Sometimes Strength is Restraint

                                                                                     {image from vi.sualize.us}

I read a heartbreaking, brutally honest article in the Huffington Post this morning.   It is about a divorced woman whose young daughter suffered from emotional issues so severe, she had to be hospitalized. 

"The one who really suffered was my adopted daughter, who, at age seven wound up in a psychiatric hospital diagnosed with a mood disorder. She felt abandoned both by me, since I was too depressed to be there for her emotionally, and also by her father who left me for another woman. He had been her primary caretaker as well, so that compounded the injury. She cried every night for a year, and then became progressively more angry, destructive, violent and even suicidal. The poor kid--whose birth mom had been an addict--really didn't have the inner emotional resources to deal with divorce. She desperately needed to be held together not torn apart.

One day while I was visiting her in the hospital she said, "Mommy, I wouldn't be here if you and daddy hadn't got divorced." My heart about stopped. Her therapist at the hospital concurred, saying that there wasn't a kid there who wasn't a child of divorce, and since our divorce was particularly high-conflict, she had suffered terribly. The hospital shrink virtually ordered us to get along for our daughter's sake. I wish I could report that we've managed to do that, but we haven't. We've managed to reach an uneasy truce, which sometimes blows up into all out war. My daughter, in middle school now, is lot better, but is still very troubled. She has forever lost that exuberance and love for life she had as a toddler, before divorce tore her life to shreds. She will never be the same--and neither will I." (see the entire story by Erica Manfred here)

One of the comments about her post was:
"You've never seen what people who hate each other do to the children they love".

The book Live Through This by Debra Gwartney, is the memoir of another Portland woman who went through a difficult divorce and had a hostile relationship with her ex husband.  Their oldest daughters ran away, and spent a year on the streets.  In the book, she laments the pull between the two camps that she attributes to the series of crises her daughters go through and put her through.  Reading it reminded me of what parents fighting can do to kids as they become teens, and the little signs that they are unhappy and acting out change from small temper tantrums and dipping grades to behavior that can alter their entire lives.

Readers of my book, Illumination - How One Woman Made Light of the Darkness, often ask me "how could you not react with anger?" or "How come you didn't freak out at your ex husband?"  My best friend even said the main character wasn't believable because she never went ballistic after her husband turned out to be such a volcanic asshole.  But even when I've wanted to, I haven't been able to blow up emotionally at anyone.  It's not me.  It's not how I am wired as a person.

In our society, it is almost expected for you to fight viciously after a breakup.  Parents punish each other with their words and actions after divorce.  They argue, they fight in court and out, and the children end up becoming the rope in a tug of war between the adults who are supposed to know better.  In the beginning of my divorced life, I made a conscious decision not to fight.  I didn't want divorce to make me into a bitter woman and more than that, I didn't want it to change my children too much.  I didn't for many years after my divorce, and even though I have lost a lot, I have, I think, salvaged the emotional well-being of my children as much as possible.  They are now emotionally intelligent and well-adjusted children, all of them in or near their teen years. 

Erica Manfred's essay this morning reminded me of exactly why I've done things the way I have.  There are so many very good reasons to be angry and to battle my ex husband and his wife. 
But there are three reasons why I didn't.

Those reasons are my three children.

I know there are times when we should stick up for ourselves and stand our ground.  I've been doing it more and more lately.  My children have been asking me to come to their defense against some of the things going on with their dad and stepmother, so NOW I will.  But I still want to do it my way.  Carefully, selectively, sanely, and consciously.  I'm stocking my arsenal and amassing my troops.  When I stop just deflecting the hits that have started to rain down on me frequently and summon my heavy artillery to the front line, the outcome will be decisive and quick, and will signal a sea change in the environment of their remaining years as children who are deserving of better parenting.  Every day we get closer to that moment, but I have to be patient, because I can't -- I won't -- allow my children into the battlefield of petty spit wad fights.

If I could give only one piece of advice to divorcing or divorced parents, it would simply be to always put your kids first and try to remember what they are going through.  Think about what today's argument or fight might do to them down the road. 

We are creating the blueprint of their future through our actions and words.

Mom vs Stepmom (Arch Enemy or Nemesis?)

                                                                                                  {image from ulike}

I have a tenuous relationship with my children's stepmother, to put it politely.
But the bottom line is, she takes care of my kids.

As much as it kills me to admit it, I have to rely on her for a lot of the "every day" care of my children.

And often, I think I couldn't hate anyone more than this woman.  Like when my youngest child told me that stepmom told her she loves her more than her mother does.  Like when the kids tell me she makes fun of the clothes I've bought them.  I hate hearing my children call her "Mom", which was a request she made after she married their dad.

And just a few weeks ago, I gnashed my teeth when I found out she'd blocked my phone number from my children's cell phones.

But again, she is with my children A LOT.
Since my ex husband has physical custody in our situation, (we have joint legal custody) she is with my kids more than I am -- actually, even more than their dad is.  Stepmom is, in many ways, raising my kids, whether I like it or not.  And most of the time, I don't like it.  It gnaws at me and I don't approve of a lot of the things she says and does, but the wierd thing is, because she's a strong, financially stable, educated woman, and also because my ex husband is not the sharpest tool in the shed and has trouble keeping a full time job, I actually trust her to take care of my children even more than I trust him.  At the very least, however much she might hate me, I know she loves my kids.

One of my favorite articles comparing the arch enemy to a nemesis is called "The Importance of Being Hated", that first appeared in Equire Magazine by Chuck Klosterman.  With a little creativity, I've used many of his ideas and words here to illustrate the relationship between step mom and mom... 

"A Superhero usually has an Arch Enemy, but in a separate category, a Nemesis.  There is a big difference:
if you were to perish, your Arch Enemy would dance on your grave then date your husband.  You hate your Arch Enemy so much, it's embarrassing and you don't want your Arch Enemy to have the satisfaction of knowing they've affected you so strongly.  If you ever meet anyone who has the same name as your Arch Enemy, you immediately like her less.  Your Arch Enemy would push you and your kids under a bus, and never blink.

In some ways, you may kind of respect your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise her.  If your Nemesis invited you out for a glass of wine to "hash things out", you might accept.  If your Arch Enemy was trying to attack you, your Nemesis might even come to your defense.  (like when Godzilla and King Kong fought Mothra together).  You and your Nemesis will never be best friends and tell each other that.  Your Nemesis would feed your children if they were hungry (but would not feed you)."

I figure my kids' happiness and fate depends a lot on the two main women in their lives... me, and, as much as I sometimes hate to admit it, their stepmother.  They spend a lot of time with both of us.  And ultimately, more than I dislike her, I love them.

And they deserve for me to at least try to talk things out with Man Hands.

And so, stay tuned...

                                                                                                                    {image from 55 Secret}

and then... Life Blooms

                                                                                                                   {image from Best Cactus}

When you have gone through a divorce, especially if a lot has been taken away from you in the process, it's tempting to be bitter. 

It's practically expected. 

I've had my fair share of tears and rants. I've whined and felt sorry for myself for many different reasons. VALID reasons.   And I hear many other divorced women, single moms, and non-custodial moms vent about how awful things can be.  Their complaints are heartfelt and real.  The loss of a relationship or marriage, a home, a life that you once thought of as your own, is painful.
Many nights have I found myself in the fetal position on my couch, sustained by a pounder bag of M&M's and cheap wine, my face scrunched and blotchy, dripping tears onto my comfiest sweats (I don't cry pretty). I've cranked Annie Lennox and prayed for God to avenge me by making my ex find his new wife in bed beside him resemble Forrest Whittaker in drag.

But when the wallowing is done, it's time to get off the couch, brush the Doritos crumbs out of your hair and move on with your new life -- the "Part II" of being a woman, and a mother.  It's time to fight back temptation to vilify your ex and shout to the world how unfair life is.  It's time to declare a new fight. 

The way that I have chosen to fight back is to make my life into something new.

I've made it better than it was before.  I am a stronger woman than I was when I was with my ex husband.  I am finally confident and proud of myself.  I am writing again, doing photography, and embracing life in a way that I'd forgotten how.  Because I didn't melt into a puddle of grief, I found the opportunity to figure out who I really wanted to be.  And now I am loved by a man whom I respect, and who not only loves me for who I am, but he treats me well.

I am finally cherished.

After 17 years with the wrong man, I am finally an example of a kind, smart, self-sustaining woman who is probably a better role model for my daughters than I ever was before.  My new husband is a better role model for my son, and the relationship we have is something I am proud of and hope that all my children strive for.  Finally, after being married to a man for too long who didn't treat me well, I am able to show my kids what a good relationship looks like.  They now see how people who love each other work together, respect each other and bring out the best in one another.

I can't help but think that if I'd stayed with my kids dad, if I'd ducked my head and pretended it would get better, if I'd lowered my expectations and sacrificed what I knew was the "right thing," I would never be who I am to myself and to my children today.

Transition is hard and often painful.  In some ways, it's comparable to transplanting a garden, sowing seeds or tending roses.  Often you don't see the benefits of planting until many months of hard work.  It helps to have a plan or blueprint, and to keep in mind that the seasons do change.  No matter how cold the winter might be, spring is around the corner.  Think of it as a gardener's wisdom.

My mother is a Master Gardener.  Every winter, right around Valentine's Day, she tells me it's the very best time of year to prune the rose bushes.  When I first see her pull on her boots and ruthlessly cut the gangly and bare stalks to knee level with her pruning shears, I gasp. Her methods seem harsh.  How can a delicate rose ever come back from that kind of cut?  Being hacked nearly to knee level -- won't it die? 

But in the spring, new growth takes over.  The branches multiply.  Leaves appear a deeper green and thicker, healthier texture than the year before.  Buds appear and turn into flowers that are more profuse and beautiful.  By pruning her roses back, and doing what she needed to do, even though it's not the most fun of gardening chores, my mother gives her plants new life.

I can't help but think of this as a great metaphor for life.  It's a little like the shock and heartbreak of divorce.
A woman feels cut-off, cut down, and betrayed.  Her life is pruned back to the bare stalk.  But, sometimes, as difficult and cold as it seems to cut away and throw out an old part of our life, we finally begin to re-shape things into the way we want them to be. We stimulate new growth.  When diseased and overgrown branches are removed, we can finally have room to start fresh, to heal and bloom as women and mothers.

And when a new life begins, it can blossom into an even more beautiful life than it was before.

Dreaming of Paris...

Le Flâneur (music by The XX) from Luke Shepard on Vimeo.

Run Away Home

Eight years ago, I let my children go live with their father.

I signed over most of my rights to him, trusting that we would still parent them together, but thinking that his big suburban house, well-manicured cul-de-sac neighborhood, nationally-ranked school district, and his new wife's 'work from home' schedule would be best for my kids.

With the help of his financially stable new wife, he could provide for my children many things I could not, on my own, when our marriage ended.  For as unfaithful of a husband as he'd been to me, I still trusted he would do what was best for our kids.  Isn't that what all the books and magazine articles propose?  Isn't that what caring parents are supposed to do if they divorce?

Back then, when my heart was still melting on the sidewalk after finding out what my husband had done, I was single for the first time in 18 years, and overwhelmed by the need to find a new job after not working outside of the child-care field for over 13 years.  I was alone, afraid, and anxious, and trying to figure out how to provide my children with health care.  Having him and his new wife help with the kids during the week was a solution that made sense.  I could not afford childcare.  I was not receiving child support or alimony, and could not afford an attorney.  We can save money by not fighting, I foolishly thought.  My husband was the one who cheated and almost went to jail, he probably will feel guilty and do whatever it takes to right his wrong. What good would going to court do anyway?  The money we would both spend paying lawyers could be better served going toward raising our children.  I wanted to believe these things.  I think I convinced myself, and I imagined, that with the combined efforts of his new wife who was anxious to finally try her hand at child-rearing, it would be a practical solution.  All of us could share the children.

I had the best of intentions.
And I was completely naive.

It didn't take long to learn that I'd made a mistake.  The new wife hired an attorney, and their camp wasted no time in demanding outrageous child support payments.  Additionally, the parenting plan they suggested would have left me with the minimum visitation time and no summer vacation with my children.  They were not open to options I was hoping for, such as joint physical custody.  Because I did not spring for a lawyer to protect my interests back then, I made the biggest mistake of my life, agreeing to a plan that gave me very little time with my children.  I was way too trusting.  I assumed my ex would still want what was best for our kids.  What I didn't account for is how jealousy, anger, and the need for revenge could quickly dominate the lives of a family after divorce.

I didn't expect that I'd be best friends with the kids new stepmom, like Julia Roberts and Susan Sarandon in a cheesy Hollywood movie.  But I also didn't guess that she'd treat me with such hostility.  Picking my children up from her house for the weekend, she'd bark at them, gather up their back-packs and thrust them at me, refusing eye contact.  She never greeted me, said "hello" or even grunted an acknowledgement.  She made my children change out of any clothes they were wearing that were from her house or bought by my husband, (with the child support I paid him) and made the children put on what they had worn from my house the weekend before.

And that was just the beginning.

The war had begun -- a war I not only didn't want and hadn't seen coming, but a war that, if allowed to go on at BOTH of my children's homes, would tear them to pieces.

So instead, I stood down.

I didn't fight back.  I didn't argue.  I didn't push, interfere with, or "bother" my ex-husband and his new wife.  I figured, as long as the kids were happy and safe, they didn't need the guilt and the chaos that two fighting families.  So I refused to engage.  And let me say, from experience, that taking the high road is actually the hardest thing to do.  It takes incredible endurance.  You HAVE to look at the future.  You have to know that your children's hearts and minds are at stake, and not saying horrible things about the other parent is paramount because you are, in the end, protecting your kids.  And my kids, although young, were all emotionally intelligent, and I knew if I was patient, that they would see the light on their own. 

I suppose all of this can be considered a bit of a rant by a woman who abhors confrontation, and I realize, a small part of my stance has been based on that fact.  But more than that, much more than that, I know it would not be good for my children to hear horrible things about their other household.  It would not be good for them to feel they have split loyalties or that they cannot trust the adults in charge of them when they are at their other home.

After writing ILLUMINATION, I read LIVE THROUGH THIS.  It broke my heart.  I saw what can happen when parents are willing to create a battlefield environment and the kids are caught in the middle.  That mother, very brave and honest in her writing I might add, almost lost her teenage daughters forever -- to drugs, the streets, and the traps that come with that environment.  I am proud of how I've done things, for the most part.  I am sure there were times even my children wished I'd stood up for them to their dad and stepmom, but I've kept my distance when the short term payoff wasn't worth the long term effects it would cause for my children.  I focused my energies instead on giving them a safe haven when they came to my house on the weekends.  My husband and I let them unwind.  We cook with them, listen to music, and take them on hikes and to Powell's bookstore.  We encourage them to relax, draw, write, or play basketball at the park.  We encourage them to to invite their friends over, which they are embarrased to do at their other house.  I lie in bed at night with my youngest and we look at the ceiling and talk about her ideas and wishes, or sometimes we talk about nothing much at all.  I let them know that it is safe to be themselves.

All these years, I've been very patient for them to grow up.

And finally, my children are older.  They understand their world more.  Their developing minds, emotions, and sense of selves are more refined.  They are now seeing what is going on, what their dad and stepmother are doing, with their own eyes, and filtering it through their hearts without me whispering my opinions in their ear.  Now my children are coming to me on their own.

My oldest child has lived with me now for almost seven weeks.  She stood up to her father and stepmother one day in December, and now is not welcome in their home.  They have given her the ultimatum of returning full time to them and living the way they expect her to, or they have threatened to withdraw her from her high school, where she is a junior.  She has been with the same group of friends since 6th grade.  She walked away from her car, her brother and sister, her dog, her home, and her neighborhood to live 30 minutes away because the climate of her home was so toxic.  The stepmom threatened to burn her shoes, which proved to be the breaking point.  Her M.O. of belittling, shaming, and micromanaging my teenage daughter had come to the point that it was white noise to her for a while.  But she could take no more.  And what has surprised me is how little can be done to protect children from obvious emotional abuse.  In the family law system, and even through Children's Protective Services, unless a child is physically abused or neglected, CPS will not get involved.  Even when the stepmom was berrating, belittling, and intimidating my teenage daughter, her father did not stick up for her.  Instead, he told her there was something wrong with her instead.  He told her she was a "bad 16 year old." My daughter gets great grades, she has excellent friends, she is warm, funny, smart, doesn't drink or do drugs, does her chores, keeps her room clean, and doesn't stay out late or break curfew.  All in all, even though no kid is perfect, she's as close as they come.  She's a beautiful exceptional young girl on the brink of becoming an exceptional woman.  I've heard of teens that are much more difficult to parent.  I feel lucky.

And so, she ran to me.

She called me the night her step mom was about to burn her shoes and I went to get her.  And now, I'm making up for lost time in so many ways... I take care of her in the familiar and nearly forgotten ways I used to when she was little.  I bake cookies, pack her lunch, and drive her to school everyday.  I grocery shop for her favorite things and set her up comfortably at the kitchen bar area to do her homework so I can chat with her while she studies.  I am in heaven when I am tending to her.  I love to fold the napkin to put into her lunch bag.  I love buying her favorite granola bars for her snacks.  I seem to be cooking non-stop, and the smell of chocolate chip cookies and her favorite Italian comfort food dishes fill the air.  My husband and I no longer have potato chips and wine for dinner on weeknights after we work late.  I am cooking for a family again, and not just every other weekend.  Every nurturing bone in my body has been re-charged.  I love taking care of my little girl again.  I love knowing she's upstairs, asleep in bed, in my house at night.

But I don't know how long this will last.  Her dad and stepmom hold all the cards.  Legally, he can make her move back.  In the state in which they live, a child cannot choose which parent they live with until they are 18.  My daughter is almost 17.  I talked to her school and the district office, and they've told me, sadly, their hands are tied.  If my ex husband withdraws her from her beloved school, I will not be able to re-enroll her because of where I live.  The "emergencey boundary exception" paperwork does not apply in our case.  The Principal even told my ex husband that our daughter can continue to go to her high school, even if she lives with me, unless he refuses, out of spite, to allow it.  I've tried to tell their father to stand down, that it's his turn to do so.  Right now, only I can provide what is best for our little girl.  She needs her mom.  It would do so much harm yanking her from her "tribe", the only consistent, positive, secure thing in her life right now.  But he does not listen.  Instead, he reacts to her pleading and questions with anger and threats to not only rip her out of her high school if she does not conform, but he has told me on the phone that he will force her back to his house and take me to court again.

I am afraid of what will happen if he does.

I see an expensive and heartbreaking battle ahead.  But this time, I am ready.  I am ready, because I no longer have to be afraid of what engaging in battle will do to my children.  I think not only am I finally ready to "fight back" for them, but most importantly, they too are ready. 

Gods and Monsters

I’d bought Aero-beds for each of the kids, and set them out around the living room and dining room in my downtown apartment.  Miniature, white, Christmas tree lights sparkled and outlined the huge bay windows, and reflected off the watery glass.  I tucked the soft, white, flannel sheets tightly around the scattered mattresses on the floor, and shook out the down-filled pillows before setting them at the head of each bed.

“Mommy, can we have popcorn during the movie?”

Faith padded into the living room in her Blue’s Clues slippers and Cinderella pajamas.  Claire was washing her face in the bathroom, and Jackson was lying on the couch, programming the VCR, so we could watch the original Clash of the Titans.

“Sure, Honey.  Do you remember how to make a napkin bowl?”

Faith smiled.  It was Friday night, “movie night,” and all three children had just been dropped off after spending the week with their dad and Linda in Salem.  Before the Big Bang, when we lived in Hillsburg, Friday nights always meant take-and-bake pizza and a rental movie.  A lot had changed since then, but we stuck to this ritual.

I went into the kitchen with Faith, and we carefully twisted the corners of open paper napkins to fashion them into thin paper napkin bowls for our popcorn - a trick my own mother had taught me when I was young.

It was almost Christmas.  This was the second year in a row I had found myself unable to open the box of ornaments I’d amassed over what seemed to be another lifetime.  I’d bought ornaments for each of the children - Ryan, Claire, Jackson, and Faith, and even Mike, every Christmas for the past 17 years.  Each one was significant and sentimental.  On Jackson’s first Christmas, he received a pastel frame filled with a picture of him as a one-month old.  A flying Superman ornament was added the next year, then an upside-down Spiderman the year after that.  Claire’s collection had been filling with fairies – clear, glass, glittering sprites were usually the ones I bought for her.  Faith’s only two were a baby in a stocking, and a pink, glass ballet slipper.  Tightly wrapped in tissue and out of sight remained the glossy ceramic basketballs, the Hallmark rocking horses with each year painted on them that Barbara and I had collected for the kids over the years.  Santas with fishing poles and golf bags and tiny hanging Santas dressed in hunting gear were Mike’s ornaments, now nothing more than stinging reminders of my illusions of our happy family from Christmases past.  Instead of subjecting myself to the awkwardness and discomfort of going through these holiday archives, I left the boxes of decorations tightly sealed, and instead bought a modest four-foot tree at the Fred Meyer’s grocery store a few blocks from the apartment.  I coated it with strings of white lights.  Snowflakes, cut out of blank sheets of paper by the children, were taped to the windows.  The apartment was cozy and festive with our makeshift décor, and the kids seemed happy and excited.

The four of us settled into the couch with our popcorn and steaming mugs of sweetened Chai tea.  I tucked the blanket around us as the opening music to the movie began.

I was still thinking about the phone call I had received an hour earlier.  Bill’s mother Barbara had called shortly before the kids arrived.  Her voice sounded strained with anger and frustration.

“Sophia, I gotta tell you, something is not right with that woman.  I couldn’t believe what I saw today.  After lunch at the restaurant, she made the kids go into the bathroom to change out of their clothes and into a set of clothes from your house!”

Barbara exaggerated sometimes to get her point across, but I knew from experience that she wasn’t making this up.  Not only would Linda not allow the kids to bring any stuffed animals, books, or toys to my house from their dad’s, but she refused to let them wear clothing, including shoes and winter coats, they had purchased, even though I had been paying child support to their dad each month.  Linda told the children that I didn’t do the laundry correctly, and that I would ruin the things that she and their dad bought for them.

“Well, I told Linda how ridiculous and disrespectful they were being towards you by doing this.  I told her that she didn’t know you, and that you were a good, loving mother, and that she had no right to butt in and make your children wonder and worry.  She has nothing good to say, EVER.  You should hear what she says about you!  It just breaks my heart, how she destroys you with words in front of your children…and my own son…”

Her voice cracked with emotion.

“My own son just sits there.  He doesn’t say anything!  He just lets that woman, that awful woman, call all the shots.  Well, I wasn’t just going to sit there.  I told them a thing or two!”

Barbara went on to recount the heated argument, the yelling and screaming that had gone on in the parking lot of the restaurant, after she had confronted Mike and Linda in her defense of me.  No one had done anything like that so far.  No one had defended me, or stood up to Mike, telling him what an ass he’d been.  Sure, I was able to deduce bits and pieces of what both of them had been saying about me just by the questions my children sometimes asked me, but I preferred to take the high road.  It wasn’t worth the hurt it would cause the children and me.  If I began to fight back regarding this kind of stuff, not only would I be more angry and exhausted than I already was, but the children would be even further exposed to the dirty laundry that belonged to us, their parents.  They didn’t deserve to be stretched thin, to be pulled between fighting adults.  They didn’t need to be more torn and confused than they already were.  Things were complicated enough.  I didn’t have it in me to argue with Mike and confront Linda.  I hadn’t ever pushed back when Linda was insulting and Mike was apathetic.  I was afraid to rock the boat.  I just wanted to move on, and get as far away from dealing with Mike as possible.  Instead of engaging in the kind of petty battles I knew they were waging, I put all my energy, when it came to the kids, into making sure they knew how much I loved and cherished them.  I hoped this would counteract any confusion and bad feelings caused by the climate their father and his partner were creating.

Tonight, though, Mike’s own mother, Barbara, was my unlikely hero.  She had stood up to them.  It would prove to damage her own relationship with her son – it kicked off a long spell during which Mike would not speak to her.  For the next two-and-a-half years, Linda and Mike blocked Barbara from their lives, and her grandchildren’s lives.  For a very long time, it was only through her relationship with me that she continued to have contact with the children.

I put my arms around Jackson and Faith and pulled them closer to me on the couch.  I patted Claire’s head and pulled the blanket up to her chin as she snuggled up to us.  Clash of the Titans was enthralling, even with the rudimentary special effects from the 1980s and the overly tanned and sculpted visage of Harry Hamlin.  The hero, against all odds, battling jealousy, evil demons, a spiteful woman with bad hair, and the towering rage of the massive, mindless Kracken, was an inspiration to me.  His purpose, fueled by love and righteousness in the face of overwhelming adversity, captivated me just as much as the kids.  When the buzzer rang, alerting us to a visitor at the front door, we were all shaken from our trance.

I buzzed him up, and within moments Noah knocked at the door.  Jackson paused the movie, and Faith ran over to hug Noah’s legs as he walked in.

“Hi guys!”

He handed out red licorice and Junior Mints.  Faith wasted no time in reenacting her favorite scene from the movie for him, pretending to be Medusa by contorting her innocent three-year old face into as horrifying of a mask as she could muster.  Noah feigned terror as he covered his face, pretending not to look.

“I-into-a-tone!” exclaimed three-year-old Faith.

Then she froze, just like one of the fated players condemned to eternity as a statue in the movie, after receiving Medusa’s paralyzing stare.  I was turned into a stone!  We quickly figured out her game, one she’d keep replaying for days to come.

Noah laughed.  He sat down on the floor in front of the couch, and we all settled back in to watch the end of the movie.  As the credits began to roll, someone noticed fat white flakes of snow floating to the ground outside.

“It’s snowing!”

The kids all scrambled from their pillowy cocoons on the couch to post themselves at the windows.

“It’s going to snow all night!”

Claire had been the quietest, most reserved of all the kids.  She was exhilarated by the sudden show of wintery weather, though, and was hoping for a white Christmas - at least a few days of snow during the winter break, anyway.

“Nah,” Noah playfully countered her.  “It’s just a fluke.  It won’t last… maybe for an hour, but it’s not even cold enough to stick.”

He and Claire debated the incoming weather and settled on a bet - if it did snow all night, as Claire predicted, Noah would have to dress up in full costume as Captain Hook the next day when we would go see the new Peter Pan movie.  If it didn’t snow, Claire would have to go in costume as Tinkerbell.

I reveled in the secure feeling I had from knowing we had the next few days off together with my children, all there in my little apartment.  Noah fit right in, and as I sat on the couch looking out the window at the snowflakes with the children, I began to relax.  And for the first time in a long while, I remembered what it felt like to be a family.

I awoke the next morning to a blanket of snow covering the sidewalks and streets of Northwest Portland.  The children were still asleep on their makeshift air mattresses, and layers of down-filled quilts draped over their little forms kept them warm.  Every morning, I woke to the clacking sound of the ancient radiator coming to life - a reassuring reminder the apartment would soon be warm, and the 90-year-old manager in the basement apartment, Anne, was awake and tending to her daily chores of caring for her tenants.

In the kitchen, I filled the tea kettle with cold water from the sink, ground the coffee beans, and set up the French press.  I filled a small pan with water, and dropped into it twelve cloves, a half-stick of cinnamon, a knob of dried ginger, and ten cardamom seeds I’d pressed with a spoon to slightly crush and reveal their warmly scented spice.  It was my morning ritual with the children.  Soon the smells of Chai and coffee drifted through the cozy apartment.

Faith was the first to wake up.  She wrapped herself in her quilt, and then joined me in my bedroom to watch the sunrise over the Fremont Bridge.  This had also quickly become our morning ritual.  Both of us just sat there, snuggled together, looking out the large window over the awakening city, while sipping our warm morning drinks.

Once Jackson and Claire started rustling to life, I turned on the stereo.  Almost every morning, the first CD to play would be Coldplay.  We would listen to it, and the kids would sing along in unison - “open up your eeeyeeeeesssss” - as we tackled the morning chores of putting away the bedding, deflating the mattresses, and storing them for another night in the closet.  This morning however, with the excitement of the snowfall, all bets were off as to our schedule.  The air mattresses remained on the floor, like cozy islands for the children to land on as they ran around the apartment enjoying a “snow day” in downtown Portland.

We stayed in our pajamas all morning.  Faith and Claire helped me make pancakes with sautéed apples, butter, and brown sugar.  Jackson lounged on the couch and watched cartoons for awhile, then disappeared into the bathroom for a long soak in the bathtub with his favorite Eucalyptus-scented bath bubbles.  The only thing we had on our agenda for the day was to go see the new Peter Pan movie at the Lloyd Center Mall with Noah, and I was curious to see if Claire had remembered her bet with him from the night before.

Noah telephoned around noon, and said he’d see us at 4:00 PM.  The snow was supposed to melt, and even if it didn’t, he felt comfortable driving the Explorer, since it had four-wheel-drive and chains.  He mentioned he had a few errands to run, but that he’d pick us up just before heading out to the show.

At 4:00 sharp, the apartment lobby buzzer rang, and I pushed the button to buzz Noah through the front door.  When he knocked, Faith ran to answer.

I heard the door open, but didn’t hear anything else.

I was in the kitchen cleaning up after a late lunch, and wondered why I hadn’t heard the usual warm greeting Faith bestowed on Noah whenever she saw him.

“OH MY GOD.”

It was Claire’s voice.  I dried my hands on the dishtowel and went out to the living room to see if my hunch was right.

There he stood.  With my children surrounding him, like a silent audience in awe, was Noah.  Only, it wasn’t Noah - not exactly.  He was dressed in a full, classic, red tailcoat with gold braiding.  White ruffles from a thrift store pirate shirt peeked out beneath it, and he wore a black-and-silver plastic hook over his right hand.  His Doug Stellar mullet wig had been clipped and fashioned to resemble Captain Hook’s black, curly, aristocratic hair, and he was wearing shiny black-heeled boots.  The real shocker, and probably the one thing that threw Faith off more than anything else, was the sculpted, black moustache adorning his upper lip.

He bowed low as I came into the living room to witness the spectacle of my children surrounding a living, breathing, Disney villain standing in the middle of our apartment.

“Greetings!  Are you the fair lady of the household, Madame?  Captain Hook at your service!”

He rolled his R’s dramatically.

I laughed so hard I had to sit down on the floor.  With tears rolling down my cheeks, I watched the faces of my children change from looks of confusion and surprise to joy and wonderment.  They walked around him, taking in the details of his costume.  Jackson touched the hem of the red velvet coat, and Faith hesitantly pulled Noah’s plastic hook-hand down closer to her height for a better look.  Claire was shaking her head with a look of shock on her face.

“Are you really going to the movie theater, through the mall, like this, Noah?  You would go out in public dressed up like Captain Hook?  What about driving?  Everyone’s going to look at you!  Are you serious?  Aren’t you embarrassed?”

Now that she had her head wrapped around the whole thing, she was incredulous.

Noah didn’t break character.  In Captain Hook’s smooth, regal accent, he smiled wryly at my oldest daughter.

“Ah ha!  The groundlings at the indoor marketplace, or as you say, the mall, will see only Captain Hook.  But YOU, my dear, will just be you, walking arm-in-arm with the great Captain Hook!”

The children dissolved in laughter at Noah’s wildly grand gesture, and ran to get their coats.  I smiled at Noah, and he winked at me.  I’d always been partial to the character of Peter Pan, but seeing him dressed up like this, all for the pure joy and entertainment value it afforded my children, made me love Captain Hook more than any other fairy tale character.  Sometimes the villain poses as the hero, but today, Noah was a knight in shining armor, dressed as an outrageous red-velvet-swathed, swashbuckling buccaneer, and I couldn’t have appreciated it more.

He leaned over and whispered to me, “I look like a gay pirate.”

When we got to the mall, Noah, I mean Captain Hook, made sure Claire received as much of the spotlight as the pirate-parade as possible.  He looped his arms through hers as he strode triumphantly through the mall.

“Come, Wendy, my dear.  It’s time to see how those nincompoops in Hollywood have butchered our story.”

Claire’s laugh conveyed anxiousness and exhilaration.  For the other two, their expressions displayed only glee.

Christmas that year was lean, in terms of gifts for the kids.  I couldn’t afford much after paying child support, and my credit was wrecked from the short-sale on the house.  New pajamas and a few small trinkets from the dollar store would have been it, if it weren’t for Beth.  She told me she had purchased too much for her kids, and insisted I accept a few choice donations.  This certainly helped, as I knew the bounty of expensive, material items they’d receive at their dad’s house would seriously dwarf mine.  It didn’t seem to matter to the kids, though.  More than the gifts under the tree, they were excited about the story they had to tell family and friends about being escorted to see Peter Pan by none other than Captain Hook himself. 

My gay pirate.  My hero.

Exerpt from ILLUMINATION: How One Woman Made Light of Darkness available now as an ebook on Amazon

Intruder Alert

                                                                                     {image by Nixie Michelle}

Lead him away from the children.

It was the only thought running through my mind as I stumbled through the dark hallway of my home. I banged my arm against the wall loudly, knowing the intruder would follow me as soon as he had recovered from the vicious attack in the bedroom. I frantically groped my way to the front door. If I could just lure him out of the house, the kids might be safe. Finding the deadbolt and gripping the cold, brass knob, I twisted it to the left as the intruder entered the room.

“Sophia! Soph! Babe – it’s me!”

The voice was Mike’s. I turned around quickly to see. He stood there in the hallway in his white BVD’s and socks, staring at me with a perplexed look on his face. As the veil of sleep and shadows receded, I realized the stranger I’d been trying to escape was my husband.

“Jesus Christ, Babe! What the hell? It’s just me.”

Just moments before, I had woken in a panic. I sat up and looked around. Squinting in the darkness of the bedroom, I did not recognize the stranger breathing steadily underneath the pastel quilt beside me. I jolted out of bed, screaming. The stranger jumped up and ran around the bed, grabbing me roughly around the waist. He clasped his hand over my mouth to stifle my shrill siren. Like a wild animal, I bit down as hard as I could on the meaty hand before throwing a sharp elbow into his protruding gut. The burly man grunted and stumbled back into the darkness of the bedroom, freeing me from his grasp long enough for me to dash out of the room and down the hallway.

Now, standing at the front door, still poised to rip it open, I stared at the dark figure that I’d been running from. It was Mike, my husband of almost 14 years.

Leaning back against the wall next to the front door for support, I slowly slid down it into a crumpled heap on the cold linoleum floor. A rush of adrenalin had been coursing through my veins, and the stinging metallic residue I had felt in my groin, stomach, and armpits I could now taste and smell.

As terror and confusion gave way to relief and exhaustion, I cradled my knees and dropped my head onto my arms. Hot tears fell onto my skin. Apparently, I had been crying. Stray tears created dark blue streaks as they grazed my light blue cotton nightgown on their descent.

“What the fuck was that all about, Babe? I mean, shit - one minute I’m lyin’ there in bed and the next you’re screamin’ bloody murder. I thought there was someone in the house with a gun or somethin’.”

Mike held his right hand gingerly in his left. I noticed something dripping from his hand onto the linoleum and remembered I’d bitten him - hard.

“Oh my God, Mike, you’re bleeding!” After pausing, I added, almost in a whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

I stood up from my collapsed position on the floor of the entryway and shook my head, perhaps an attempt to also shake off the psychological trauma I had just endured. I tried to prepare myself for dealing with my husband’s wound and the crimson dots now collecting on the floor under him. But as the realization that I had physically harmed my husband in the safe confines of our home fully struck me, I couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong with me. I’d never actually hurt anyone before. But dreams like the one I’d just had were happening more often, almost every night now, and the sense of doom was increasing with each one. Filled with overt warnings to escape, to grab my children and get out of the house, they rattled me awake. I would sit upright, trembling, often covered in a thin film of cold sweat, my throat tight, stifling a scream.

There had been a few other nights when I’d acted out. One night I ran into Jackson’s room and picked him up from his crib and stood there for a moment, waiting for whatever had terrified me to materialize. Blinking, I forced myself to see through the cloud of my dream, finally realizing that my children and me were home, safe. I carefully placed my slumbering son back into his crib and covered him with a blanket before creeping back into bed with Mike, who had never woken up.

Fully upright and finally feeling a bit more stable, I stepped toward my husband. I took Mike’s injured hand and cradled it carefully in my own, leading him to the hallway bathroom. He flipped on the switch and we both squinted in the harsh, fluorescent light before assessing the injury. Thick drops of blood dripped into the freshly scrubbed sink, spattering the otherwise pristine white bowl. I turned on the cold water, rinsing the crimson droplets in a swirling pattern down the drain. The design reminded me of an art project I’d done with the kids at the daycare, in which they had attached paper plates to an old record player, turned it on, and squeezed red paint from a recycled ketchup bottle onto the spinning paper plate.

“I’m sorry, Mike,” I apologized again in a whisper.

I was now overcome with exhaustion. As an obedient Christian wife and mother, my biggest worries and fears consisted of simple, everyday household occurrences - finding a missing shoe right before the school bus would arrive, running out of graham crackers, or making arrangements to get to Couples Bible Study on time. I could handle the daily rigmarole, but waking up in terror in the middle of the night on a somewhat regular basis was beginning to take its toll on me.

My shoulders drooped as I concentrated on cleaning my husband’s wound. I reached my arm around Mike to unroll a few loops of toilet paper, folding it into a thick padded square, and held it to his injured palm. The bite marks were deep. I applied pressure and stood for a while looking at our reflection in the harsh glare of the bathroom mirror. Mike was gazing at the thin line of cracked and yellowed caulking around the sink.

“I need to caulk that.”

He sounded like a Muppet speaking through his yawn. He had already forgotten my midnight panic attack and was concentrating on another task to add to his long list of unfinished household repairs.

I stepped into the hallway onto the brown shag carpeting, slightly crisp with age, to get a Band-Aid and some Bactine from the first aid kit in the kitchen. I returned to the bathroom and took in the stark sight of my husband standing there over the sink, eyes closed and mouth open. His hand had strayed from the running water and now rested limply on the edge of the sink. Mike was a stocky, barrel-chested man, with the build of a long retired football player. With his head tipped back, it gave the illusion that it sprang almost directly from his shoulders. The loose, mottled, pink folds of skin on the back of his neck reminded me of a package of vacuum-sealed hot dogs. Wiry, white hair grew wildly out of his shoulders, chest, and back, appearing in a thick tuft out of the top of his tighty-whities, like a tangle of fishing twine. He was still wearing tube socks, just like he did every night for the past seventeen years, pulled up to the middle of his muscular calves. His pale stomach resembled a flesh colored fanny pack hanging over the tight elastic waistband of his briefs.

I sighed. Watching him standing there like that, in the Costco underwear and socks that I always bought for him in a six pack, I tried to see in him the man I’d fallen for so long ago. Back when I was eighteen, I’d described Mike to my friends as an older, experienced, hard-working blue collar guy with a big heart. He had reminded me of a fair-haired Christopher Reeves. But this man in the bathroom may as well have been a stranger.

An unwelcome thought dashed through my mind. The pit of my stomach churned and a sharp, prickling fear crept up the back of my neck, as if my intuition was screaming from my deeper subconscious, warning me that something was very wrong. I found myself recalling an incident the year before when Mike had been accused of sexual harassment by a co-worker at the hospital where he worked as a scrub tech. I’d stood by my husband, a Promise Keeper and leader of his Men’s Accountability Group, like a dutiful Christian wife should. And yet, something continued to nag at me. Finally, it crystallized in a single, stark question - could Mike be the stranger in my dream who was the threat to my children and me?

“No.”

I hadn’t intended to say this word out loud, but I did, and forcefully. It pierced the stillness of the house and roused Mike from his trance. He snorted and jerked his head upright, pulling his hand from the running water. I stepped behind him and put my hand on his back. I patted Mike reassuringly, and then traced light circles soothingly through the wiry hairs.

“It’s okay. Here, let me help.”

I spritzed the Bactine onto his hand, which now sported a bright red half-circle from my dental impression, and covered it with two Scooby Doo Band-Aids. I turned off the faucet and whispered to my husband that he should head back to bed.

“Everything’s okay now, Honey. Get some sleep.”

I wiped out the sink, being careful to polish the faucet, and looked up at my own reflection. Amidst the specks of dried toothpaste in the bathroom mirror, I saw a woman with mousy brown hair that hung in chunks over her shoulders. Tired, green eyes stared back at me, and I noticed thin new lines etched into the thin skin around them. A woman, the same one who remembered being called “cute” or “pretty” years ago, stared back at me - a tired, worn-out, older version of that young girl. I had gained weight, “baby weight” as I liked to put it, and no one had called my pretty for a very long time. I wondered if my bed was actually filled with not just one, but two strangers.

When had this happened? How had this become my life? This wasn’t the life I had imagined as a young woman with the world in front of me. This wasn’t a dream-come-true story, like the ones that filled the novels I’d poured over in college English Lit classes. But this was my life. I was proud to be a loyal wife and a good mother. I liked having a family. And anyway, I thought, how do you know if you belong in the life that you’ve chosen, or the life that happens to you? Maybe my life was not a fairy tale, I reasoned, but it wasn’t as bad as my nightmares, either. I decided reality is like suburbia - the “in-between” of what you thought you wanted when you were young and what your life becomes when you grow up. Maybe purgatory was a better comparison - it’s not the greatest place in the world, but not the worst, either.

I rubbed a square of soapy wet tissue on the mirror, trying to erase a few of the toothpaste splatters, but decided to leave it for the morning. Tossing the wad of tissue into the garbage next to the toilet, I flipped off the light and headed back to join my now snoring husband.

I stealthily crawled into bed. I noticed that my hands were still slightly trembling. As I curled up near the edge of the bed, I told myself that the lingering dread I could not dismiss was due to the bad dream, not reality. Nevertheless, I lay motionless, silently praying for the light of dawn.

Exerpt from ILLUMINATION: How One Woman Made Light of Darkness to be released as an E-Book in November 2010