Category Archives: Remarried Momdom

Happy Birthday to My Man

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DSC00478The Man and I have just celebrated being married for 8 months, and today is his birthday.

If you’ve been following along, he and I have known each other for years, and I started to crush on him pretty hard after I got divorced.  He has also known The Boy for years, and often entertained him when we were on vacation down here with my parents.  He even taught him to ride a bike, and has recently succeeded in getting him to stand up on the surfboard while riding a wave in by himself – such a triumph after years of “lessons”!

He was nervous about getting married, but has since settled in, and enjoys marriage now, as do I.  Quite simply put, he’s my best friend, I love spending time with him, he makes me laugh, and we are good together.

There is also a considerable age difference between us, which has always bothered him more than it has bothered me.  He often wishes I had some grey hairs so people wouldn’t mistake him for my dad (this has only happened a few times, although it is irritating), but I think over time, he has seen that it rarely comes up, and isn’t an issue in the least.

He is a good man, and I am so lucky to have him.  And for the next seven months, he is only sixteen years older than me, rather than seventeen.  Happy Birthday to The Man, The Only Man For Me!

Judgement Not Welcome Here

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512px-WGHardingRecently, I posted about a couple of my friends whose marriages have faltered.  Then I was notified about a couple of comments on the post, comments that were rather judgemental of my friends.  I know this person who commented may not realize how preachy her comments sounded, but they were unwarranted, and rather unwelcome.

Those of you who have gone through divorce can probably guess what they said, verbatim, because it’s just what a person in their situation does not need to hear.  The I-hope-you’ve-really-thought-about-this, and you-have-no-idea-how-this-is-going-to-impact-your-kids kind of crap that I heard, too.

First of all, there are enough single-parent households out there nowadays to prove that the world doesn’t end with a divorce.  Plenty of kids not only survive but thrive in a single-parent household.  This notion that a home without two parents is somehow “broken” is positively ludicrous, and needs to be sent packing, back to the Victorian age from whence it came.  My son has thrived since the ex left our home.  The idea that “staying in it for the kids” is better somehow, as if children aren’t negatively impacted by two parents who fight constantly, don’t ever speak to each other, do not show any sign of affection to each other, or contribute to an ever-present tension in the house is just plain wrong.

Second, I dare say that the great majority of people who decide on divorce did not make the decision lightly.  If you think that’s the case, you’ve been watching too much “reality” TV.  Divorce is a heart-rending, soul-breaking decision to make.  And there is enough hurt, guilt and anger in that decision already without having to also be judged by society at large.

Third, just like the old saying, “If you’ve met one kid with autism, you’ve met one kid with autism,” no two marriages are alike.  No one knows what goes on inside of a marriage except for the two people in it.  They may be over-sharers, but the outsiders are only getting one side of the story, and therefore no one really knows.  When I got divorced, my ex mother-in-law actually sent me a letter saying that they “never saw it coming.”  A perfect example, as the ex and I had both been miserable for the previous six years.  The two friends I wrote about?  I never claimed to know what caused either breakup, because I don’t know.  I even said that I didn’t think the autism, either father’s undiagnosed nor the son’s caused it, although dealing with autism in the household can strain any marriage.  My friend has never once said anything about it, and is not using it for “justification” of anything.

So why don’t we listen to the old advice, “if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say it?”  Why do people insist on getting behind a keyboard to say things to people they would never say in real life?

Judging someone for their divorce is a big no-no in my book.  It makes one look small, and your unwanted “advice” only hurts.  I choose instead to support people whom I trust to make smart decisions and weigh all their options.  Being a parent to a child with autism has taught me that life is hard enough without having to worry about how others will judge you.  You lose nothing by supporting others in their personal struggles.

Another

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512px-Broken_glassYet another friend of mine told me recently that she and her husband were separating.  And they have a son on the spectrum.  I don’t think it had a lot to do with their decision, but it may have been an elephant in the room because her husband is probably also on the spectrum but was never diagnosed.  They just told the kids this past weekend, and they are all still reeling.

And my best friend at work called a lawyer today to make an appointment to get the ball rolling on her divorce.

People in my circle are hurting, and I empathize.  They are in places I was in, what seems like a long time ago.  Ages ago.  Lifetimes ago.

Luckily I know what not to say.  I know what they do not want to hear.  And I hope they see me at the other end and take heart that the pain they are going through does not have to last forever.  They are both strong ladies, but even the strong have weak moments, and this is one of the hardest struggles they will ever live through.

My heart aches for them, but I also admire them for their strength to face what they are in for.  And I stand ready to catch them when they need to lean on someone.

Buddies

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The Boy has always relished the attention that The Man has given to him without a thought, most likely because his own dad doesn’t give him the time of day, even in the one week of the year (or less) that he sees him.  The Man was the one to teach The Boy how to ride his bike, and The Man will be the one that shows him how to shave.  He is constantly creating teachable moments with The Boy, and doesn’t hesitate to take him to the hardware store or the convenience store for a little hang-out time.  This morning, he suggested The Boy start his truck while he started my car for me (ice and sleet having covered our windshields, and not having an ice scraper because the old one got busted in the last ice storm).  It pretty much made The Boy’s day.

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Tonight, The Man and The Boy had a wrestling match, which they do a couple of nights a week – we use it as a reward, and The Boy adores the sensory input and the bonding.  Later on, he came out of his room and sat with us (an unusual occurrence), and it was a wonderful family moment, giggling and laughing as I asked yes or no questions and they controlled eachother’s heads to nod yes or no in answer.  And he chose to stay to watch some skiing with us, cuddling up to his stepdad on the end of the couch.  And he even invited The Man to have a sleepover in the family room with him tonight since he has a snow day tomorrow…  The Man has fallen asleep, but The Boy is still there cuddled up to him, enjoying having a real dad for the first time in his life.

Vehicles and Freedom

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Fargo Pickup Truck by John Lloyd

Fargo Pickup Truck by John Lloyd

For the past month, The Man and I have been sharing a vehicle.  If you have ever had to do this with a spouse or significant other, you already understand that this is a true test of any relationship.  Luckily, I think we passed the test, but it was definitely not easy.

In our country, our cars are our own private spaces, and because our society is still so vehicle-based, it is hard not to feel isolated when you don’t have a car of your own.  I got a little testy when he changed some of my pre-sets on my radio.  And then his “stuff” was in my storage spaces – his work notebook, and his little flashlight, and his receipt book…  every where I turned it was no longer my car, and it irked.

He had sold his old truck for a great price, thinking he would go out and buy another with no problem.  And then we hit a snag, and had to re-adjust our search parameters, and several weeks had gone by.  He needed a truck for work – there were jobs he couldn’t get to because he couldn’t haul large loads in my little wagon, and the search continued.

In the meantime, we settled into a routine – he would drop me off at work, and come back to pick me up at the end of the day.  We would both then go to my parents’ to pick up The Boy.  It was a nice time to connect with each other, a pleasant way to start and end our work days.  I enjoyed it.  I really did.

But I still missed having my car.

We had to do things like grocery shop together, and I found that I much prefer to do that alone (sometimes it’s better if The Man doesn’t know every ingredient in his meals…).  Finding time to myself seemed even harder now that we were down to one car.  And everything is so much more spread out down here than it was up north, that unless you are a senior citizen, for whom all kinds of mass transit exists, one must have a vehicle.

On Day Three of my Nasty Illness, The Man called to tell me he had bought a truck.  He got a good deal, and a good truck, and I am happy that he did his homework.

I’m also thrilled to have my very own vehicle back.

No More Time for Illness

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483px-Don't_Let_Sickness_Sabotage_Your_Work_-_NARA_-_534139I apologize for dropping off the face of the Earth the past several days.  I fell victim to a very swift-moving, nasty, nasty virus that felled our entire office, and continues to threaten anyone within its reach.  It is Day 4, and after having spent Days 1-3 flat on my back in bed, I have finally come out to sit on the couch.

My mom came over for a bit to take care of me on Day 1, making sure I had aspirin at regular intervals, Gatorade to drink, and a little bit of soup before she had to head off to work.  You don’t know how often I wished I’d had my mom to baby me like this when I lived up north, but it was never even remotely as bad as this.  She was worried about me.

The Man was the epitome of awesome, taking care of getting The Boy off to school in the mornings, packing lunches, making breakfast, stuffing backpacks, and also making sure I had Gatorade and anything else I needed before he headed off to work in the morning.

I slept when I could, moaned when I couldn’t. And coughed, and coughed, and coughed some more until my abdominal muscles were shredded.  I had a fever and chills, and just about every inch of my body was sore at one point, and my head increasingly began to feel like it was in a huge vice grip, clamping down on me from all sides, especially my face.

The scariest part for me was that I can remember feeling like I didn’t have control of my own thoughts – irritating pictures and snippets of strange and random songs kept flashing through my brain, and I couldn’t “change the channel”.  I couldn’t open my eyes for very long, because it took too much energy, and just the very thought of watching TV or reading hurt.

And then I realized I could hear the silence.  As an adult who has two burst eardrums in the past 15 or so years, I can tell you that when I get fluid buildup back there, the silence can be deafening.  Unfortunately it has remained, and here on Day 4, I have to wait and see what happens.  If it starts to hurt, I will need to take my uninsured ears to some doctor to get some uninsured antibiotics, I suppose…  and hope they start to work before the fluid ruptures an eardrum or two all over again.

In any case, I’m on the road to recovery, very thankful to have family around to fill in my gaps, inexplicably feeling a little guilty for dropping the ball (3 unpaid days off work!! *sigh*), but very happy to at least be sitting upright in my living room.

Time for a nap…

Is it Time to Call a Spade a Spade?

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I described the ex’s latest cancellation the other day, and The Boy’s reaction.  I am always the one who has to relay the news to The Boy, and I am the one left to field questions to which I have no answers.  I am the one to deal with the acting out that quite often happens after one of these cancellations.

The ex will never change, but does that mean I shouldn’t try to show him what he’s missing, and what he is doing to our son?

English: : A mirror, reflecting a vase. Españo...

Time to hold up a mirror so he can self-reflect?…

I’m thinking of sending him a text (he doesn’t even access his email, and I don’t want to get into it with him on the phone) to point out that he hasn’t seen his son in eight months, and to ask him to imagine not having his own dad around for that long a time period.  Explain that I understand money is tight, and that he has a hard time taking work off, but that if he saved a bit out of every paycheck, and told his boss months in advance (instead of days), he might be able to swing it.  Ask him to stop “trying” to make plans and only tell The Boy he will see him when he is sure he can.  Point out that his son is sad and angry at him, and that he deals with this by acting out, often at school.

He will undoubtedly get angry and not speak to The Boy for months after I send it, because that is his MO.  But I feel I have the right to ask someone who continually hurts my son to take a moment to realize he is doing it, and to please stop.

I know he won’t change, but there’s a chance he has simply not given a thought to the effect of his absence and broken promises on his son.  And if there’s a chance, it’s worth trying, right?

Get Used to Disappointment

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One of my favorite lines from one of my favorite movies (the Princess Bride, which I have seen probably a kajillion times).  Not one of my favorite things my son has to go through.

Broken Reflection

Broken Reflection, Valerie Reneé

Because the ex couldn’t manage to see his son for Thanksgiving, I offered (at Grammy’s urging) to give him the week between Christmas and New Years for visitation.  I suggested he or they come down to the beach for a few days, even rent a house real cheap to see The Boy.

I hadn’t heard anything more about it (although Grammy had overheard the phrase “meet you somewhere” in a phone call between The Boy and the ex), so I texted him last night to see what was up.

I expected him to hem and haw a bit more, but he said straight out he couldn’t get any time off, and couldn’t do it.  Sorry.

I expect this every time, and yet every time I cannot fathom why.  I don’t know anyone (besides the ex) who is or would be completely comfortable not seeing his or her own child for eight months or longer, nor speak to him for a month or more at a time.  I cannot understand his excuses, knowing how much I would do to ensure I would see my child.

But he is not me.

The Boy seemed a bit upset and irritated when I broke the news this evening.  “Why?” he asked.

“Because he can’t get time off from work,” I said.

“Why can’t he get time off from work?”

I paused.  Good question, kiddo.  “You can ask him,” I suggested.  “Want me to text him and have him call you?”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

He’s getting as tired of this game as I am.

The Boy Turns Twelve

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Twelve??  Yes, twelve.  I still can’t believe it.  He keeps getting older.  And bigger.  And his voice keeps getting deeper.

When he was born, he weighed 5 pounds, 6 ounces, and he fit between my elbow and my palm (all snuggled, of course).  When he was born, the nurses quickly nicknamed him “Red” because he was born with a full, and I mean full head of hair that they thought was red.  It still looks red when it gets wet, but he has always been blonde.  When he was born, he was a great eater.

About a month later, we almost lost him.  He had a “malrotation of the intestine” which was not discovered until I questioned his pediatrician’s assessment of the fact that he was projectile vomiting across the kitchen and spitting up yellow.  Only after we switched pediatricians and did an upper gi scan did they figure out he had this malrotation.  And that he was hours away from being in serious, serious trouble.  Immediately after the gi, they took him and told us he was scheduled for surgery in four hours.  To this day, I’m glad it all happened so quickly.  I didn’t have too much time to think about what could have happened.

After the surgery, he wasn’t allowed to eat.  They wanted everything to pass his system to make sure the surgery was a success.  Therefore, only sugar water was allowed in small amounts.  I didn’t realize it at the time, but pictures from that time reveal him to be this tiny skeleton-looking baby.  After three days, he was supposed to be clear, but he wasn’t.  He ended up not being able to eat for six days.  I was still recovering from childbirth, and there was no place for either of us to sleep there – only one recliner.  So we took turns sleeping at the hospital.  It was the worst kind of purgatory, being separated like that, praying for his recovery, while still in pain and bleeding myself (and having to pump on top of all of it).

Needless to say, he not only survived, but thrived, and soon filled out into a typically chubby, happy baby, who was still a good eater, still had a head full of blonde hair, but could no longer fit between my elbow and palm.  He was growing, and he hasn’t stopped.

Happy Birthday to my Boy.  He’ll never know how thankful I am he’s here.

babyboy