Thirty Nine
Today begins the last year of my 30s.
It’s been a momentous decade. I got married. I had a baby. I got divorced. I moved to a new town.
I think it’s safe to say I”ve learned more in the last year than I have in all previous years combined.
I learned how to live on my own.
I learned how to live without my sweet baby girl for half the time.
I learned it is ok to say no.
I learned who my real friends are and who I can truly count on.
I learned what other people think doesn’t matter, as long as I know the truth.
I truly learned the meaning of “pick your battles”.
I’ve watched my Avacakes go from baby to little girl.
In the last year I met my best friends in person for the first time. An amazing 4 days that hold memories that I will never forget.
I think the biggest thing that’s changed in the last year is just me learning to love me for who and what I am. I owned my failures and my mistakes.
I learned there is no point in arguing with someone who will never listen to you.
I learned I can face my biggest fears.
I learned that there is no limit to the power of a good hair cut.
I learned that I can be, and am….happy.
Thanks to all of you for staying with me on this journey. I look forward to the rest of the ride.
One Year Later
I moved my last post back to the draft folder. I was hesitant to publish it at all, even privately, and bare myself so completely as to the struggle of emotions.
Those of you who read and as usual, supported me, thank you. Your words mean so much and I feel each one of them as a warm embrace.
The sheer act of writing has brought about some form of catharsis. The emotions have shifted to something different, less intense and not quite as crushing.
Life and the act of living it never ceases to ebb and flow. The waters rush in and bring forth a wave of the unexpected and just as suddenly recede and take with them part of me.
***
I so rarely have time to write in this space now. I thought after the divorce, it would be the opposite.
Work has gotten busier.
Now only having Ava for half the time, I find myself tethered much less to the online world when I’m with her. It’s our time, and it’s precious time. I don’t want her to look back in 20 years and remember me as always on the computer or always checking my phone.
I took a chance and started doing something I enjoy – food blogging. I don’t know where it will lead, if anywhere. But I’m having fun doing it, most of the time, although it does seem to take up time that I used to spend here, writing.
I’ve been working on learning how to use the fancy camera I bought for myself a couple years ago. I would love to be able to take photographs that are frame-worthy, instead of “Oh, dear, I think we’ll just delete that one”.
They say that 40 is when a people really start to know themselves. I’ll be 39 in less than a month, and as I approach that number, I see that there is definitely some truth to that. I think it’s also an age in which we are more easily able to identify the disingenuous in others as well. I see things, and people so much more clearly now than before. Sometimes it comes as a great surprise to know that in which you have counted on was not in fact, what you ever thought it was. Or maybe you did, but you convinced yourself otherwise. It gets harder to lie to one’s self as you age, I think. It’s harder for you brain to play along.
I find I’m much better able to pick my battles. I find myself backing away from things more often, knowing I would be fighting a losing battle.
I rediscovered the pleasure of sleeping alone. At first it was strange, after sharing a bed for 12 years. But after the oddness wore off, I found how much I love it. I can stay up late watching tv in bed, or reading a book. I can toss and turn and not worry that I’ll wake anyone. I don’t have to worry that my body pillow and I are taking up too much room. There is no snoring to keep me awake.
Of course, I enjoy cuddling with Ava on our “sleepover nights”, which happen once a week. It’s nice to be able to reach out and have her hold on to my hand as she sleeps. I’ll savor that for as long as she will let me, for I know the day is coming when even a hug from me will seem “uncool”.
I enjoy a girls’ night out with a friend now and then. Something that I never used to do, but I find now to be immensely fun.
I got on a plane last year for the first time in several years. It was terrifying and thrilling and I can’t wait to do it again.
I discovered the kind of friends that all women should have: honest and steadfast. The kind that will tell you when you’re being a jackass, hold you up when you’re falling down, and find places to bury the bodies. The kind of friends that will be around in 50 years when we’re all hard of hearing and are yelling at each other over the breakfast table at I-Hop.
When you’re alone, especially after a life changing event, it’s almost impossible not to do a lot of navel gazing and introspection. I’m not perfect and a lot of my failures and flaws led me right to where I am today.
I’m getting better and discerning what truly makes me happy and what was just filler for when I wasn’t. Maybe that’s the secret of life.
Holy moly, y’all I’m a food blogger!
You may or may not have noticed that little badge over at the right.
As of September I’ve been blogging over at Foodie Parent. It’s something I’m super excited about. Food and cooking are huge passions of mine, and getting to write about it along side such a talented and awesome crew is such a wonderful opportunity. I’m grateful and humbled to be a part of something so amazing.
My posting schedule is every Thursday, although occasionally I’ll have content up a bit more often, depending on need and my ability to get off my ass and photograph when I’m cooking.
Today I’ve posted my very own recipe for meatloaf. I’d be honored if you’d all go over and check us out.
Beauty in Small Things
“Mommy wait, stop, I need to give you a leaf!”
I stop my car, putting it back in park and wait for her to select one from the leaf cluttered lawn. She carefully looks them over and then chooses the one she likes the best. With grandmother or daddy in tow, she runs over to my open window and hands it to me. I place it on the seat beside me and thank her for her gift.
I have a shoebox full of leaves. Carefully selected by Ava to give to me each morning and afternoon as I leave her to head to my office. I don’t save them all, but a chosen few, waiting for a shadowbox to place them in.
Why do I save them, you may be asking yourself. They’re just dead leaves. Except? They’re not.
At three years old, Ava has no concept of wealth or money or materialism. She sees something she thinks is beautiful and chooses it to show her love and affection. To her, a fallen leaf from a tree is as worthy of being a present as a new phone, or computer or piece of jewelry might be to us as adults.
When do we stop seeing such beauty in ordinary things? When do we start thinking of displays of love as being synonymous with price tags and shopping malls?
I can honestly say that some of the best times I’ve spent with Ava involved not a single cent being spent. No toys purchased, no movies, no games. Just the two of us, hanging out and being silly with each other.
My three year old girl looks at leaves and sees treasure. I save those leaves because I want to remember that lesson.
A Week in Ava-Ville
My day care provider, aka my ex-mother-in-law, was out of town this week, and as such, I took the opportunity to take four days off work and spend some quality time with my little munchkin.
I mean, I see her pretty much every day, except for the weekends she’s with her dad, but still, there was something glorious about being alone with her for 6 days, with no place we had to be, no things we HAD to do.
We slept late. We played silly games. We had tickle fights and cuddles on the sofa.
We baked cupcakes and made dinners and lunches together.
We painted our toes sparkly purple.
We had playdates with 3 year old BFFs.
We invited Nana and Papa for dinner, while Ava provided the after dinner dance for entertainment.
We went shopping for big girl underwear and have had a good run of potty training.
We went to the zoo, where she saw all sorts of animals, and was enthralled by the bugs and got to brush pygmy goats.
We ate ice cream and stuffed ourselves silly on fresh strawberries and cantaloupe.
I made it a point to unplug from the world as much as I could, and be there. Not just be physically present, but mentally as well. Not worried about blog posts, or updating Facebook with where we were. No stumbling, digging, pinning or tweeting.
I know these moments in which she wants to be with me are fleeting and will end all too soon. But for now I hold warm, fuzzy memories in my heart of the last 6 days. A week in the life of Ava. What a gift and a treat.
Don’t step too fast, baby girl. Not too fast.
Soaring
I’m not a good flier. I do not think it’s anywhere near natural for human beings to be 38,000 feet in the air, hurtling through the clouds at 500 miles an hour. You can spout all the statistics at me you like about flying being the safest way to travel. They bring me no comfort. At least in my car, if my engine stops working I am ON the ground, not about to pierce it like a fucking dart.
That said, I have flown many times in the past. However, the longer I go between flights, the more anxiety I have about taking the next one. After Ava was born, I could not bring myself to get on a plane. I cancelled a trip to Vegas because I was so anxiety ridden I began to have nightmares about the plane crashing and leaving my sweet little infant an orphan.
Last Sunday, I got on my first plane since 2007. The night before was the worst. Internally I panicked as I fed and bathed my girl, and drove her over to her dad’s. Countless times I picked up my cell phone, ready to text my friends that I just couldn’t do it. I thought about feigning illness or something just to avoid having to get on that plane. I cleaned my house so that when my family came to pack up all my stuff after my plane crashed, at least the place would be neat. I fought all the fear and panic. I got up the next morning, and was on my way.
Once I got to the airport, I was ok. Most of the panic was gone at that point. What was left was chased away by my BFFs, who I was flying to meet, and who knew how hard this step was for me. They texted me constantly, keeping me from thinking too much about my fears.
Once on the ground, I got to hug and squish the three people who helped me survive the last year. Not just survive, but live. I got to tell them in person how much they mean to me. I got to snuggle under blankets with them. I got to eat dinner and lunch and gelato and cupcakes. I got to experience Southern California traffic from the backseat of a Ford Expedition.
There was Mexican food and tons of giggles.
There was sunshine, sand and ocean. Carnival rides for a small boy, who held my hand for a time as we walked the pier. Seafood and laughter, buying tacky souvenirs, taking pictures and people watching.
Staying up late and watching reality tv just for the snarky comment factor. Four friends sitting on a couch, all on their iPhone or computer and still feeling connected. Sweet old dog who loved having her head scratched. Watching my girl and a little boy 1000 miles away talk on face-time.
Ordinary things. Ordinary days. Except they weren’t. Because it’s not everyday that the four of us get that time together. This was the first. It won’t be the last. Last week, I got on a plane. But it was after I landed that I felt as though I was flying.
Home
A month ago, I couldn’t imagine calling anyplace other than the one I’d lived in for the last 9 years home. I loved everything (well, almost everything) about my old house. I loved the abundance of windows that allowed it to always be bright and cheerful, no matter the time of day. I loved the large bathtub with it’s massaging jets that were awesome after a hard day of work. I loved the tall ceilings which gave each room an open, airy feeling.
I loved Ava’s room, in all it’s bright cheery yellowness, even if it was a tad on the small side. I adored my bedroom. Large, open, comfortable. Walls painted a deep plum, they were soothing and calming to me.
There is something about this new house. It’s older, to be sure. And a bit smaller. One less bedroom. The ceilings are lower, and there are no funky plant shelves to decorate.
But it has built in cabinets in three rooms. Hardwood floors in both bedrooms, something I’ve always wanted. Storm doors with screens to allow for a nice summer breeze to blow through them. An enormous laundry room that allows for more than just laundry. There is a covered back patio, so no matter the weather, sitting outside is always an option (once I get patio furniture that is).
The expansive back yard has a large old maple tree that’s just begging for a swing. There are flower beds and a garden area. They need some tender care, weeding and cleaning. But soon they’ll be back to their former glory. The front yard boasts a lovely brick planter. It too needs some sprucing up, but I’m already imagining it full of trailing petunias and tall, regal geraniums.
This house is so different from the last, but it has a friendliness about it. It seems to welcome me in, saying, “Come on in and pull your feet up by the fire”. It has 60 years of personality and charm. It appears happy with the life that our little family has brought to it.
Over the coming months, I will be working to put my own touches on it, splashes of color here and there, to make it more my own. I’ve started already. Ava’s room, which is so much bigger than her old one, got a brand new coat of cheery yellow, so similar to her prior room. I felt having some form of continuity was important for her.
I was surprised at how quickly the image of this place popped into my head when I thought of home. And last Friday when my ex brought Ava back to my house, she ran in the door and hugged me and said “I’m home!”
Yes you are, baby. We both are.
Becoming Me
I don’t ever remember a time when I thought I was attractive.
I was a normal, skinny toddler. I have the pics to prove it.
Around the age of five, I started plumping up. By the time I was seven, I had boobs. By ten, a bra. Period at eleven. Every year brought more weight gain.
I have a cousin who is 2 months older than me. She didn’t gain weight. She was blond. Thin. Popular and cute as a bug. I spent my entire childhood trying to live up to that standard.
Boys didn’t notice me. Unless it was to make fun of me. They seemed to find it endlessly amusing when I had a crush on a boy at my school. The sideways looks. The bursts of raucous laughter as I passed them in the hallway. I can still feel the heat stinging my cheeks, the nausea that hit my stomach.
I used to fake illness to stay home some days because the ridicule would become too much to bear.
It’s tiring and it wears you down.
I let it wear me down. And I believed it when that boy told me I was a hideous fat cow and that it was insane to think he would ever go out with me. I left that party in tears. Humiliated by him in front of dozens of people I had to face in school the following Monday.
In my early 20s I tried really hard to lose the weight. I succeeded for a while and was down to a 12/14 for a good while. I thought that being thinner would get the attention of the opposite sex.
It didn’t.
What I realize now is that it’s not my weight that was the problem.
It was me.
I didn’t believe in myself. I didn’t think I was attractive. So how could anyone else?
You would think that divorce would only reinforce those thoughts in my head, but in fact it seems to have had the opposite effect.
I am taking a look at myself in ways I never have before. I have examined so much of my past and the decisions that got me to where I am currently. I expected that to make me feel even worse about myself. What is surprising is that even though I don’t like who I was, I am much more comfortable in my own skin now than I ever have been in my entire 38 years. I’m figuring out who I am.
It’s ok to just be me.
I took a picture of myself over the weekend. I uploaded it to my computer and for the first time ever, and I mean EVER in my life, I thought to myself “Hey, I’m kinda cute”. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to embark on a life of narcissism and thinking I’m the prettiest thing ever and expecting men to fall at my feet. But for me to acknowledge that about myself, TO myself? Huge.
And you know what? I am kinda cute.
And?
It’s ok to just be me.
How I Got My Groove Back – The Holiday Version
Last Christmas, Ava was only 18 months old. She wasn’t really into the whole lights, presents, gorge-yourself-until-you-spew aspect of the holiday. I was only mildly disappointed in her reaction to the 80 billion Christmas lights we strung up in the house. I knew her time was coming.
Fast forward a year. Ava is now 2 1/2. Every Christmas decoration we pass makes her giggle with delight. In Target, we spend a good hunk of our time just sitting in the tree section while she gazes wondrously at all the lights and exclaiming CHRISTMAS TREE over and over for the whole store to hear. It does no good to ask her to turn her volume down a bit. She’s simply too over come with excitement.
A house on our street has their yard decorations up, complete with an inflatable Charlie Brown and Snoopy, who just happen to be one of Ava’s current obsessions. I slow down each night as we near that house so that she can get a good look. Hearing the delight in her voice? Makes my heart oh, so happy.
I decided about a week ago I was going to get Ava her very own little tree. One that was pre-lit (she adores the colors of the lights). I hit up Target on Wednesday, only to discover they were sold out. Crap. I had been imagining the joy on her little face for days and I left highly disappointed. Not to be defeated, I cruised through Wal-Mart last night. Ding, ding, ding! Winner. A tree, and 4 packs of non breakable ornaments for under $30. SCORE!
I packed it all in my car, and picked up Ava. We headed home and had dinner. I kept the tree in my car, wanting to surprise her after she ate. I knew if I brought it out before dinner, my chances of getting her to actually eat anything would be worse than my chances of winning the next Power Ball.
While she played on the floor with her cars, I sneaked out to my car and brought in the tree. I de-boxed it. (If that’s not a word, it should be) I straightened out all the branches. I grabbed the video camera with one hand, and the tree with the other and headed down the hall.
That girl simply exploded with joy. I’ve never seen her so full of happiness and excitement. We plugged it in, and I opened up all the ornaments. We spent 15 minutes with her directing where they should go. Then? An hour admiring it. And saying CHRISTMAS TREE!
This morning, it was the second thing out of her mouth. When I left for work, she was sitting beside it, getting ready to direct her father on where it should be placed next in the house.
That little girl once again reminded me of what this season is about. Family. Joy. Doing something for others. She’s my family. Making her happy is all that I need. She may not remember this Christmas. But I certainly will. Thank you, baby girl. For giving me so much joy. I hope I can always give as much back to you.
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