Muchness and Light

Please learn to rule with your head, not your fist, and those lessons that you learn will carry on.

After Max was born, I remember reading some parenting book (though I can’t remember which) that said not only does your newborn not know that it’s not an extension of you, it doesn’t know that it’s not you.

It makes sense. The baby’s entire existence has been literally attached to you, dependent on you for everything. This doesn’t really change for months, especially during those first vital weeks, when your entire life feels like a never-ending game of Keep the Freakin’ Baby Alive!

But there does come a time when your child starts to articulate its own personality. It was fascinating to me (still is!) to see the ways Max and Tricky both looked and acted like me or DH—and the ways in which they didn’t. No matter if your child has your dimples and the other parent’s cheekbones, they will eventually exhibit certain characteristics that are totally uncharacteristic of either parent. It was always fascinating to me to discover my children.

While mine are both biologically mine, I suppose parents of children who aren’t born of the parents’ biology have their won type of discovery. The determination of Nature versus Nurture would be necessarily different, though just as fascinating. In no way do I mean to denigrate that experience; it is simply one I have never had.

Regardless of how your child comes into your world, you have dreams and hopes and expectations for it. Of course, this is at the heart of construct of gender and social stereotypes, and the later pressures that can come from such constructs, but it also inevitably shapes the ways in which you parent your child.

I try not to judge other parents. There are, of course, parenting choices that I wouldn’t and didn’t choose, and there are choices other parents make that I would never make for Max and Tricky. Sometimes I do find myself privately harsh when speaking of those choices. But, generally, I believe each parent must make those decisions for their own child, knowing them and loving them in ways only a parent can.

One of the things I was adamant about when the boys were young—and got great support from DH on this—was not forcing them to be any certain way or to have certain thoughts. I always tried to give them information and to help guide them toward the decisions that were best for them, even if those decisions were counter to the ones that I would make for them or for myself. Of course, sometimes I had to use a parental veto, and that could be met with disdain or anger or outright indignation.

When Rango and I were together, we argued regularly about how his approach to the boys was counter to everything they’d come to expect. He expected them to fall in line with whatever he said, and respect was code for obedience. I have encouraged them to express their emotions, even in an impassioned way, as long as that expression was respectful. I do not tolerate name-calling and insults, though they have certainly slipped into heated conversations at times, whether toward each other or toward me. I am just as adamant that they make the repair after they inflict damage.

As I have said for years, I am not raising children; I am raising young men. I expect Max and Tricky to be self-actualized adults, who are capable of self-sustenance and educated decisions about their own paths. I hope that they are happy, healthy men, who successfully navigate whatever path they choose, but also who can admit to their mistakes and apologize for their transgressions, whether toward someone else or toward themselves.

All I have ever been able to do is to try to give them the knowledge they need to make the right decision for themselves, in line with their own moral compass.

Max graduated high school this year, spent a month abroad as part of a cultural exchange, and started college as a sophomore. Together, we made the decision that he would live at home this year. In many ways, it has given us both time to adjust to his burgeoning adulthood.

If he were living in the dorms, I wouldn’t have any clue what he’s doing in his spare time. I wouldn’t know if he’s eating healthy or getting a reasonable amount of sleep. I wouldn’t know about his extra-curricular activities. And so, I’m trying to give him the freedom to explore his new world, with the encouragement and support to do so safely.

In so many ways, it’s like when he became a toddler, demanding to explore the world on his terms but running back to me for a hug and a soothing kiss when he got scared or hurt. Sometimes I have to let him fall and then offer him a hand to get back up. I cannot take the hits for him.

Mostly I hope that I have given him the tools to make smart choices about which hits to take.

No matter what, Max and Tricky aren’t me. No matter how much they can remind me of teenage DH at times, they aren’t their father. They are wonderfully intricate, self-contained psyches made up of the best and the worst of everything they’ve experienced, including their parents.

This is at the heart of the teenage rebellion—a rejection of what you have mastered in order to establish your own identity. It is painful for both teen and parent, and adolescents can be complete assholes, but they’re essentially overgrown toddlers playing dress-up with incredibly high stakes.

I have no doubt that I defied my parents’ expectations. I am positive I was, at times, a complete disappointment. I have no doubt that they would have chosen differently for me, if they’d had a say in it at all.

And, the fact is, many of my choices were (and continue to be) in conscious, direct rebellion to their wishes. I am independent and stubborn, often flouting their notions of an ideal child. But I was left to take care of myself from a young age, and I bypassed normal childhood almost entirely. I stopped seeking their permission and their approval long ago, and I feel absolutely no obligation to meet their expectations of me—nor do I care to psychologize what those expectations are now.

In reality, I hope Max and Tricky will eventually do the same. I don’t want them to be grown men who need or strive for validation from their mother. (I’m sure I’ve done enough to screw them up that that doesn’t need to be another topic for their own therapist’s office.) They shouldn’t need my approval to make choices for themselves or their children, though I will always be happy to offer advice and support and encouragement. I may snark about their choices privately, but I will have done my job (and kept the freakin’ baby alive!) if they are in a position to even make those choices.

I will always be, as I have always been, present for my sons. I will always ask them about their day and listen carefully to their response (even when it’s just a grunt). I will always encourage them to make healthy choices and then take them to the doctor when they need it. I will always give them information and ask for their opinions regarding decisions about them. I will always try to give them what they need, not what I think they should need.

In the end, they are living their lives. It’s not me making those decisions or walking their paths, any more than they can walk mine.

But I will continue to offer them a hand and a hug and a safe, reliable place to return, because that is what good parents do.

 

 

We two have run about the hills and pulled the daisies fine. But we've wandered manys the weary foot since long, long ago.

What a year 2017 has been. Whether personally or politically, I wasn’t expecting the dramatic changes this year brought. I’m not quite sure what to expect for 2018, but I don’t imagine that it’ll be quiet.

After 27 years, I finally finished my bachelor’s degree. After more than ten years of pain, I had three levels of my cervical spine replaced and rebuilt. After three years, I ended my relationship with Rango. I had 182 Détente Days with DH—and I’m thankful for every single one.

The greatest lesson for me this year was that almost nothing will come according to my time frame. No matter how hard I work, how thoroughly I plan for any and every contingency, things occur at their own pace. The best-laid plans and all that jazz. It helps when I’m working with a goal in mind, but sometimes I still need the reminder to slow down and at least acknowledge the journey, regardless of the destination. Life is most pleasurable when I can enjoy the trek, but sometimes my path has been littered with difficult obstacles that were, at best, life lessons waiting to happen.

Because there was so much to deal with this year—which was really just a culmination of all the previous years—I went back into therapy. I’ve written a good bit about the Internal Family Systems model and how I’ve used it to deal with decades-old trauma that continues to impact my day-to-day. Part of the process includes understanding the role each subpersonality plays, the burden each carries, and the job each performs to keep the whole manageable and safe.

So, what happens when I know all of that? If the burden is lifted from the subpart, what the hell is she supposed to do now?

As I began the slow process of unburdening, I found different parts—Cissie and Stephie, Harley and Quinn, Pearl and Buttercup—who were lighter of load but who also couldn’t stay trapped in their compartments inside my head. Their work was done, and it did no one any good to keep them trapped in a dusty house, struggling to feel the light of day through an old, dirty window.

I imagined a garden for them. In my mind, it sits off to my left and back just a bit. I can hear the birds and see each blade of grass or petal of flower ripple in breezy sunlight. I can smell the earth and the life. It looks much like the yard in front of my actual house. As each subpart is unburdened, I invite them to go to the garden to play. I invite them to join Cissie on the trampoline, jumping until they’re breathless with laughter, hair mussed and clinging to their sweaty, warm necks. Sometimes Buttercup sits at the edge, bare legs dangling from the porch, dirty feet bouncing against the cool brick, and she sings. Her songs are sometimes little more than she or I can hear, but there is a hum of love whose confidence waxes and wanes but which never really fades away.

Sassafras still struggles. Sometimes I feel her very close to me, close on my immediately left and in need of reassurance when she feels overwhelmed by longing and nostalgia and confusion. But I remind her that we are still working, that I am still working. Although love may not come in the ways in which her heart has desperately imagined, it is always with her. I am always with her. But she is always free to put her burden down, just next to me, and join the others in the garden, even if just for a little while.

There are nameless, numerous others, only some of whom I’ve been fortunate enough to engage yet.

I am still working.

But if I am carrying each of them, and they are each carrying their burdens, then I am also carrying those burdens.

So tonight, as I close one year symbolically and open another, I am inviting those burdens to go into the garden, as well. Whether they be ghosts of Christmases past, unhealthy choices of present, or fears of what the future may or may not hold, I am opening the door for each of them to be free—and to be free myself of those weights.

I am offering one last toast to disappointment, to broken promises, and to unfulfilled dreams. I will drink once more to each and every lost love, all of whom mattered and will always matter, but who cannot continue to keep me mired in the past. I have accepted my fault, and I have accepted theirs, but I cannot continue to define expectations for my future based on the past actions of people I will never see or speak to again. They had opportunity not to be ghosts; I am cutting their chains loose and setting them free.

I wish each of them well as I sweep their dust out the door into the garden.

I’m going into 2018 with few expectations. I expect to continue doing my work and making myself healthy and whole. I expect to attempt new things. I expect to discover new things about myself.

I am superstitious about a few things, and New Year’s Eve is at the top of that list. How I spend that night is often indicative of the entirety of the following year. I can regale with tales of New Year’s Eve Omens for almost as many years as the Valentine’s Curse.

This year, I specifically chose to be at home with my babies. We cooked dinner together and piled up on the couch to watch The Little Prince. I rolled my eyes at the short-sighted, closed-minded grown-ups. I cried when he found his rose too late, overcome by baobabs. I gasped at the sudden lurch of my heart when the he met the snake in the desert one last time.

And I hugged my babies and told them I loved them for the millionth time, because I never want them to know what it feels like to question my love and my support. And I never want to know what it feels like not to give that love and support unconditionally.

So, I don’t know what’s coming. It will be what it is, when it is. But for now, for tonight, I am peacefully in my happiest of places, surrounded in love and comfort, quietly bidding farewell to the past.

I wish you all a peaceful, loving new year.

 

 

Everything has changed. It's a different kind of Christmas.

The first year DH and I were separated, I couldn’t stand being at home for Christmas. The boys and I packed up all our gifts and drove three hours to Alabama, back to family and where DH and I had grown up and where the boys had been born, locking our jaws tightly on high-held heads and got through our first Christmas as a family of three. The second year, I couldn’t stand to drag out the Christmas ornaments we’d collected as a family for years, so the boys and I made our own decorations that year. The court-mandated visitation schedule had begun, and Max and Tricky spent the first half of their Christmas holiday with their dad and his then-girlfriend. When they came home on Christmas Eve, they were sugar-coated and excited, announcing that we would be doing Christmas Guatemalan-style! and opening gifts at midnight. I made breakfast at 2 a.m., and that was the last time both boys slept with me in my bed.

For the next three years, we incorporated Rango into our new tradition. He didn’t have fond Christmas memories from his own childhood, and he was amenable to adopting ours. The day of celebration and the celebratory menu changed, depending on the visitation schedule and on his food allergy. He refused to participate in our annual viewing of A Christmas Story, saying it reminded him of unhappy Christmases growing up in a dysfunctional family. He would game elsewhere, while Max, Tricky, and I piled on the couch and yelled lines at the television, like we’d created our own Rocky Horror Christmas Show.

This year, without Rango, we weren’t limited by his food allergies or his ghosts. When I casually asked the boys what they’d like to eat for middle-of-the-night breakfast, Max cried out and demanded Waffle House.

“It’s Christmas. They’ll be open.”

And this is how a new Christmas tradition was born.

Traditions are beautiful. They tie you to a shared past and anchor you in loving nostalgia. But they are not fully fixed and are open to adaptation, to making them contemporaneously cogent. Some changes are welcomed—a new baby, a new marriage, a new home—and some are not. Since my divorce, both of my grandmothers have passed away, and childhood memories of being at their houses for the holidays are forever frozen in time. While the respective families have worked to create new memories and new traditions, it is bittersweet to conjure those last Christmases with my grandmothers.

I know many families who are creating new traditions this year. New babies make the holidays seem so much brighter. The loss of mothers and children and beloved family members can blur the holiday lights with slow, hot tears. But another Christmas, another new year, is coming and going, and how it is marked is completely up to them.

This is the last Christmas I know for sure that Max will be home. My baby will be graduating high school soon, and he will begin the slow embark on his own adult life. Eventually he will establish his own traditions and schedule that may not include me or his dad or his brother, not in the ways it has through his childhood. He will always be here in some way, but I don’t know how many more times I will get to hear the cacophony of my little boys parading down the hall to open gifts, or the sound of wrapping paper being ripped and tossed at light speed, or the boyish squeal of delight at having received just what they wanted.

“I’ll always come home…. I have to get my presents!”

“But you may be at your girlfriend’s parents’ ski retreat in Aspen,” I retorted.

“Yay. More presents for me,” Tricky chimed in.

But even when they are grown and bringing their babies home to create new memories at Sass’s house (yes, we’ve already agreed that Sass is the likely grandma name), Christmas at midnight—even if it’s on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Day or by phone—is something the boys and I can always share. Waffle House is always open; middle-of-the-night hashbrowns can come any day we like.

We were surprised to find our local Waffle House half-filled with grown families, dressed in spirited dress wear, as if they’d come after midnight mass. Two were apparently regulars who’d come to share a meal and bring a gift for their regular server, who hugged each of them and wished them a merry Christmas. Our new tradition of leaving a generous tip for our 1 a.m. server wasn’t original, but it did help to anchor us in this time, when it is still just Sass and her boys, for the inevitable coming change.

To everyone who is living tradition-challenging change this year, go with it. No matter the reason, find something in the newness in which to anchor yourself, and make it your own. There may be laughter or tears, unequivocal joy or breath-stealing heartache. Make them into what you need. They are yours to do with as you wish.

I wish you all love, light, and peace in this holiday season.

 

 

And as soon as I get out of here, I plan on coming back for nothing.

When DH and I split up, it was devastating for us all. He and I had been together for most of two decades, and even with all the bullshit that precipitated our end, there’s no doubt that it was hardest on our boys. Max and Tricky weathered it all beautifully, for the most part, but their world collapsed in on itself. Their dad exited it for most of four years, whether physically or emotionally. While he and I have battled off and on for much of that time, I can very cautiously state that we have achieved a détente in recent months and have been able to effectively communicate and co-parent. I know it has been good for me and for the boys, and I hope it has been good for DH, as well.

When Rango came into our life, it seemed magical. Not only did he get me, he got my kids. His personal history gave him very specific insight into what my young sons were thinking and feeling. He bonded with them almost as quickly as he bonded with me. We were all happy when we intertwined our households and created an entirely new life for ourselves.

But somewhere, it all went awry. It’s not just in hindsight that I can see the landmarks pointing us toward destruction; I could see them happening in real time and spoke out against them. My aggressively railing against impending damage gave him reason to withdraw, and eventually I found myself with yet another avoidant, who could dismiss me and compartmentalize away until he felt the need or desire to deal with me. When I became an inconvenient reminder of his own damage and shortcomings, I was ignored to the point of feeling as if I didn’t exist for him until he chose to acknowledge me.

I could spend days psychoanalyzing him, breaking down his history as I know it and applying that knowledge to his behaviors, inferring meaning into every action and word ever exchanged between us. I could obsessively reread every email and text message and chat message, listen to the couple of voicemails I still have on my phone. But really, what’s the point? It won’t change anything, and it’s unlikely to offer me an insight I don’t already have.

I have spent days packing his belongings. I cleaned out drawers and closets and cabinets, looking for any lingering reminders that might blindside me if found later. Yes, it’s logistical, but it’s also a reclamation of the space. I have moved my knick-knacks and pictures onto the shelves where his things had been. I am slowly taking over the empty dresser and closet space again. I am gleefully eating glutinous yummies and not worrying about dropping crumbs, in case I irritate his wheat allergy.

When I told my dad that I really am okay, that it has been far less upsetting than other break-ups, he replied, “Well, that probably just means it was time.”

I’m not burying the sadness. The first few days were awful, and I cried a lot. But I also cried a lot during the last year, begging and negotiating and demanding resolution that didn’t come in the way in which I’d hoped. In the way in which he’d promised me when we met or during the first year of our relationship.

What I can’t get rid of yet is the anger. I’m not angry that our romantic relationship ended. I do think it’s incredibly unfortunate, given how wonderful the man I fell in love with was. We both changed in three years, and we couldn’t change together. He has his own damage and his own need for protections, and those needs are different than my own. In the end, we couldn’t meet each other’s needs, no matter how mindfully and intentionally I tried.

But he hurt my children. The last time he saw them, we sat around the kitchen table while he told us that he loved us, that we were his family, and that he wanted to be home with his family again. He asked the boys to think about his moving back home and to share those thoughts with him. But before they could respond, he was gone.

He ghosted on them completely. He told them he loved them and chose them and then never saw them again. He effectively unchose them with no explanation or apology. While losing a beloved family member and parental figure is hard under any circumstances, especially for children, this was eerily reminiscent of what happened with their father. Rango’s behavior mirrored what was the most hurtful and damaging experience of their young lives, and he knew better. He knew the exact way in which to inflict the most damage, both on me and on the boys, and did it anyway. He abandoned two boys who adored him, who relied on him, who loved him and just wanted to be loved back. If it wasn’t calculating and malicious, it was thoughtless and careless, cruelly reckless.

When I finally made the logistical break from his avoidant bullshit, Fluffernutter asked me if I could see the possibility of reconciliation in the future, maybe after a few months of no contact and time to settle and rethink everything. At the time, I ruled out the possibility of ever ruling him out completely.

But last week, Tricky asked me, “Will we ever be able to bring Rango back?”

I realized in that moment, as he looked down at his homework, floppy hair hiding his face from scrutiny, that I am no longer open to that possibility. DH is their father, and Max and Tricky love him very much; they will always find a way to maintain that relationship. I pray regularly that DH does the same.

But Rango was an outsider, whom we chose to love. The boys chose him, every time, until he didn’t choose them back. I introduced him into our world, cautiously and with the reservation that all single parents have in such cases. For me to ever allow him access to them again would open the plausibility of additional hurt, and I am unwilling to gamble with their hearts again.

So for now, for the foreseeable future, it will just be me and my young men. I’m not remotely interested in dating again. I’ll say maybe ever, but I understand the statistical likelihood of that actually happening. But if I even contemplate trusting someone enough to let them past my own mounting defenses, my heart and mind slam up those steely walls, unwilling to consider such possibility even cursorily.

I also remind the boys that this wasn’t their fault. His choice was his choice, and nothing they could ever do would warrant the kind of hurt he has inflicted. I remind them that they did nothing wrong, that their love is worth far more than Rango admitted.

And I remind myself of the same.

 

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Ain't these tears in my eyes telling you.

I can't go back to yesterday because I was a different person then.

After a couple of intense days of more “discussion,” I took the boys out for the afternoon. It was a lovely afternoon with my men and Max’s girlfriend, Kiki, followed by a delicious if tense dinner with Rango. (The man is a great cook, by the way.) Rango and I excused ourselves to the talk privately, again going in circles about the same issues from the last few weeks. We disengaged, and he went to sleep on the couch while Max and I drove Kiki home.

On the way home, Max asked if Rango and I were going to break up.

“I don’t know,” I replied carefully.

“Well, I want you to do what’s best for you, of course, but I love him to death. I don’t want him to leave.”

And then I remembered exactly how much my relationship with Rango impacts so much more than just me and him.

By the time Rango came into our life, DH had been living out of state for four months. In the two years he’s been gone, he has seen the boys for 34 days. On average, they talk to him every 3-4 weeks. Max and Tricky have very little expectation of their father, other than 1) he will eventually show back up for a brief period and 2) he will buy them something when he does.

For Max, especially, this has been incredibly difficult. He has 4 extra years of memories with Dad that Tricky just doesn’t have. He was hit hardest by DH’s withdrawal. He is also the most willing to seek out a relationship with him, but he tends to do so guardedly, with hope but no anticipation of regular engagement. Having just turned 13 when the move happened, it came at a really tough stage in his life.

Enter Rango, who understood being a child of divorce, being the child of distant and difficult parents, and being a teenage boy in a way I just never will.

And while he fell for me, he also fell for my boys. They hit it off immediately, and he established a solid, loving, imperfect relationship with them that is entirely separate from me.

He did what a good stepdad should do.

They fight sometimes. They give each other shit. But he also brought Max out of his shell, showing him that it was okay to trust someone other than Mom. He is a steady, constant, loving, engaging influence on their lives.

And he does it because he loves them, not because he loves me. (Though he does, certainly.)

So is that a valid reason to stay in a relationship?

No, of course not. But it is a reason to re-evaluate the strengths and reasons for that relationship.

When I got divorced, DH and I blew the boys’ world apart. Max has said before that we are all happier and better off after the divorce, but it has also been really hard on my children. (see above) Rango is a large part of why and how it got better. (see above) And I do not want them to have to extricate another important, loving relationship from their lives. (see above)

So Rango and I have called a détente. We realized how scary this was for the boys, and that’s just not okay. We have issues to work through, but we have agreed to stop them in their tracks and move forward, together and carefully, because there is more at stake than just us.

I’ll be honest (surprise!): it still scares me. Choosing to rely on someone else means allowing for the possibility of disappointment. I’m not one to run from adversity, so why the hell would I choose to run now? In the end, the possible pay-off is much greater than the possible loss, and returns on investment don’t come when you buy high and sell low.

So there are still things to work on, and we will. This was a warning to us both, to remember the lessons of the past. I don’t want to repeat the past, good or bad, and it is unfair to compare Rango or myself to those times.

While I was out with the boys, Max bought me a gift. He saw it and thought of me, even before Kiki pointed out to him that it was Alice:

And on the drive home, he told me, “Just because something doesn’t go the way you want it to, that doesn’t mean it’s bad, even when it feels bad. You can’t appreciate what you have now if you didn’t experience the bad you had before.”

That boy is totally my kid.

You never know until you try.

For months now, I've been quiet. It hasn't been intentional, I assure you. I've lamented to Rango and the Castration Committee that I just haven't had time or energy to write. 

That's not entirely true.

I have been extremely busy with school. Between three classes and a very busy internship with the ACLU of Georgia, my time has been mostly filled with The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks, various petitions for probate, and ongoing discussions with my professors and multiple legislators about the privacy concerns surrounding police use of body cameras.

 

Monday Morning Reflections on the Train #itsmarta #marta #train #Atlanta #manicmonday

A photo posted by Stephanie Quinn Jackson (@stephqj) on Mar 31, 2015 at 5:34am PDT

 

My regional GOAL interview seemed to go very well, though I won't know how well until next week. The state competition begins on April 22nd here in Atlanta. Finalists will be announced the first night, and they have to be prepared to compete again the next morning. While I had excellent feedback from my judging panel and others at Regionals, it could be that I'm not the right fit for the Technical College System of Georgia. Maybe I'm too opinionated or too loud or too brash. Then again, maybe I am the right fit.

Either way, I won't know for another week.

I've also been making the transition from single mom of two to attached mom of two. While Rango and I would've happily gotten married the weekend we met, we agreed that probably wasn't in the boys' best interest. After nine months of dating and entangling our lives, we sat down with the boys and asked them how they would feel if he moved in with us, making our home into OUR home.

They were agreeable. They were excited. They were ready.

There have been a few bumps here and there, but all in all it's going better than I was willing to allow myself to hope.

With most things, I tend to subscribe to the "Lowered Expectations" philosophy—expect nothing, and you'll never be disappointed. With regard to the GOAL competition, I'm living that mantra every single day. While I may be very well qualified to be the advocate for technical education in Georgia, there's only a 1 in 24 chance that I'm The One. So I don't get my hopes up. I don't plan about what color car I would pick out or which of our cars we would sell to pay the taxes on the new one.

 

But with Rango, I already have expectation. He has gently guided me to a place where it is okay to believe in someone else, to trust in someone else. And I do. I trust him to do what he tells me he's going to do. I believe that he will love me, actively, and be available for me, forever and always and no matter what.

And that's led me to have expectation for myself. Historically—at least over the last five years—I have hedged my bets. I always had a backup plan or the phone numbers of exes I stayed in contact with, just in case, even when those relationships were toxic for me. Even when those fragile cats would scratch and bite me, running away into the night, and then yowl loudly at my door a few nights later while I was still bleeding from their affront.

Now, there is no bet hedging. I blocked the numbers of my backup plans and made it difficult for them to reach me and vice versa. I took the remnants of old relationships—my wedding dress, the box of Bounder, the last bits of Absolem—and I burned them. I wanted to do something privately ceremonial, like burying the ashes in the backyard, but once the embers faded, I found there was no more energy to give to them. I was tired, and they didn't deserve my reserves.

That's all for Rango now.

He told me over the weekend that, for the first time in his life, he has no backup plan, either. We both always have friends and family we can turn to, but neither of us is propping open the door to possibility of failure. We're not stupid; we've each been divorced and know damn well what could happen.

But we also know now, after years of struggle and growth, what should happen.

We are open and honest, sometimes stupidly so. We are true to ourselves and to each other. We have forged a logistical and emotional partnership that is equal and based on mutual respect and care and love.

We argue sometimes. Sometimes when I'm especially bitchy, he'll just pointedly ask me if I'm going to be okay. He stays calm and lets my storm pass over him until it blows itself out.

At Regionals, the judging panel asked me where I thought I'd be in five years and how I intended to get there.

"I know you want a perfect answer," I replied, "but the honest truth is I don't know and I don't care. What I thought I'd be doing when I started my paralegal studies program is not at all what I'm actually doing a year later. Where I thought I'd be five years ago is nowhere close to where I actually am. So, yes, the answer is still that I don't know, but it's also that I'm excited to find out. I'm excited to explore opportunities and discover new talents and new challenges. I'll let you know where I am in five years."

Even if I don't move on to the next round or win another damn thing ever in my life, I am confident that I will continue to forge my path and make the best of whatever intersects with my journey. I have talent and skill and resourcefulness. I have two amazing sons and a spectacularly supportive life partner. I have loyal, wonderful friends and four warm, snuggly cats.

I don't need another thing.

 

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I felt like there was something missing in my day-to-day life.

I bought a new pair of shoes last week.

That, in and of itself, is not newsworthy.  I've tried really hard not to turn Muchness and Light into a journal of my daily activities, though I certainly have revealed more in this forum about my daily life than the average bear might share.  (My blog is my woods sometimes, isn't it?)

But I bought new sneakers.  They're black with teal laces and trim, plus a splash of hot pink—totally unlike the pink and purple that tend to attract me. 

The last time I bought sneakers was almost four years ago.  I'd started walking to feel better, taking the first steps toward what would be a 115 pound weight loss.  Those metallic magenta Nikes have carried me over at least 3,000 miles.  They adorned the major milestones of my last four years, and they were the strange, symbolic foundation for the deep transformations that took place within me.

Three Christmases ago—the last Christmas DH and I were together—I asked for new sneakers.  DH bought me a pair of pink and purple Nike Dual Fusion 2s that I picked out.  They were exactly what I wanted.  Exactly what I told him I wanted. 

Those shoes never fit right.

They were too high at the opening, rubbing uncomfortably against my ankles.  The toe box was cut strangely, and sometimes my pinky toes would go to sleep. 

I never wore them more than a dozen times, always going back to my well-worn metallic magentas. 

Those shoes became strangely symbolic of my marriage.  The ones I bought for myself, that I wore to protect me as I moved again through my life, were comfortable and supportive.  I've never met anyone else who had those same shoes.

The second pair were a gift I picked out—as I always did for gifts for myself.  They were something I asked for that DH gave me when he had a reason, but they were never right.  And I saw them everywhere on other people's feet.

I have been terrible about self-care during the last year-and-a-half.  My 115 pound weight loss is now a net of about 100 pounds.  I haven't been walking, let alone working out, with any kind of regularity.  My life is the boys and the house and work and school.  When I get free time, I am often too exhausted by everything else to even think about going for a lengthy walk. 

I'm not eating well or sleeping well.  I forget to take my medicine—the mandatory thyroid replacement hormone that will keep me functional and alive.  I'm cranky and bitchy from all of the stress that I know is taking a toll on my body, not to mention my mind. 

I am busting my ass right now to get through school and still try to work when I can, plus clean the house and do the laundry and sometimes cut the grass.  Max and Tricky need attention and time and care, and they deserve to have more than what's just leftover at the end of the day. 

So it's me who gets the leftovers.  It's Stephanie who fights with herself to get a little care and attention.  It's Stephanie who gets lost in her own shuffle and then feels like shit because she barely has the time and energy to touch base with the parts of her who fought so damn hard to unearth themselves from the minutiae that was killing her soul.

But if I don't take the time to care for me, I will have nothing left to give, especially to the boys.  I have to constantly remind myself that I am worth my own effort, even if it means I have to put down a textbook or tell a friend no or refuse to answer the phone.  Even if it means I have to drag my exhausted, flabby ass from the couch and put on my shoes and walk.

I put on my new shoes over the weekend and took the boys (also in their new shoes) to the local greenway.  I did three miles, and it felt good.  It felt right.  And my shoes didn't hurt my feet. 

One foot in front of the other.  That's the only way I'm making it out of this.  One step at a time. 

 

Delta Dawn, what's that flower you have on?

My grandmother died over the weekend. 

She was 85, and she had been sick for a very long time.  Steadily declining health had forced the decision to move her into a nursing home a few years ago.  Hospice involved a few months ago.  After a few days of infection she just couldn't fight anymore, she went peacefully in her sleep. 

It was a difficult blessing. 

I have a lot of thoughts about her, but I'm not ready to share them publicly yet.  I may never be.  Regardless, I know the woman loved me very much.  She adored my children. 

My Amazonian build came from her, my maternal grandmother.  The long legs and large frame, the big hands that look so much like hers.  My strawberry blond hair and wide open laugh. 

But I'm not ready to delve into that yet. 

The funeral was low-key and relatively quick, just like she wanted.  My brother and cousins carried her pink-rose-laden casket from the hearse.  My brother asked my 13-year-old son to help.  It was first experience in bearing the pall, which is an honor and duty all Southern men must learn to carry.  My dad and stepdad and uncles have all had multiple turns, burdening the final weight of loved ones as a fitting good-bye. 

While the men did their duty, I kept Tricky, who is still too young and spindly to be of much use.  He wanted to be with his big brother and his uncle, though, so I distracted him with my niece.  Glamigail is almost three, and she has a 4-week-old sister, the Glitterbug, who was sleeping soundly, scrunched in a sling on her mother's chest. 

The kids were sweet and quiet through the graveside service, through the remarks of the preacher and the final prayers.  Head down and eyes open, as respectful as possible, I watched the two of them, making sure no mischief ensued in those few moments when no adults would be looking. 

After it was over, Glamigail took off across the green expanse of the cemetery.  Just two weeks after Memorial Day, there were flags on graves, waving at her on a hot, Southern breeze.  The flags were tucked into vases of brightly-colored flowers everywhere.  How could she not go and explore?

Tricky was back and forth between her and Max, still in that time between being outgrowing the child and becoming a man.  He wanted to play with the little blond dynamo of a cousin, but he also wanted to stay with his brother, with the burgeoning young man he relies on and idolizes as fiercely as he sometimes punches him in the gut.  He wanted to be with his uncle, who is goofy and cool and always has kind words for his nephews, especially when he knows their father is so conspicuously absent. 

But it was Max who broke my heart.  Gone is my fat, blond little baby boy.  He is tall (5'9 already) and lanky, lean and long just like his father.  From the neck down, he is DH.  They have the same feet.  They have two moles on their backs in the same places. 

I could see how much he looks like his dad now.  How he has the same gait and the same movement of arms, the same determined look on his face that accentuates the gorgeous cheekbones. 

On Saturday, to escape the grief and the anxiety, I took the boys to stay with Pandy for the night.  A quick visit to PandyLand is always good for me, but the boys adore her and her family.  Tank is always so sweet to let us invade his home.  It's hard enough when it's just Sassafras and Pandy together, but then add the kids—Max and Tricky, plus 2.0 and Leon and Professor X, then even Huffy made a quick appearance!—it is just goofball chaos. 

But Tank talked to my kids like they were just people.  Not kids, not condescending, and with the same liberal life views and geeky interests we have.  He turned Max onto a couple of new shows, and he showed Tricky manly things from the tool box and the shed.  He and I talked music like we always do. 

Ultimately, it was Pandy teaching Max how to throw a football that was my favorite moment. 

Pandy knew DH long before I did.  She knows part of my list of the next great man in my life includes the one who would teach my sons how to throw a football.  I waited for years for DH to do it.  We waited for years. 

I watched her, strong and patient, caring for and attending to my sons just like she does her own.  My hoohas are her hoohas, and vice versa.  And my boys adore her almost as much as I do. 

I'm watching my babies grow into men, slowly and sometimes shakily.  They are as unsure of themselves as I am.  I know it's impossible for me to be everything to them.  Honestly, to fill every gap in their lives with my own brand of Glamazonian crazy seems almost cruel, like I'm setting them up for a lifetime of ridiculous expectations. 

But then I have these moments when I am blessed with friends and family who love my children, who love me, and who extend their own open, glitter-dusted palms to our hearts and grab on gently, refusing to let go even when I am stubborn in my attempts to be everything and more than even I can manage.  The ones who see my exhaustion and know the truth of its source, who know how I am castigating myself for mistakes and missteps, drowning in a sea of OhGodhowdidIdothistomyself?

In those moments, when I see the past and the future colliding in these children, in the hoohas, I can't breathe.  It is beautiful to see a little girl squealing at a half-deflated birthday balloon in the cemetery at her great-grandmother's funeral.  It is stunning to see my sons growing into these perfect combinations of their parents, the intensely wonderful result of two fucked-up people who managed to give the best of themselves to another person long enough to make that perfection. 

And it breaks my heart to know that I wouldn't see the beauty in this, that I wouldn't appreciate such smallness, in quite the same way had so much not gone horribly awry. 

In forty years, it may be my turn.  It may be my rose-laden casket and my golden-haired great-granddaughter.  It may be my grandsons bearing the final weight of me.  I hope beyond hope that my legacy is their being able to appreciate the beauty without having ever had to experience the pain of heartache like this firsthand.  Maybe, just maybe, that their fathers will have learned some secret truths that the Inner Circle and I were able to share with them, that they listened better and learned better how to live and love without tearing each other apart.    

 

So tuck your hair behind your ears, your tears and your silly fears.

I am tired.

There's so much on me right now.  The end of the school year for the boys, with its neverending stream of class activities and banquets and parties, means summer is encroaching.  In previous years, we were able to relax and have some fun, but that will be hard to manage this year.  Today was first day of summer classes for me—a full 15-hour class load that would normally take 15 weeks but is truncated to 10.  Somewhere in there I still have to work part-time, do my homework, care for the boys, clean the house, cut the grass, do the laundry, cook the meals, and try to breathe. 

I have a little help lined up but not much.  The decision to stay in Atlanta after the divorce, as opposed to moving back to Birmingham, meant I have no family backup within almost 200 miles.  I have friends close by, certainly, but almost none are in a position to be able to help.  DH is now living out of state.

It's all on me.

Every detail, every move the boys and I make, is considered and planned and stored in my head.  Days like today start in the middle of the night, when I wake for whatever reason and start to run through the lists of what needs to happen today, this week, in the next month, over the next few, and so on.  I am working on a two-year plan right now, and there is no room for error.  Time and financial constraints make this the only plausible course of action; I have no choice but to continue to move forward.

I look around the house and see all the little shit that needs to be done—the cluttery stacks of school papers and junk mail that are building up like landmarks, the leaking shower pipe that has forced us into sharing my small bathroom, the small hole in the roof, and the shredded, fading wallpaper that still hasn't been stripped after two years—and I just can't get to it all.  These days it feels like I have my fingers shoved in eight or nine leaking holes with no room to stretch even my Amazonian hands toward another emergency if it comes up. 

Money and time are tight.  Manageable but with little room for error.  There's not a lot of time for me to stop being Mom or Ms. Jackson; Stephanie barely seems to exist right now, let alone poor Sassafras, who convinces me to wear something pretty and shiny every couple of days just so I don't forget that she exists, even though somedays my greatest splurge is a trip to Target ten miles away. 

But when it gets hard, when I start to cry because I feel overwhelmed by all of it, I remind myself that I am an Amazonian princess who can save the world, and herself, with love. 

You got that tattoo for a reason.

I can do this.  I have to do this.  I am doing this.  I'm not pulling the freshly-laundered sheets over my head and ignoring the world.  (Believe me, I've tried.  I just lay there recounting my to-do list until I get up and do the dishes.  Again.)  I am busting my ass every single day to bring myself and my sons closer to a self-sufficient life, to a time when we are not dependent on anyone else's time or money or support.  I am teaching them and myself that there are strong, dogged, determined women who will work their asses off to make a change, even if it is only in their own world.

And things go wrong all the time.  I find myself missing a school event for Tricky because I'm working, kissing his teary face at the bus stop because he's frustrated I'm not there like he wants me to be.  Or I'm in the front yard, fending off a barrage of Fuck-yous from a pajama-clad Max, who at 13 doesn't understand why his father hasn't reached out to him in well over a month. 

I do my best to hold it together, to keep the shaking and the tears at bay until they're gone for the day or safely in their beds at night, but I screw up.  I yell about the cat boxes and the dirty laundry they won't pick up off their bedroom floors, about telling them again to unload the dishwasher.  And I don't sleep, worried like hell about how I'm ever going to manage this on my own.  And at night, I stare at the lonely dark until my brain tells my body to shut down, even though it is itself constantly churning and planning and worrying.

You got that tattoo for a reason.

Every day, I get up and try again.  Sassafras helps me pin my hair up in my crown and throws on some sparkly bangles.  I fuel up the invisible jet, and I cruise from errand to job to another errand, hoping like hell that I have a handle on it all.  Praying every single minute that I'm not losing track of my babies, because there is no one else around to keep them on track. 

But I know that everything that came before, all of the lessons I have worked so hard to learn, are playing out now, in real time.  There is no more practice, no more play-acting until I'm ready for the real thing. 

This is my life, and I got that tattoo for a reason.

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You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn.

As I was turning 14, I made the decision to leave behind my schoolmates and the few friends I'd managed to make, opting to go to the smaller, alternative magnet high school.  I'd always been an outsider—the strange, poor girl who transferred into the upper-middle-class school where she could be guaranteed the gifted education her test scores demanded. 

In elementary school, I never had classmates who came to sleep over at my house.  My parents and I lived in a trailer two doors from my paternal grandparents, seven miles from the edges of the other school's district.  Occasionally I would be invited to a birthday party or sleepover at a classmate's house, but it always felt strange, like I was included because someone's mother made it that way. 

Junior high was better but only just a little.  I had a few close friends, and my happiest memories of that time almost all involve being at someone else's house.  My friend, Kelly, and her parents never failed to include me in their life, week after week of Saturday sleepovers and Sunday church and family dinners.  Kelly's home was warm and inviting, especially as I was surviving my own parents' divorce. 

I was abandoning the young girl persona of Cissie, but who was I becoming?  Adolescence is a terribly unsettling time, the shift from child to adult.  Confusion and disorientation are rampant, and I was especially susceptible to that.  The gifted high school, RLC, seemed like an opportunity to break entirely from Cissie and the painful memories of growing up different.  The school had its own unique history of being a safe haven for outcasts, a defiant eye-sore of a building in a suburban slum, and the students and teachers were unlike anything I'd experienced growing up in the White Flight safety of mid-80s Bluff Park, Alabama. 

RLC was the place that I became not just Stephanie, but Stephanie Quinn.

 

Quinn - Age 15 or 16

 

 

For a while in the 1980s, monogramed sweaters were all the rage.  I can remember desperately wanting a crewneck one in turquoise, my SKQ initials elaborately adorning the wool blend. 

"They don't do a Q," my mother explained.

I scanned the Sears catalog, looking at the choices of color and style, wistful for the tightly-woven threads that sheened the flourishing embellishment of "Diane Elizabeth Jones" or "Roger Adam Smith".  Q and X and Z just weren't options, so I never had a monogrammed anything. 

By the time I graduated high school in 1990, I had been the only Q-named student ever to attend RLC. 

I was not like other girls.

Looking back, I realize that my habit and joy of finding jellicle names started in my own childhood but certainly continued in my teens.  Budgie and Tomato Butt know who they are, and Tomato Butt began to call me "The Mighty Quinn". 

Who was Quinn?  She was different, even by the strange standards of the socially awkward, creative group she lived and thrived in.  She was tall and big and loud and awkward.  She was a slacker who found it easier to not do something that was hard, because dropping from the lower branches meant a faster, softer landing than crashing from the top of the tree. 

Where Cissie had tried her best to be a good girl, Quinn plainly said, "Fuck that!" and began to demand that life be on her terms.  If anyone expected anything of her, she would go out of her way to do the opposite.  She was openly defiant and disagreeable and rebellious.  She was sneaky and manipulative and mostly learned how not to get caught. 

Because Cissie hadn't gotten the attention and care that she so craved even when she was a good girl, Quinn learned that a gut-wrenching, lung-wailing tantrum could bring about attention.  Bad attention was better than no attention, so she worked with what came easy to her. 

Early in my freshman year, I met a guy at school.  He was a senior.  He never had a jellicle name, though I'll call him Jack for ease of use.  Jack and I were friends immediately.  We spent long hours on the telephone almost every night, talking about everything and nothing.  He would play his guitar in the background while we talked or watched TV or while I did my homework.  When I would argue with my mom, he would talk me down.  When DH and I broke up in that stupid high school way, Jack spent weeks and months letting me talk through it all.  Sometimes I would hear about the girl he'd gone out with over the weekend. 

We hung out some at school, though far less than seems likely given the nature of our relationship.  We kind of made out once, on the third floor hall during our shared free period.  There was no kiss, but my French teacher stopped to talk to us while we snuggled against the painted cinderblock wall near the stairs.  She had no idea that my baggy sweatshirt was hiding his hands on my boobs. 

And Jack and I never failed to tell each other that we loved each other.  I can remember the first time we did, on the telephone while he was at his house and I was at Karolina's.  It was just sort of said after a strange, rough night at the mall, and we continued that tradition for the length of our relationship. 

Jack was also the first person I ever told about my molestation.  He was the first safe place I'd ever known, and then he graduated and went to college.  I have the strange memory of Jack calling me from college moments after my molester tried to grope me for the last time.  I cried, hysterical and broken, explaining that I'd just told the man never to touch me again or I would kill him.  Jack listened patiently and soothed me through it.

When he first left, I missed him but was okay.  We would keep in touch through letters and then the occasional phone call.  (Long distance was expensive in those days.)  Eventually—and some of this is totally skewed by hindsight—I didn't fully understand that I missed him and why I missed him.  I became petulant and argumentative.  There was a nasty exchange of harsh, sometimes vitriolic letters, and then our friendship was dead. 

Eventually I started dating Damien.  The two of them had actually known each other in high school but hadn't had contact in several years.  Damien was loud and gregarious and pushy and funny and strangely charming.  He would call me, while he was dating another friend of mine, and talk for hours, about everything and nothing.  He would play his guitar in the background while we talked and watched TV or while I did my homework. 

Jack warned me not to get involved with Damien, months after our own relationship had passed the point of disintegration.  I specifically chose to date Damien because Jack had told me not to.

Damien goes on to be a tempestuous, on-again/off-again four years of utter Hell.  He was verbally and emotionally and physically abusive.  He was the catalyst for a couple of half-hearted suicide attempts.  He was the intentional, malicious cause of some serious self-harm.   

DH returns to my life.  Twenty years later, I'm cycling through a series of bad relationships with unavailable men.  I'm intently examining my history, unearthing any clue as the what and how and why things went wrong, so that I can at least have the potential to move forward in a healthy, fulfilling relationship. 

This morning, it hit me: I am continually recreating this relationship with Jack. 

Quinn smacked me upside the skull with a derisive, "Duh!"

Hell, Damien and Bounder were even physically built like Jack, and Absolem's hands always reminded me of Jack's.  Interestingly, DH and Jack knew each other, as well, and there was never any love lost between the two of them.

Time and again, I am drawn to creative, smart, funny, unordinary, passionate men.  Men who love music (including a couple of musicians).  Men who can talk to me for hours and meet my need of quality conversation.  Men who don't always have a lot to do with me away from that venue.  Men who hide me and sometimes deny me and the impact I have on their hearts. 

I have never once had an initial exchange of I-love-yous face to face.  I've never had the experience of seeing the look on a man's face when he tells me that for the first time, of being able to look him in the eye when I say it as well.  It has always come over the phone.  Once, it was even in a text. 

For months, I have been angry as hell that, to the best of my knowledge, Bounder never told another living soul that he loved me.  Absolem certainly didn't.  Neither did Katniss. 

And so even Quinn became a secret.  She learned to trade men's secrets and deepest, darkest truths for their affection.  For their love.  For sex.  As long as it was quiet. 

The Mighty Quinn, who has the power to make the crazy better, to return the frazzled to restful normal.  Who knows better how to deal with cold and dark than Quinn the Eskimo?

During the final bench trial for my divorce, the judge asked if I wanted to keep my married name or go back to my maiden.  I knew from experience that it's much easier with schools and friends and the like, when a mother's last name matches her young children's.  I'd also fully established my writing persona as Stephanie Quinn Jackson. 

But I have gravitated over the last few months toward images of Qs.  Initially I saw them as magnifying glasses, as a tool for closer examination.  Then I began to associate them with questions, with my own inner searching.  Lately they've felt more like a reclamation of who I was before DH. 

Today, I see all of that as valid.  I also see her, the 17-year-old girl who wants to make sure I hear what she has to say, who wants to make sure her valiance wasn't in vain.  She wants to make sure I know Jack.

So, Quinn, you crazy nut, I hear you.  I love you, and I thank you for poking me hard enough to make me finally notice the puzzle piece that's been upside-down and sideways for 25 years.  Now take your self-satisfied smirk and go take a nap.  You deserve it.