From the Horse's Mouth

With all the Christmas shows featuring Rudolph and Santa Claus, Brendan decided that he wanted to be a reindeer when he grows up.  His goals were lofty -- he didn't want to be just any old reindeer, he was going to be one of Santa's reindeer (the ones that fly).  I let the reindeer fantasy go on for a while, but, being the realist that I am, I felt duty-bound to tell my child that people did not simply turn into beasts at whim.  I cornered him as he ran around the house, holding his hands up to his head and spreading his fingers to look like antlers.

"Brendan?"

He stopped, antler-hands still in position, "yes, Mommy?"

"Baby boy, you know that people can't turn into reindeer, right?"

Long pause.  "Why not?"

"I don't know why, but they just don't.  People are people and reindeer are reindeer.  You can pretend you're a reindeer, though."

He looked off to the side.  Then, slowly, he unspread his fingers and brought his hands down from his head.  He started to walk away.  Great, now I had crushed the kid's spirit.

When he was halfway across the room, I called out to him again.

"Honey Bunny?"

He trotted back, "yes, Mommy?"

"Are you upset because you can't be a reindeer someday?"

He gave me a toothy grin.  "Not at all, Mommy.  I didn't want to be a reindeer anyway. ... What I really want to be is a horse!"  And he galloped off, neighing as he went.  (Sigh)    

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

Merry Christmas!!

Happily Ever After

I was researching a project when I came across a website called divorcerate.org. According to divorcerate.org, the oft-quoted “50% of all marriages end in divorce” is actually inaccurate. In reality, between 40 and 50% of all first marriages end in divorce. Second marriages have a fail rate of over 60%, however; while third marriages dissolve more than 70% of the time.

The statistics feel wrong to me. I mean, I can understand first marriages failing – people are often young and idealistic when they first marry. They think that love and marriage will be some sort of fairy tale and fun all the time. When they discover that isn’t the case, disillusionment sets in. But you would think that second and third marriages would involve older and wiser people.

I dug a little further, just to see if the first website was corroborated. I found that there are numerous websites dedicated to this topic and all of them agree that subsequent marriages do, indeed, have higher fail rates than first marriages. The psychology-based ones aver that after a failed marriage, most people do not seek solitude, but rather look immediately to enter into another relationship in order to validate their worth and attractiveness. They urge readers to instead study the first marriage and try to figure out what went wrong before committing to someone else. Other sites believe that, after failing the first time, partners are not as invested emotionally – they already know that “happily ever after” does not exist.

This all holds a lot of interest for me. You see, I was married to someone else before I married Big Bren. When I married my first husband, whom I shall call C, I did so for all the wrong reasons. C was my college sweetheart. He was a wonderful guy, but a wounded man. His life read like a novel. His father, who was married, had an affair with a young woman in his village. When she became pregnant, her family threatened to disown her unless she got rid of the child. As this was in the 1960’s and abortion was not readily available in Guatemala, his mother did the next best thing: she gave birth to him, then left him on his father’s doorstep. His stepmother, who was childless, took him in and raised him. But – perhaps out of anger at his father – she never let him forget that he was the product of adultery and that his birth mother had not wanted him. As a result, C had serious abandonment issues.

I started dating C when I was 19 and he was 22. By then, he had already gotten a girl pregnant, who had – ironically – left him with the child and fled to California. I was undaunted by the fact that he already had a kid; it made him more mature in my eyes. I was also unphased by the fact that his ailing stepmother lived with him.

By 21, though, I had decided that I was going to law school and that I was going to do so outside of New York City. C suffered a meltdown. The sweet guy whom I fell in love with turned into a passive aggressive a-hole. He would make dates and not show up. He didn’t return phone calls. In my desperation, I offered him the one thing that I knew he wanted: a commitment.

We got married secretly in the City Hall by my law school (until today, only 5 other people ever knew we were married). For a while, things were good. He would drive up to see me almost every weekend. We spent hours on the phone every night. Soon, though, I started to see that I was missing out on the whole experience of being away from home for the first time in my life. My friends were out clubbing every night. Although I have never been a drinker, I loved to dance, so, I started to go with them. And I started to meet other people. People who were in law school, like me. People who did not have children. Or sick parents who would, necessarily, have to move in with us.

I don’t know exactly what happened to us. I do know that what he’d always feared came to pass: I abandoned him. First, physically, by moving away and then, I began to pull away emotionally. He resorted to what he always did when things were not to his liking – he ran away. As soon as I graduated from law school, I filed for a divorce. I wanted an annulment, but I could not bring myself to say that he defrauded me into marrying him. I knew well enough what I was doing. I later learned, though, that while I was out dancing, my husband was cozying up to another woman and had had another child, so I would’ve had grounds after all.

One thing I can say with certainty is that the statistics and the psychologists are wrong in my case. I did not rush to marry the first man who asked after my divorce. In fact, I did not marry Big Bren until five years later. But it makes me wonder whether I “fixed” what was wrong the first go round. I honestly do not know. Was I just attracted to the walking wounded? Over the intervening years, I have learned that there is no cure for the wounded when they won’t admit they’re hurt. I’ve also learned that if you don’t face that which you fear, it will rear up and bite you at some point. Other than that, I guess only time will tell.

How may I be of service?

I am a Black woman. As such, I suffer a plight familiar to Black women the world over: no matter where I happen to be, people assume that I work there. At the supermarket, people ask in what aisle they can find things. At the courthouse, people mistake me for the judge’s clerk or the court reporter.

Until recently, I would respond with varying degrees of annoyance, irritation and sarcasm. Once at a department store, a lady stopped to ask how to get to the register. I gave her a withering look and said, “Of course, I work here. That’s why I am wearing my coat, carrying my purse and lugging 5 bags from other stores.” She scurried away; sarcasm has that effect on people.

But I have decided that other people’s ignorance, racism or obliviousness is not going to rob me of my peace. Once I made that decision, people seemed to stop asking me to point them to the mayonnaise. Until yesterday.

I walked into my gym in a very good mood. I had my new book under my arm and my earphones hooked up to my I-pod. My bottle of water was icy cold – just the way I like it. All was well with the world. I set my supplies down next to me and reached for disinfecting solution to spray down the parts of the treadmill that I was likely to touch. Gym equipment breeds bacteria – I know you’ve seen the guy who has so much sweat pouring off him that it’s dripping onto the machine – so most gyms put bleach solution by the machines.

As I wiped down my machine, a middle-aged White man on the treadmill next to mine motioned for me to spray his machine as well. I paused and looked at him. He motioned once again and, noticing my reticence, said “could you do mine as well?”

Of course I knew what he was thinking; how could I not know, it’s the story of my life. But instead of pointing to my stuff and giving him the finger (you all know I considered doing that), I smiled, stepped over to where he was, sprayed his machine and wiped it down. He gave me a cursory “thanks,” and pretended to focus on the television screen in front of him. I put the bleach solution back, put on my earphones and got on my treadmill. The expression on his face was absolutely priceless. No amount of sarcasm could’ve evoked the same expression. He quickly stopped his machine and came over. “I am so, so, so sorry,” he stammered. “I thought you worked here.” Of course you did. I smiled at him and said, “No problem.” Then I pretended to focus on the television screen in front of me.

He packed up his things and hurried out, red-faced and flustered. You want to know something? I bet that man is never again going to assume that every Black woman he sees is the help. Glad to be of service.

The Roar Within

No one likes to hear anything negative about him/herself. Who wants to hear that you're lazy? Or a slack-off? Or will amount to nothing? Yet, we often say these things, or worse, to ourselves.

I decided to sit and listen to my inner dialogue one day and, I must say, I was appalled at what I heard and felt. I found myself wishing for something, visualizing myself having it and then, almost immediately, clamming up in fear, internally shaking my head, saying "You'll never get that. Why should you, with all your issues, be so blessed? Do you know how many people want that?" It is as if even before my dreams can get off the ground, I cripple them by telling myself that I am unworthy or undeserving of having the things I truly want.

Armed with this realization, I now "erase" my last thought and say "well, why not me? Someone is going to get it, it might as well be me." It is an exhausting process, yet that seems to be the only way to interrupt my programming.

I don't know why I am programmed this way. It would be great if I could lay blame on someone else (my parents, perhaps), but, truth be told, I have always been saddled and ridden by fear. I wish there were places one could go for mental reprogramming. (And, no, I don't mean a psychotherapist). I mean an actual place where you walk in with all your psychologic bugs and mental viruses, frozen on one screen of your life, and come out with the slate wiped clean, your heart purring gently and your mind ready to take on the world. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

It's a Bird, It's a Plane

My child has entered the superhero phase.  He was Spiderman for Halloween.  He begged for the talking Hulk hands ("You're making me angry!  You won't like me when I'm angry!  Arrrggghhhh!").  He wants a Superman cape for Christmas.  So, as the doting parents that we are, Big Bren and I decided to strip Brendan's room of all the Thomas the Train paraphernalia and decorate it with the best superheroes of all time.  So why, oh why, is it that there are no superheroes of color?

Don't get me wrong.  I am not one of those super-ethnic people who only wear Kente cloth or anything like that, but I do want my child to be proud of who he is.  Just like I want him in a school that celebrates diversity, I want his role models (if we can call them that) to be of different shades.  And heroes do not just come in White.

I thought about scrapping the whole idea when I couldn't find one lousy mainstream Black or Brown superhero to stick to his walls.  But Big Bren prevailed when he said that Brendan would be shaped by the totality of his experiences, not just the images that are plastered to his walls.  That may be true, but, really, not a single one?  No one stopped to think that little brown boys may want a superhero to call their own?  Sometimes it's through the little things that we gauge our progress as a people.

Ghetto Fabulous

I just went to the public ladies’ room on the second floor in my office building and there she was: the walking definition of “ghetto fabulous.” She was wearing a Winter-white suit. Skin tight, of course. With a split up to the yang. A leopard-print bustier and leopard-print stilettos. Fake eyelashes. Hair slicked back into a phony tail.

I briefly wondered what kind of woman wakes up and says, “I think I’ll wear my leopard-print bustier to work today.” We are business casual, but I think “business” is the operative word. Unless it’s some other business that we’re talking about.

She seemed nice. Spoke with a slight Southern accent. But still, leopard-print …

Good Genes

I have a confession to make: I am a celebrity gossip junkie. I can spend hours on the internet just reading trash. My latest fascination is with celebrity moms. You know, the Heidi Klums, Nicole Richies, Angelina Jolies and Gwyneth Paltrows of the world. The ones who are back to a size 2 even before the afterbirth comes out. I understand that these women have to look a certain way for their jobs, but it still makes the rest of us look bad (literally) when Katie Holmes and Jennifer Lopez can run marathons within 3 months of giving birth. At 6 months post-partum, I was lucky just to get out of the house without a soggy Cheerio stuck to some part of my head.

So, how do they do it? I have read everything (I mean it -- I have read every celebrity rag out there). And the answers range from coy non-answers, to giving all the credit to breast-feeding, to good genes (yeah, I’m calling you out, J. Lo), to my all-time favorite “I already have a toddler. Keeping up with him/her is all the exercise I need!” Cough ** Bullshit ** Cough.

So imagine my surprise when I read an interview with Jessica Alba not too long ago where she answered the inevitable “how did you lose the baby weight?” question, with something like (I’m paraphrasing here): “It was hard. I worked out for several hours almost every day and went on a diet.” I almost fell out of my chair. An honest celebrity. What an oxymoron. That’s almost as rare as a truthful attorney. Of course, she had to ruin the lovefest I had going on with her when she then declared, “Everything about having a baby is fun! Even the explosive diarrhea!” Okay, Jessica, I would’ve sooner believed that you got your six-pack back by breast-feeding.

It’s tough being a woman in this society, what with the pressure to look a certain way, to have breasts of a certain size, and to have color and hair of a certain hue. But it is also getting increasingly difficult to be a mom as well. My mother’s generation was, I believe, the first generation to be pressured to not just be moms, but to be providers for their families. My mom was under no delusions about what she could and couldn’t do. She knew she had to work (sometimes she worked two jobs); she also knew that, as a result, quality time and real parenting would have to move to the back burner. Ask my mom today and she will tell you – very loudly – in no uncertain terms that she did what she had to do and has no regrets about it.

My generation thinks that we can do and be everything. We want to be great workers, great friends, great mothers and great wives and look great doing it, damn it. I will be honest and say that, on any given day, I drop one or more of the balls I am juggling. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes it’s home, but most times, it’s me. I don’t have the benefit of J.Lo-ian genes (I wonder where her “genes” were when she was a Fly Girl on In Living Color and very obviously a big girl – but I digress) or the money to hire a nanny, a trainer and a live-in cook. So, I, too, will do the best I can (albeit with saggy abs and a flabby bottom) and, hopefully, have no regrets about it.

The Power of Forgiveness

Until last year, my middle sister and I did not get along. We spent our childhood fighting – literally – like cats and dogs. Once we outgrew fistfights, we engaged in something more sinister: seething sibling rivalry and one-up-ness. Our dislike for each other permeated all family gatherings and get-togethers. I hated her so much that I could barely stand to look at her. Over the years, I thought about making peace with her, but would never follow through, thinking that perhaps that ship had sailed.

Just before Christmas last year, however, I got this feeling in my soul that it was time to bury the hatchet once and for all (and, hopefully, not in each other’s backs). And the more I tried to shake it off, the more the feeling persisted. I went to the bookstore and a book on forgiveness practically jumped in my hand. “I got it,” I whispered to God. “I will do this.”

I read the book and did the forgiveness exercises. I imagined myself speaking with my sister and magnanimously telling her that I forgave her for all her transgressions.

I would pick up the phone to call her and put it back down. Eventually, I settled on writing her a letter. In the letter, I spoke about all the things that bothered me about her: her nosiness, her loudness, her attitude. But then other things poured out: how I admired her work ethic, her take-no-crap stance in life, and how everyone respected her. Memories of our childhood in Honduras came flooding back. I remembered that we were inseparable. Then other thoughts started to creep in: how she was my grandmother’s favorite (no small feat, considering that my grandmother was caring for about 20 grandchildren at the time). And how, when we came to the States and my father was drinking himself into oblivion half the time, she was the only one who could make him smile. I recalled how my mother always said that she, my sister, was most like her: witty, sharp, a real firecracker.

And suddenly a realization dawned on me. My job was not to forgive my sister for everything she had done to me. She had done nothing but be herself. My job was to forgive myself! I had been petty and jealous. All these years, I had envied her for having the things that I felt I lacked: love from our grandmother when our parents weren’t around; a way around my father’s emotional unavailability; and approval from our mother.

I took the letter and put it in a drawer. Then I called my sister for the first time in my adult life. Things between us didn’t thaw immediately, but with practice we have learned to be sisters again. My sister now calls me just to chat. Sometimes, we spend two hours on the phone. We go out to eat and hang out with our kids at the park. She has learned to call on me for emotional support when she needs it. I call her to find out how to add features to my cell phone. You know what? It’s nice to have my sister back.

Wrong Side of the Bed

Brendan is, thankfully, a good kid.  He has his moments, but they pass quickly.  Today, however, he just could not get a handle on his emotions.  The day started with him crying in his sleep and went downhill from there.  He whined about breakfast (cereal) so much, that I had no choice but to make his breakfast of choice ("crema" - cream of wheat made with milk, sugar and cinnamon).  Then he didn't want to get dressed.  That was followed by an all-out temper tantrum because he wanted to bring in a box that was delivered in the morning, but we didn't let him (the box was twice his size and very heavy).  Every meal was objectionable to him; all he wanted to eat was pound cake.

After his 1,713th request for cake was answered with a resounding "no," he furrowed his unibrow at me, stomped his little feet and proclaimed, "today was a bad day."  Really?  I never would've noticed ...

Everything You Should Know About Kids, But No One Bothers to Tell You

Everything you should know about kids ...

• Whoever coined the term “sleeps like a baby” to mean deep, restful sleep probably never had children. Sleeping babies are the most unrestful beings you will ever witness. Not only do they wake up every few hours to eat, but while they are actually sleeping, they: flail their arms (sometimes hitting themselves in the face and waking themselves up); they twist and turn; they whimper cry; and they pee and poop.
• The “Terrible Twos” last from 18 months until 18 years.
• A two year old will refuse to eat anything you make, but if Grandma makes it, it’s going down without a fight.
• At some point in his life, your son will want to be a princess for Halloween.
• All young kids are fascinated by poop.
• A three-, and even a four, -year-old does not mind spending the day with a piece of crap stuck to his bottom.
• Speaking of which, before your child turns 3, make sure you buy stock in Fruit of the Loom. I cannot tell you the number of briefs that went straight from my son’s bottom into the trash can.
• You will understand every single word that comes out of your two-year-old’s mouth, even when it sounds like complete gobbly-gook to everyone else.
• "Home Decor" to children means figuring out where to stick the boogers: the wall or the ceiling. Bunk beds are perfect for ceiling-booger decor.
• Once the kid comes out, your body fat migrates to parts of your body where you didn’t think fat could exist. I have back fat now. Enough said.
• The skin literally falls off your nipples within three weeks of starting to breastfeed your bundle of joy. Oh, and by the way, that hurts. A lot.
• After feeding a child with your breasts, you will never look at them the same way again. (Your navel will be able to look directly at them, but you won’t. Never. Again.)
• Talking about breasts, you might want to refrain from telling a four-year-old what breasts are really for. That is unless you don’t mind him screaming in the middle of A&P, “Mommy, why can’t I drink milk from your breasts anymore???”

Despite all of the above, you will love your child(ren) more than life itself. You love them so much, it’s actually scary. So maybe, just maybe, it makes it all worthwhile. :-)

Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger, Nigger .....

It was a beautiful Spring day. I was working at a firm on 55th and Madison at the time. It was lunch time and I had run out to pick up an order that I'd placed at Burger Heaven on Madison Avenue at 49th Street. I was doing mostly appeals by then, and the case I had left on my desk was weighing heavily on my mind: the documents had to be compiled; and our argument at the lower level hadn't been successful. How could I state our case differently this time around?

I got my food and started to walk back uptown on Madison, going with the flow of traffic. Madison Avenue is a busy street and it was taking a while for the light to turn. I kept walking, turning every now and again to see if there was a gap in traffic where I could dash across the street.

Unbeknownst to me, an older white woman was tracking my progress. And she had convinced herself that I was following her. She was nervous, expecting my every move to turn into an ambush. Oblivious to her fear, I walked and stopped, walked and stopped. Finally, a break in the traffic and I prepared to sprint. Her sudden movement stopped me; she twirled around and pointed a long bony finger at me.

"Stop following me!" She yelled as loudly as she could muster. (I'm sure she must've read that in a self-defense book somewhere.) I froze. A million thoughts zoomed through my head. Was she talking to me? I turned my head to see if there was anyone else close by. Nope, just me. She was most definitely talking to me. Alrighty, then. I figured she was a nut. This was New York City after all. I started to walk again -- I was simply going to ignore her.

"Why are you all always following me??! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! Nigger!"

I lost count of the number of "niggers" that fell out of that woman's mouth. I was absolutely rooted to the spot. I couldn't make myself move. The anger coursed through my veins. I wanted nothing more than to back-slap the old hag. As soon as my self-imposed paralysis lifted, I think I actually took a step or two in her direction. But then I stopped myself. Whatever had happened to this woman, whatever she had been taught, that had brought about such an irrational hatred of Black people, was not going to be helped by my becoming violent with her or even by telling her a few choice words. So I did the only thing I could -- I walked away from her. Even knowing as I did, that she would think she had been "triumphant" in her face-down with a bonafide Negro who was trying to rob her.

In hindsight, I realize that my anger at that woman's outburst didn't arise because of her bigotry. I am Black and Hispanic; I have faced racism before. It was because, for that one moment in time, I felt like I fit in. There I was, working at a prominent firm, my kinky hair relaxed into submission, wearing my Brooks Brothers suit. And all that woman could see was a thieving nigger. Go figure.

Transparency

I created this blog for two reasons: (1) as someone who loves to write, I knew that committing to posting two or more times a week on the blog would help me to hone my craft; and (2) I wanted more transparency in my life.

Those who know me know that I am a stoic. I keep everything close to the vest. Whether I am ecstatic or miserable, I maintain pretty much the same demeanor. As such, I am difficult to read. In deciding to write about my life, I have opened a door that remained closed to most people I know.

Before writing, I spoke with my oldest sister -- my sage, whom I often consult with -- and her advice was to be true to myself. She said "no one ever accomplished anything great by playing it safe." Wiser words have never been spoken.

I realize that some may not like what I have to say, the conclusions I reach, or the memories I recall. The disclaimer is that I write my truth. Although those close to me may be reflected in the mirror of my writing, I seek to reveal me, no one else.

ruMIRNAtions is not meant to be confessional, but it will be personal, and always transparent.

The Love of Money

Many people have family karmas that they spend their lives working through.  Some have a history of abuse that plagues them throughout their lives.  Others have good karma like excellent business acumen.  My family karma has to do with its relationship to money.

My whole life, I've heard stories about my grandmothers (on both sides) struggling mightily to survive financially.  Both had been abandoned by their respective husbands with children to feed.  In her quest to find another breadwinner, my maternal grandmother fell indiscriminately into the arms of other men.  One of my aunts tells the story of being about 13 years old and having one of her putative stepfathers try to rape her.  My paternal grandmother, who fancied herself still in love with the bastard who left her, relied on the kindness of relatives to put food on her table.  In both of my parents' cases, they had to leave school while still at the elementary level in order to go to work.  Those early years left an indelible imprint on my parents' financial psyche.

There are two things I remember most about my own childhood:  (1) being encouraged to excel educationally so that I would never have to rely on a man financially; and (2) my parents having money, but refusing to spend it (sometimes, even on basic necessities). 

I know that my parents had money:  

• They both worked and they prided themselves on the amount of money they each had in the bank (in separate accounts).  
  
• Whenever a relative needed a visa to come from Honduras, the family looked to my parents to provide the Affidavit of Support and proof of money in the bank.  
  
• Every once in a while, my dad would take some of his cash and spend it on some electronic gadget.  We were the first family I knew who had a remote control television.  We were also the first to get a VCR and a large screen t.v.  
  
• My mother preferred to spend her days off shopping.  She hit all the bargain basements (back then Spring Street, in what is now known as SoHo, was a hot spot, as were 14th and 34th Streets).  For groceries, we would go to Washington Heights, where all the ethnic foods we ate were sold for cheap.  
• The four of us went to catholic school, whereas most of the kids in our neighborhood went to public school (that gave my parents bragging rights). 
• Every weekend, some relative or friend was over asking to borrow money.

Despite all this "abundance," my starkest memories arise out of what I can only describe as my parents' cheapness.  I remember walking for blocks in bitter cold without gloves and without a proper winter coat; the walking because my mother did not want to pay bus fare for all of us and the cold because she didn't think it a priority to provide us with gloves or thermal underwear or even sweatshirts.  We each had one pair of shoes that took us from Summer through Winter.  She did not believe in buying sneakers and rarely did we have Winter boots (unless she found them on sale).  I remember walking to school in the heart of Winter in a short jacket and my uniform jumper, my legs bumpy and ashy from the cold because I didn't have a single pair of tights.  The nuns, thinking that we couldn't afford to buy more appropriate clothing, would sometimes give us clothes that had been donated to charity.  My father gave/gives gifts only at Christmas -- birthdays come and go without so much as a token.  I also remember being short $1,000 for my last year's tuition at college and, with trembling knees and downcast eyes, asking my father for a loan.  ... And having him say "no" with a smug expression on his face and walking away from me.  Then giving the same $1,000 to my uncle so he could go on vacation to Honduras.  I recall my mother stuffing her wide feet into shoes many sizes too small and definitely too narrow, because that is what she said she could afford.  That effected me so much that the first thing I did upon collecting my first paycheck as a lawyer was to take her to Bloomingdales and buy her a pair of shoes that fit.  In my mind's eye, I can still see my father's station wagon, so old and worn that there were areas by the back seat where there was no floor.  You could never take a nap for fear that you would accidentally fall into the hole.

Yet, whenever we went someplace where any of my parents' family or friends would see us, they took care to dress us to the nines.  We had matching outfits for just such occasions; we looked like members of a musical group.  

Over the years, I have struggled with the dichotomy of my family karma.  I love money and loathe it all at the same time.  I work hard to be financially successful, but do not want my family to base my "worth" as a person on my net worth.  I love my mother, but I hate it when she gives me kisses after I've handed her a wad of cash, where she doesn't bestow kisses for any other reason.  It bothers me that every outing with my family is marred by discussions about how much money they gave this relative or that relative to assist in some financial crisis; or more likely, it is usually how much such relative needed or asked for and my family refused to give.  It annoys me when our family gets together and the only thing my relatives can talk about is how much I make or that sibling makes -- the implication being that we, as "professionals," are somehow better than those who may not command our salaries.  I am but a lawyer, not Donald Trump.  I still have bills to pay and a family to support.

So I keep reading books.  I keep meditating and praying.  And I keep hoping, hoping, hoping that one day I will break free -- once and for all -- of the financial drama, the scarcity mentality, and the family karma that has shadowed me until now.

  

The Stepmom Diaries

I was never the type of person who liked kids.  Even as a child, I preferred the company of adults.  So imagine my surprise when I found myself in love with someone who already had children.  When I met Big Bren at 28, the most experience I'd had with children was babysitting my nephews.  Although I adored them, I literally threw up every time I had to change a poopy diaper (yes, every single time).  I often couldn't wait to deposit the noisy, pooping, snot-nosed little buggers back in their mother's arms.

When Big Bren and I were dating, my exposure to his children was limited.  He had them on weekends, but being a successful modern woman, I often had other things to do and seldomly shared the same space with them for a prolonged period of time.  Whether by design or coincidence, any time I spent with the kids was crammed full of activity and all meals were taken outside.  

Somehow, in the excitement of being in love, I never actually realized that the children were part and parcel of the Big Bren package.  Oh, it sounds silly now, but it's true.  It seemed that as soon as we got married, the children were around all the time.  For someone who had been living the single life for so long, it came as a culture shock to suddenly have no privacy, no time for myself and -- most importantly -- no peace and quiet.  And although some children are fairly self-sufficient, my step-children had to be waited on hand and foot.  They didn't (and still don't) feed themselves; whatever room they inhabit, they leave a mess in their wake.  They pour huge glasses of juice/water/milk, take a sip and leave it there.  At the end of the weekend, every room is riddled with half-empty glasses.  I thought I'd be smart and buy juice boxes. Now, it's the juice boxes that appear under the bed, on the dressers, on the counters and in the hampers.  Although they are good children, they are horribly undisciplined.  No matter what activity Big Bren had planned for them, they'd head straight for the television and stay there until they fell asleep -- with the lights on and still in their street clothes.  Weekdays were/are devoted to work and on weekends, the children commanded (and got) most of Big Bren's attention.  I felt like I was getting the dregs of my husband's time and love; not to mention the fact that I had been relegated to not just stepmother status, but to servitude.  Add to the mix the children's psychotic, money-hungry mother and, needless to say, I was not a happy camper. 

Big Bren and I have been together for almost 10 years now.  I would love to say that everything worked itself out and that we are now one big happy family; but I'd be lying to you.  Some things are easier now, but every day is still a challenge.  

The children's mother is still psychotic; she is the only woman I know who will leave crying, screaming, angry voicemails if you treat her children well.  Yes, you read that correctly.  She gets more upset if I take the children to the mall or to the movies and we have a good time, than if I am nagging at them the whole weekend.

For Big Bren, one of the biggest difficulties has been balancing the relationship he has with Brendan -- who has him day in and day out -- with the relationship he has with his other children.  Another difficulty has been realizing that although I am his wife, I am not his children's mother.  I do not have the infinite well of patience that their mother would.  Yet another thing he cannot comprehend is that I am not the maid; I have other things to do beside wash dishes the whole day or cook or pick up half-empty glasses or do laundry or clean the bathroom.

As for me, I still struggle.  I struggle with territoriality and allowing them into my personal space.  I value time alone and get cranky when I feel like people are crowding me.  Space, time and quiet are precious commodities that are hard to come by around here.  I value my own sense of order.  I put things in particular places so I can find them when I look for them -- a lost cause with three children.  I value equality; I don't understand why the Psycho gets so much in child support, which, in essence, takes away from Brendan and puts a hefty burden on me.  

I admire Big Bren for doing what he's doing.  There are so many absentee fathers out there; it would be easy for him to send a check and check out emotionally.  Yet, he makes a conscious decision every day to be a part of his children's lives.  Regardless of how things turn out on the relationship front, that is something he can be proud of.  

Fighting Through Fear

Fighting Through Fear

My whole life, I have done everything through a cloud of fear.  At times, the fear paralyzed me and kept me from moving forward.  Other times, the fear motivated me -- catapulting me into something that turned out for the best, although I didn't know it at the time.

I earned good grades through fear.  Fear of disappointing my parents, my teachers, my self.  But the fear also kept me from excelling.  I thought:  "If I study really hard and get the same grades, what does that say about me and my intelligence and my ability?"

I worked from fear.  Fear of not having money.  Fear of not being able to pay for school.  Fear of having to ask my parents for help.  Yet the fear of success has kept me from earning what I am worth; what I know I can earn.  I fear not being worthy of making more money.  What if I land my "dream job" and fail at it?  What if I cannot keep up?  What if -- gasp -- I am "found out"?

I even married in a haze of fear.  Fear of being an old maid.  Fear of being a single mother.  Fear of never finding my soul's mate.  But love found me through the cloud of fear and gave me a partner who understands my skittish nature.  Someone who held my hand in the face of a potentially terminal illness.  A man who unabashedly lost more sleep over my perhaps impending demise than even I did.  Someone who -- like me -- pretends to be hard, but hides a soft spot for the people he loves.

Fear has not given me anything.  As my constant companion of the past 38 years, it has burdened me and made my load unnecessarily heavy.  So I renounce you, Fear.  I renounce the twisted gut and aching heart.  I renounce lowered expectations and deferred dreams.  I renounce cubicles and nine to fives.  I am an eagle; it is time to soar.

My Little Cross

My mother always says that each child a woman has is a cross to bear: some children are easy-going and light to carry (like paper machier); others are difficult and get heavier with each passing year (like steel).  (Yes, it's all very maternal of her.)

Well, one day not too long ago, when I tried to get out of bed, the room persisted on spinning.  I eased myself back down and thanked God that it was the weekend.  Then it dawned on me that -- it being Saturday -- Brendan would have no school; which meant that I would have to deal with an energetic four-year-old the entire day with vertigo.  At that moment, I am ashamed to say that I resented the little guy.  I mean, if I didn't have him, I could lay in bed, get some rest and perhaps, just perhaps, that would be enough to chase away the dizziness.  No sooner had these thoughts passed my mind that I heard his little chipmunk voice from the bathroom, "Mommy, can you wipe my butt?"  Great start to a crappy day.

I finished wiping and headed back to bed.  "Mommy, may I have some juice?"  I gritted my teeth. A cross indeed.  I just wanted to lay down; anything to stop the infernal spinning.  Was that really so much to ask?  I felt angry; annoyed that this was my lot in life.  Now I'd have to navigate the stairs and try not to kill myself in the process of going down to make breakfast.

With breakfast duty completed, I dragged myself back up the stairs, climbed into bed and pulled the sheet up to my neck.  I fell into the kind of sleep that only mothers have -- you now, the kind where you're asleep, but can still hear everything going on around you.  In this altered state, I heard the "choo choo" of his toy train; he was trying to entertain himself as quietly as a four-year-old could.  In that moment, my heart flooded with so much love for my little man that I could barely stand it.

I got up and went to his room.  As soon as he saw me, he ran over and threw his arms around me.  Even after my shortness with him the whole day, he was still giving me unconditional love. I knelt down and he kissed my forehead. "There, that should make it all better, Mommy."  And it did.  Suddenly, I realized that he wasn't a cross I had to bear; he was a blessing that God had bestowed upon me.  In fact, he's the one carrying the cross of a tired, cranky, often stressed mother.  He didn't ask to be here -- I made the choice to have a child.

With that, I got Bren dressed and took him to the park.  Then we had ice cream.  And, what do you know?  Getting moving alleviated my vertigo.  Later in the evening, when he was bathed and ready for bed, I took him in my arms and gave him a huge hug.  Were it not for him, I probably would've lain in bed feeling sorry for myself and letting the vertigo take over. Sometimes, carrying a cross is the just the exercise one needs.