And "amusement" is the operative word, for sure.
We get up early and eat a hearty breakfast. The longer we can avoid the outrageously overpriced, nutritionally vacuous dining selections available inside the gates, the better. We make sure we have water park appropriate gear and ride riding appropriate gear stowed in a bag. And of course, all of this must fit in a rented locker that would barely hold a frozen oven stuffer roaster. At the last minute, I woefully inform Hil that she does not need to pack her mascara, concealer, hair spray, or jewelry. The lip balm can make the trip if it has a decent SPF. I am not packing a beauty kit, neither shall she. If my wallet has to go, then the makeup bag has to stay. We are packing like astronauts.
We are on the road early so as to get there precisely when the gates open. By now, I remember where the Giant food store is that sells the discount tickets so that I do not have to refinance my house to buy them.
I take the long road into the park that is designed to let you see how vast and exciting it is so your kids pee their pants in the parking lot. We park in a primo space and head on in with our pre-purchased tickets.
We plan to spend the day in the water park and then at "change of shift" when people start to think about dinner and departing, we'll change and hit the rides.
We make our way to the water park section of the park, a park within a park, and find some chairs to roost upon. The kids dash to the big giant water slides and I slide into my beach chair to work on my tan, conserve energy and consume an iced coffee. It is a matter of survival. We will be here until they start to turn off the lights.
And amusement.
The water park within the park is by far the best people watching I have born witness to in ages.
At first I would have said I'd be content to just stick my nose in a book for an hour while the novelty of the giant slides wears off for the kids, but the people are just too captivating.
The first to catch my eye is a woman, about my age, whose bikini eligibility is long expired, wearing a bikini she obviously found in the bottom of the drawer where she keeps her trove of skinny clothes. And she has the nerve to sprint with her kids to the sprinklers. Sprint with such abandon that she has not noticed that the bottom of the bikini, the elastic of which is completely shot, has migrated several very noticeable inches below the crack of her considerable ass. She's running and shining a hands-free moon at everyone she passes. God love her indifference to the whole matter.
And that, my friends, is just where the fun begins. It is a Dr. Joyce Brothers-worthy study in human nature that should be mandatory for all PsyD students. Well worth the price of admission. (Which is about the cost of tuition for a PsyD program at a reputable school - I am glad we are getting to enjoy the rides and water features as a bonus.)
First lesson - Chair Etiquette Gaffs and Candid Camera moments.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Vacation, All I Ever Wanted
And our vacation is for us all that we expect it to be. Relaxation. Recreation. Restoration. The kids get along great. We make scrumptious meals. We play board games on the porch. We do enormous puzzles as a family. We sing along to the radio. We laugh a lot. We take long walks. Even the cat enjoys herself. Most importantly, we do not fight. Not me and Scott. Not any of the kids. There are no bathroom crowds, finicky eaters, decisions that need to be made by coin toss, outrageous compromises or anyone stomping off in a huff.
Our day at the lake is filled with adventure. Trapeze swing belly flops. Front and back flips from the high dive. Even Pat dares to jump from it. Innertube follies. Commraderie out on the piers. At least until the clouds roll in and the sky opens up and douses us all. Sun gives way to torrential rain and suddenly it is like standing in the shower. We are all completely soaked, running for the car, howling with laughter, hair matted to our heads, carrying towels and beach chairs and clothes that are all now totally drenched and weigh 1,000 pounds. We while away the afternoon drying out and doing puzzles and noshing on comfort food. Not a bad ending.
Later when the sky has cleared and glorious weather has returnd, we celebrate Hil's birthday with Scott's family by heading out to the biker bar/outdoor restaraunt we have come to love. Scott and I have come here on every trip. He has made it a place that erases the more hideous experiences with J. from the record for me. Hidden away in the woods, we take seats at a large table under umbrellas and white twinkling lights. Scott is joking with each of the kids and it is clear that he enjoys each of them for who they are. He's a serious dad with a light-hearted approach to kids. It is a winning combination. He tells the waitress to pay special attention to Hil. We are celebrating her birthday. She is the one who needs to be doted upon. Hil is beaming.
And then, as appetizers and drinks are served, she makes a wish out loud. "I wish Dad's personality were more like Scott's."
It's a No-Shit-Sherlock moment for me, but also painfully sad to hear. Half my kids' lives are spent with someone who needs lots of alterations. It is clear that this, what we are doing right now, is what she envisions to be life as it should be. The disappointment is palpable.
To end the deafening silence, I cheerfully say, "Me, too, sweetheart! Me, too," intending to suggest that my whacky post divorce life would be a whole lot more enjoyable if Dad were just a little more like Scott. Maybe half as reasonable. And half as agreeable. A little more generous. And maybe a little easier to look at. Would that be too much to ask?
Scott makes a joke of the whole thing. "Well I don't! I'd be sitting here by myself!"
True. Perhaps. If Lars were like Scott, we might still be married. And I for one...no, I guess, for two...am happy to have docked where I have. No seller's remorse. No pining away for what might have been. Scott's gravitational pull was always there. It just took 30 years to pull us completely together.
Dinner is fabulous, and we retire, fat and happy, to the cottage for presents and homemade, mousse filled cupcakes and more celebrating. The kids go out to the porch to play some souped up version of Uno that makes them all laugh uncontrollably, and Scott and I have a drink in the hammock swings and watch them. All is right with the world. The twinkling, star-lit, warm and breezy world.
The next day is sunny and warm and we decide to take a walk to the lake to take the canoes out for a spin. The first canoe is inhabited by a family of frogs that Scott gets the pleasure of forcibly evicting. He picks each one up in his massive hands and places them delicately in the tall grass. Then as a precaution, he sweeps away the daddy-long-legs spiders living in each canoe that Hil is sure to believe are predatory and man-eating. Last year we'd missed one and she chose to dive into the lake to avoid it. I wonder if she knows what lives in the lake?
We launch. We race from one end of the lake to the other. We splash each other. We trap each other in low hanging branches. We find turtles and fish and frogs and other amazing things.We laugh until our sides hurt. We run aground in the mud. And we stop for milkshakes on the way back.
It has been a great vacation so far, but Scott and his family have to return home. Jobs and dogs await and won't wait long.
We have dinner on the porch and then quietly pack bags. Scott packs the car and checks the house for missed shoes, towels, phone chargers, retainers, makeup bags, other stuff. And they are on the road before dark.
And though I am happy to have my little family unit back to myself and not have to worry about being a hostess, I am blue. Scott and I get so little time together. And time like we've just shared makes me crave for a simpler, easier life filled with more dinners and downtime than chaos and commuting.
One day. At least there is the dream of it.
Our day at the lake is filled with adventure. Trapeze swing belly flops. Front and back flips from the high dive. Even Pat dares to jump from it. Innertube follies. Commraderie out on the piers. At least until the clouds roll in and the sky opens up and douses us all. Sun gives way to torrential rain and suddenly it is like standing in the shower. We are all completely soaked, running for the car, howling with laughter, hair matted to our heads, carrying towels and beach chairs and clothes that are all now totally drenched and weigh 1,000 pounds. We while away the afternoon drying out and doing puzzles and noshing on comfort food. Not a bad ending.
Later when the sky has cleared and glorious weather has returnd, we celebrate Hil's birthday with Scott's family by heading out to the biker bar/outdoor restaraunt we have come to love. Scott and I have come here on every trip. He has made it a place that erases the more hideous experiences with J. from the record for me. Hidden away in the woods, we take seats at a large table under umbrellas and white twinkling lights. Scott is joking with each of the kids and it is clear that he enjoys each of them for who they are. He's a serious dad with a light-hearted approach to kids. It is a winning combination. He tells the waitress to pay special attention to Hil. We are celebrating her birthday. She is the one who needs to be doted upon. Hil is beaming.
And then, as appetizers and drinks are served, she makes a wish out loud. "I wish Dad's personality were more like Scott's."
It's a No-Shit-Sherlock moment for me, but also painfully sad to hear. Half my kids' lives are spent with someone who needs lots of alterations. It is clear that this, what we are doing right now, is what she envisions to be life as it should be. The disappointment is palpable.
To end the deafening silence, I cheerfully say, "Me, too, sweetheart! Me, too," intending to suggest that my whacky post divorce life would be a whole lot more enjoyable if Dad were just a little more like Scott. Maybe half as reasonable. And half as agreeable. A little more generous. And maybe a little easier to look at. Would that be too much to ask?
Scott makes a joke of the whole thing. "Well I don't! I'd be sitting here by myself!"
True. Perhaps. If Lars were like Scott, we might still be married. And I for one...no, I guess, for two...am happy to have docked where I have. No seller's remorse. No pining away for what might have been. Scott's gravitational pull was always there. It just took 30 years to pull us completely together.
Dinner is fabulous, and we retire, fat and happy, to the cottage for presents and homemade, mousse filled cupcakes and more celebrating. The kids go out to the porch to play some souped up version of Uno that makes them all laugh uncontrollably, and Scott and I have a drink in the hammock swings and watch them. All is right with the world. The twinkling, star-lit, warm and breezy world.
The next day is sunny and warm and we decide to take a walk to the lake to take the canoes out for a spin. The first canoe is inhabited by a family of frogs that Scott gets the pleasure of forcibly evicting. He picks each one up in his massive hands and places them delicately in the tall grass. Then as a precaution, he sweeps away the daddy-long-legs spiders living in each canoe that Hil is sure to believe are predatory and man-eating. Last year we'd missed one and she chose to dive into the lake to avoid it. I wonder if she knows what lives in the lake?
We launch. We race from one end of the lake to the other. We splash each other. We trap each other in low hanging branches. We find turtles and fish and frogs and other amazing things.We laugh until our sides hurt. We run aground in the mud. And we stop for milkshakes on the way back.
It has been a great vacation so far, but Scott and his family have to return home. Jobs and dogs await and won't wait long.
We have dinner on the porch and then quietly pack bags. Scott packs the car and checks the house for missed shoes, towels, phone chargers, retainers, makeup bags, other stuff. And they are on the road before dark.
And though I am happy to have my little family unit back to myself and not have to worry about being a hostess, I am blue. Scott and I get so little time together. And time like we've just shared makes me crave for a simpler, easier life filled with more dinners and downtime than chaos and commuting.
One day. At least there is the dream of it.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Every Party Has a Pooper, That's Why We Invited Dad
I tease out the details of Hil's birthday plans at the House of Louse. He has, for the first time in her life, agreed to host a birthday party. A sleepover no less. I am frantic with worry. He is not exactly a natural entertainer.
This has traditionally been my domain and I am proud to say we have really churned out the hype when we've invited kids into our home to celebrate.
There was Pat's truck themed party complete with a dump truck cake, the bed of which was filled with graham cracker crumbs, the wheels formed from chocolate covered doughnuts.
Or his beach party with an ice cream cake formed into a sand castle and a sheet cake that looked exactly like a beach complete with edible shells and beach umbrellas.
And Hil's party where I decided to Go Big at a tumultuous time in the kids' lives, simply as a distraction, and a reminder that life will go on, even parties. It was a hula party. I hired a company to send two hula instructors to come and teach 20 little girls how to hula. They brought costume changes and a sound system. They were amazing. I gave each girl a grass skirt and every game ended with the distribution of leis. Pin the hibiscus on the hula girl (a life-sized hula girl fashioned from poster board and clad in a grass skirt fashioned from a green Dollar Store table cloth folded and shredded with a razor by yours truly) and a hula girl piñata. Fruit kabobs, coconut chicken and shrimp. And of course, Hawaiian punch. A huge hit.
And some years later, a red carpet Oscar party. Twelve starlets got their hair and makeup done, got a bag of Dollar Store makeup swag, and got to raid my closet for red carpet glam to wear. Each starlet walked the red carpet, was photographed in all their finery, received a statuette and award and a personalized star on the Walk of Fame. Dancing and Oscar-shaped cake followed sparkling grape juice in champagne glasses and hot hors d'oevres passed on silver trays. I sent photos to the girls with Hil's thank you notes. It was the event of the season.
As the kids have gotten older, the celebrations have changed...sleepovers that end at Starbucks in our pajamas and trips to Dave and Busters (i.e. Hell for Parents, as opposed to Chuck E. Cheez, Hell for Parents, Jr.) And frankly, as birthday parties give way to Bar Mitzvahs and are tabled in anticipation of blow out Sweet 16s, we have had very few to throw and to attend.
And Lars, who was scarcely involved in the myriad details of planning any party in the first place, is out of practice. And aided only by Liza, the non-parent, who hasn't shown much finesse for birthday celebrating, as demonstrated by torching her own hair at her most recent fiesta.
I broach the subject of planning with Hil.
She, thank the Lord, is on to the lameness of her father's party-throwing acumen. She already has ideas. Sleepover for 6. Dance Party III on Wii. Team blindfolded makeup application. Build your own sundae. Truth or Dare. Waffles and chocolate covered strawberries for breakfast the next morning. Amen to my girl for taking matters into her own shapely little girly hands. She will have no lame-o party. No, no. Not her.
And as a mother I heave a sigh of relief that some of what I have done has been observed and absorbed by my children. Not only how to cross a street or how to balance a check book, but how, when faced with a sad but simple truth, you stay calm and carry on, and do for yourself.
This has traditionally been my domain and I am proud to say we have really churned out the hype when we've invited kids into our home to celebrate.
There was Pat's truck themed party complete with a dump truck cake, the bed of which was filled with graham cracker crumbs, the wheels formed from chocolate covered doughnuts.
Or his beach party with an ice cream cake formed into a sand castle and a sheet cake that looked exactly like a beach complete with edible shells and beach umbrellas.
And Hil's party where I decided to Go Big at a tumultuous time in the kids' lives, simply as a distraction, and a reminder that life will go on, even parties. It was a hula party. I hired a company to send two hula instructors to come and teach 20 little girls how to hula. They brought costume changes and a sound system. They were amazing. I gave each girl a grass skirt and every game ended with the distribution of leis. Pin the hibiscus on the hula girl (a life-sized hula girl fashioned from poster board and clad in a grass skirt fashioned from a green Dollar Store table cloth folded and shredded with a razor by yours truly) and a hula girl piñata. Fruit kabobs, coconut chicken and shrimp. And of course, Hawaiian punch. A huge hit.
And some years later, a red carpet Oscar party. Twelve starlets got their hair and makeup done, got a bag of Dollar Store makeup swag, and got to raid my closet for red carpet glam to wear. Each starlet walked the red carpet, was photographed in all their finery, received a statuette and award and a personalized star on the Walk of Fame. Dancing and Oscar-shaped cake followed sparkling grape juice in champagne glasses and hot hors d'oevres passed on silver trays. I sent photos to the girls with Hil's thank you notes. It was the event of the season.
As the kids have gotten older, the celebrations have changed...sleepovers that end at Starbucks in our pajamas and trips to Dave and Busters (i.e. Hell for Parents, as opposed to Chuck E. Cheez, Hell for Parents, Jr.) And frankly, as birthday parties give way to Bar Mitzvahs and are tabled in anticipation of blow out Sweet 16s, we have had very few to throw and to attend.
And Lars, who was scarcely involved in the myriad details of planning any party in the first place, is out of practice. And aided only by Liza, the non-parent, who hasn't shown much finesse for birthday celebrating, as demonstrated by torching her own hair at her most recent fiesta.
I broach the subject of planning with Hil.
She, thank the Lord, is on to the lameness of her father's party-throwing acumen. She already has ideas. Sleepover for 6. Dance Party III on Wii. Team blindfolded makeup application. Build your own sundae. Truth or Dare. Waffles and chocolate covered strawberries for breakfast the next morning. Amen to my girl for taking matters into her own shapely little girly hands. She will have no lame-o party. No, no. Not her.
And as a mother I heave a sigh of relief that some of what I have done has been observed and absorbed by my children. Not only how to cross a street or how to balance a check book, but how, when faced with a sad but simple truth, you stay calm and carry on, and do for yourself.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Party Here, Party There
As we approach the pizza shop I shake those memories from my head, thinking my girlfriends had been right all along. They'd never really warmed to J. and it took me far longer to find out all the reasons why. A repeat performance on my part. At least I had not married this loser. At least I'd discovered the lies, and the drinking, and the hidden agenda and the charade before taking a single step down the aisle. And it seems now I've truly managed to wash that man right outta my hair. And evidently for good. I doubt his ghost would have the nerve (or the strength) to come and haunt me. Please let his mother enjoy that distinctly unpleasant experience if it must happen. And please let his apparition show that stupid tattoo in full color for her viewing pleasure. Let it remind her day and night what a crackpot she raised.
The kids and I order our pizza and find a table. We have a clear view of the forbidden television which is broadcasting the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics. We can't hear anything but it sure seems zany. Gotta love the Brits. They have made the festivities uniquely their own. Choreographed hospital bed routine? Audible farting? A sky diving queen?
I am torn. I am such a fan of the Olympics. The pageantry. The spirit. The love of the sports. Kids who have devoted their lives and forsaken all else for this chance. I am in awe of the sheer power of them. Such drive. Such physical and personal strength. And I barely survive a work week at my desk, by comparison.
But in a 99% television-free town, I would have to go find a sports bar to watch each night. Not exactly what we came here to do...so I opt to forget about watching the drama unfold and patiently learn of the pertinent results from my FB friends and online news apps on my phone, and instead immerse myself in the joys of vacation. I can On-Demand any old thing I am still dying to see when we get home. Time like this with my kids is rare and fleeting. The Olympics come along every few years.
Hil's birthday is around the corner and she is turning 13. The Big Day when she flips the switch from tween to teen happens the day after our vacation ends and she has returned to her father's house. And she is acutely aware of the difference that will make in the celebration. Has roundly criticized her father's ideas about what constitutes an appropriate birthday celebration, much less a milestone like this one.
And the heat is on. Like everything else in my post-divorce life with my kids, I need to come up with a way to fill in the gaps. Make things whole. Make Lars' inadequacies invisible if not unimportant.
This will be my biggest mission yet.
The kids and I order our pizza and find a table. We have a clear view of the forbidden television which is broadcasting the opening ceremonies of the Summer Olympics. We can't hear anything but it sure seems zany. Gotta love the Brits. They have made the festivities uniquely their own. Choreographed hospital bed routine? Audible farting? A sky diving queen?
I am torn. I am such a fan of the Olympics. The pageantry. The spirit. The love of the sports. Kids who have devoted their lives and forsaken all else for this chance. I am in awe of the sheer power of them. Such drive. Such physical and personal strength. And I barely survive a work week at my desk, by comparison.
But in a 99% television-free town, I would have to go find a sports bar to watch each night. Not exactly what we came here to do...so I opt to forget about watching the drama unfold and patiently learn of the pertinent results from my FB friends and online news apps on my phone, and instead immerse myself in the joys of vacation. I can On-Demand any old thing I am still dying to see when we get home. Time like this with my kids is rare and fleeting. The Olympics come along every few years.
Hil's birthday is around the corner and she is turning 13. The Big Day when she flips the switch from tween to teen happens the day after our vacation ends and she has returned to her father's house. And she is acutely aware of the difference that will make in the celebration. Has roundly criticized her father's ideas about what constitutes an appropriate birthday celebration, much less a milestone like this one.
And the heat is on. Like everything else in my post-divorce life with my kids, I need to come up with a way to fill in the gaps. Make things whole. Make Lars' inadequacies invisible if not unimportant.
This will be my biggest mission yet.
Monday, August 13, 2012
I Never Promised You A Rose Garden
J. and I came to this marvelous place a few times together. Once or twice just the two of us, a few times with the kids. He loved it.
But what I remember now about those trips is not long walks holding hands, or coffee in the hammock swings, or wine on the porch as the sun set.
Sure we did all of those things. But we also argued. We argued there more than we argued at home. Sometimes bitterly. Always quietly. But always.
It struck me one day shortly after an argument with J.. I actually wrote it in a diary that I'd been keeping at the time (before blogging became my public record of my private life!) Those arguments made me question, if only momentarily, what was wrong with our relationship.
It was almost as if, and I see this now, but had not then, that when all the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and the pressure of maintaining a home and a job were stripped away, what we had left wasn't so rosey after all.
I could see J.'s jealousy.
I could see his male chauvinistic tendencies.
I could see his infuriating insecurities.
I could see a few departures from the truth.
I could feel him pressuring me. Putting me in positions where I could not argue with him and would have to agree, if only temporarily.
And then we'd return to Real Life and those nagging little concerns seemed brief and fleeting and insignificant. All the good things came into focus again. I'd let all the bad things go.
Until the next trip.
And the worst part was that I had nowhere to run. We were at my Charlotte and Jack's cottage. With the kids. I could not really throw them out (Moira would be baffled, not to mention upset). And I wasn't leaving! I had no choice but to have an argument. If we'd been at home, I'd have made a few blistering parting comments, taken my stuff and bombed for home, leaving him to cry in his beer alone.
Somehow I think he planned it all that way. He always had some insecurity or jealousy or issue festering just below the surface and he'd strike when he'd know I could not escape.
The last time he'd come to visit we'd already broken up. I'd vowed to remain freinds. Invited him to visit us for a day. He was charming to my mother. He was lovely to me. He asked Estelle if he could take me out for a drink. We'd gone. He trapped me. Worked me over while we waited for drinks and appetizers. Tried to remind me that I'd made commitments to him. That I'd planned a life with him. And then I'd scrammed.
And I had. At one time. But when he failed to live up to the commitments he'd made, and crossed boundaries and failed me, it seemed as though I was supposed to forgive and forget.
And again, I was trapped into having the conversation. In public. No way to leave. We had his car and I was too far from the cottage to walk. I'd wanted to vanish.
And I knew that feeling all too well. It was how I'd often felt in my marriage to Lars. I congratulated J. on having achieved the same accomplishment. He'd made me want to vanish.
That was quite a trip. Mom had left early, having tired of us and exhausted her real estate possibilities. J. had left in a huff, mad that I would not cave to his pressure and his charm. And he was naively hopeful that if he kept at it, I'd not be able to resist.
Some people have an overly inflated impression of their irresistability.
And somehow, through all of this, the beauty of the place and the peace it brings me has prevailed. The power of Mother Nature, perhaps. Somehow the very nature of the place reminds me of who I am in my soul. No intruder can take the shine from that.
And now I return...two summers in a row, with Scott and his girls. Scott loves the place as much as I do. Would love to buy a cottage. Relaxes and unwinds and enjoys the quiet and the outdoors and all the outdoor things to do.
And just like at home, we have absolutely nothing to fight about.
And without the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and with the pressure of maintaining a home and a job all stripped away, what we have left is rosey and bright after all.
But what I remember now about those trips is not long walks holding hands, or coffee in the hammock swings, or wine on the porch as the sun set.
Sure we did all of those things. But we also argued. We argued there more than we argued at home. Sometimes bitterly. Always quietly. But always.
It struck me one day shortly after an argument with J.. I actually wrote it in a diary that I'd been keeping at the time (before blogging became my public record of my private life!) Those arguments made me question, if only momentarily, what was wrong with our relationship.
It was almost as if, and I see this now, but had not then, that when all the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and the pressure of maintaining a home and a job were stripped away, what we had left wasn't so rosey after all.
I could see J.'s jealousy.
I could see his male chauvinistic tendencies.
I could see his infuriating insecurities.
I could see a few departures from the truth.
I could feel him pressuring me. Putting me in positions where I could not argue with him and would have to agree, if only temporarily.
And then we'd return to Real Life and those nagging little concerns seemed brief and fleeting and insignificant. All the good things came into focus again. I'd let all the bad things go.
Until the next trip.
And the worst part was that I had nowhere to run. We were at my Charlotte and Jack's cottage. With the kids. I could not really throw them out (Moira would be baffled, not to mention upset). And I wasn't leaving! I had no choice but to have an argument. If we'd been at home, I'd have made a few blistering parting comments, taken my stuff and bombed for home, leaving him to cry in his beer alone.
Somehow I think he planned it all that way. He always had some insecurity or jealousy or issue festering just below the surface and he'd strike when he'd know I could not escape.
The last time he'd come to visit we'd already broken up. I'd vowed to remain freinds. Invited him to visit us for a day. He was charming to my mother. He was lovely to me. He asked Estelle if he could take me out for a drink. We'd gone. He trapped me. Worked me over while we waited for drinks and appetizers. Tried to remind me that I'd made commitments to him. That I'd planned a life with him. And then I'd scrammed.
And I had. At one time. But when he failed to live up to the commitments he'd made, and crossed boundaries and failed me, it seemed as though I was supposed to forgive and forget.
And again, I was trapped into having the conversation. In public. No way to leave. We had his car and I was too far from the cottage to walk. I'd wanted to vanish.
And I knew that feeling all too well. It was how I'd often felt in my marriage to Lars. I congratulated J. on having achieved the same accomplishment. He'd made me want to vanish.
That was quite a trip. Mom had left early, having tired of us and exhausted her real estate possibilities. J. had left in a huff, mad that I would not cave to his pressure and his charm. And he was naively hopeful that if he kept at it, I'd not be able to resist.
Some people have an overly inflated impression of their irresistability.
And somehow, through all of this, the beauty of the place and the peace it brings me has prevailed. The power of Mother Nature, perhaps. Somehow the very nature of the place reminds me of who I am in my soul. No intruder can take the shine from that.
And now I return...two summers in a row, with Scott and his girls. Scott loves the place as much as I do. Would love to buy a cottage. Relaxes and unwinds and enjoys the quiet and the outdoors and all the outdoor things to do.
And just like at home, we have absolutely nothing to fight about.
And without the background noise of everyday life, and the distractions of work and baseball schedules and chorus concerts and scout meetings, and with the pressure of maintaining a home and a job all stripped away, what we have left is rosey and bright after all.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Home Away from Home
We meander through the familiar little borough, past the French pastry shop, along side the ice cream parlor, along the edge of the lake and up the hill to the cottage. Home.
The kids bound from the car, anxious to get Trinket settled, to choose their rooms and their beds, empty their suitcases and get the vacation underway. But each child helps to make several trips down the steps to the car and back up with a box or bag or trunk. And then while they explore the house and try to figure out what has changed since their last visit, I unpack and store all of the groceries. Breads and buns and bagels and bacon and burgers. Corn on the cob, coffee, crumb cake, cool pops. Salad greens, cereal, salsa, seltzer. We are fully stocked.
And in no mood to cook. Long day, long drive. So we take a short walk through the streets and under the trees and make our way slowly to the pizza shop.
The kids chatter about this place and that, plans for Death By Chocolate at the ice cream parlor, things they want to buy at the odd little novelty shop, how many years in a row they have been coming here.
And I am consumed with other thoughts. I have come here with the kids at least once a year since the year I began my divorce. It has been mostly a place of peace, but there are some ghosts.
I made my first trip here when Charlotte and Jack were new parents and were renting a cottage for two weeks in July. I had just gotten engaged to Lars. It rained the whole time we were here. I remember loving how lush and green it was. How pretty. How untouched by the hands of time. Lars and I visited a little shop that has since burned down. (And so have we, actually!) We bought a little hand carved wooden duck. We'd buy another some years later on our honeymoon in Greece. And a baby one for me to place next to them on the mantle to signify my first pregnancy. And another at a Christmas craft show when Hil was on her way. The little ducks would be our family thing. I don't know where the first two ducks are, but Hil and Pat still have the ones that represent them resting on the ledges above their bedroom doors.
I was so smitten with the place I'd wanted to move there. And by contrast I still remember Lars remarking that he'd never go back. He'd been bored. Why would anyone go there? There is nothing to DO! I should have turned and run then. That should have told me something.
And now, it is the litmus test. If you hate coming here, or even just tolerate it, we are not meant to be.
But in spite of the sirens and flashing warning lights, I married Lars, had children, and didn't come back until I divorced him. And stayed with Charlotte and Jack. And after that first summer, when I began to come and escape more than once, I began to plan weeklong trips with the kids. They would quickly learn about the culture of the place and come to love it. To crave it. It stood in stark contrast to the hype and excess of trips with their father.
The first adventure was not in Charlotte and Jack's cottage, remarkably. We'd rented one of the cute little places a few blocks away with four-poster beds and darling porch where we'd played Monopoly Junior in our pajamas to practice math skills on summer break. We started our traditions that summer.
And we had invited Mom.
What a long time ago it seems like now.
I'd been dating J. by then. And our children had not met each other or each of us yet. My calls to him were secretive and placed after they'd gone to bed.
I can barely remember that first trip. It seems so foreign now. J. and Mom are no longer part of the happy memories. Just factual memories.
How far we've come. How long we've traveled.
The kids bound from the car, anxious to get Trinket settled, to choose their rooms and their beds, empty their suitcases and get the vacation underway. But each child helps to make several trips down the steps to the car and back up with a box or bag or trunk. And then while they explore the house and try to figure out what has changed since their last visit, I unpack and store all of the groceries. Breads and buns and bagels and bacon and burgers. Corn on the cob, coffee, crumb cake, cool pops. Salad greens, cereal, salsa, seltzer. We are fully stocked.
And in no mood to cook. Long day, long drive. So we take a short walk through the streets and under the trees and make our way slowly to the pizza shop.
The kids chatter about this place and that, plans for Death By Chocolate at the ice cream parlor, things they want to buy at the odd little novelty shop, how many years in a row they have been coming here.
And I am consumed with other thoughts. I have come here with the kids at least once a year since the year I began my divorce. It has been mostly a place of peace, but there are some ghosts.
I made my first trip here when Charlotte and Jack were new parents and were renting a cottage for two weeks in July. I had just gotten engaged to Lars. It rained the whole time we were here. I remember loving how lush and green it was. How pretty. How untouched by the hands of time. Lars and I visited a little shop that has since burned down. (And so have we, actually!) We bought a little hand carved wooden duck. We'd buy another some years later on our honeymoon in Greece. And a baby one for me to place next to them on the mantle to signify my first pregnancy. And another at a Christmas craft show when Hil was on her way. The little ducks would be our family thing. I don't know where the first two ducks are, but Hil and Pat still have the ones that represent them resting on the ledges above their bedroom doors.
I was so smitten with the place I'd wanted to move there. And by contrast I still remember Lars remarking that he'd never go back. He'd been bored. Why would anyone go there? There is nothing to DO! I should have turned and run then. That should have told me something.
And now, it is the litmus test. If you hate coming here, or even just tolerate it, we are not meant to be.
But in spite of the sirens and flashing warning lights, I married Lars, had children, and didn't come back until I divorced him. And stayed with Charlotte and Jack. And after that first summer, when I began to come and escape more than once, I began to plan weeklong trips with the kids. They would quickly learn about the culture of the place and come to love it. To crave it. It stood in stark contrast to the hype and excess of trips with their father.
The first adventure was not in Charlotte and Jack's cottage, remarkably. We'd rented one of the cute little places a few blocks away with four-poster beds and darling porch where we'd played Monopoly Junior in our pajamas to practice math skills on summer break. We started our traditions that summer.
And we had invited Mom.
What a long time ago it seems like now.
I'd been dating J. by then. And our children had not met each other or each of us yet. My calls to him were secretive and placed after they'd gone to bed.
I can barely remember that first trip. It seems so foreign now. J. and Mom are no longer part of the happy memories. Just factual memories.
How far we've come. How long we've traveled.
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