Who Gets the Tradition?

Before I was a single mom, I spent Thanksgiving gobbling up traditional trappings at an intimate gathering of...oh, about 70 people. Sometimes the gatherings were at someone's house; sometimes they were at a rented church hall. Marrying into this kind of holiday tradition was a change for me, but I tried my darnedest to fit right in. But as you know, if you've read any Roaring Moms posts at all, we have a Murphy's Law Life. What can go wrong, will go wrong.

There was the year I hosted the event at our Painted Lady Victorian Home. The only bathroom available to the hoards of family was upstairs, which was problematic enough. When the toilet boycotted and started spewing everything back up until it drained through the cracks in the ceiling and into the living room football lounge, that's when the real trouble started--and the guests left. Then there was the year I caught some nasty influenza virus literally the night before. Feeling it was too late to change venues and because it was potluck anyway, the hubby decided I could quarantine myself in the bedroom. You know, it might not have been too bad to lay in bed all day while someone else catered the meal and cleaned up, if I hadn't been on fire with fever and coughing up blood. It was awful!

Most Thanksgivings weren't so cursed. Just mine, of course. Nevertheless, chaotic, messy, noisy, crowded Thanksgivings have blessed my kids their entire lives. Their father and I deciding we would live in separate houses didn't need to change that for them.

For the past several years, my Thanksgivings have been comparatively smaller affairs--sometimes spent with my family, sometimes with my kids, sometimes with my friends, and once alone. That was fine too, because I treated myself to a big ol' stack of IHOP blueberry pancakes and no one was around to tell me that IHOP blueberry pancakes aren't Thanksgiving worthy. I've truly come to savor the small Thanksgiving. Our lives are chaotic, noisy, and messy on a daily basis. A quiet holiday that comes right after soccer and theatre season is quite welcome. There is nothing like a cozy fireplace, a cup of cocoa, the Macy's parade, a simple gathering, and a quiet day to pump me up for the Christmas season. At the end of it, I am honestly grateful that my children spent a crazy couple of hours with the cousins and battled Black Friday with that side of the family while I sat in my pajamas, stuffing my face. And I have never again had to plunge another toilet on Thanksgiving Day.

So regardless of what "the papers" that all divorced couples refer to like they are the third tablet to come down from Mt. Sinai say, the kids still get their chaotic Thanksgiving tradition with their cousins and aunts and uncles. And that's the way it should be. Through divorce, you might be able to split furniture and bank accounts evenly, but not traditions.

I hope any moms and dads from split families, blended families, and even dysfunctional families who might be reading this understand--you have your childhood holiday memories. It's time to make sure your kids get theirs. Whether that memory comes from a day with you or a with someone else who loves them shouldn't matter. Don't you want them to smile back on it for years to come? It's not the hours logged at one house that makes the memories. It's the laughter, the noise, the chaos, the cousins, the cozy cocoa, the quiet day. And maybe even the plunged toilets.

What are your most disastrous or most wonderful Thanksgiving memories?

No Pity Party Here!

Confession time. I know I profess to face life's challenges with a smile and a determination to turn loss into a lesson and grief into gratitude. And I do. Most of the time. But, honestly, I go through a mini-depression every other week.

The living arrangement with my ex-husband requires the kids to live one week at a time at each house. I have a very strong opinion about this kind of arrangement, but that's for another blog. Nevertheless, that's the arrangement. In some ways, it works. There's not a Monday night here and a Tuesday night there and a Wednesday, Thursday somewhere else. The schedule actually provides for a small amount of stability and routine.

Still, every other Monday, when my children move to the other house for a week, it takes getting used to all over again. When we first started this arrangement, I literally did not get out of bed until Wednesday. Apparently I didn't know how to function without children bickering over who gets control of the remote or who is hogging the computer or which sister wore the other one's shirt without permission! My home was simply unrecognizable without 12 pair of shoes in the living room, 2 sets of shin guards under the dining room table, and 3 glasses on the computer desk. After nearly 2 decades as a stay-at-home mom, I couldn't come up with a good reason to get up if there was no one to coerce out of bed or complain about having to cook breakfast for. (You all know I hate to cook, right? Love the kids. Love the food. Hate the cooking.)

One morning, while trying to steal back a few inches of bed territory from the alien beast who thinks he's too good to sleep on the floor like a real dog, it hit me. No, not the alien beast! It was the idea that it is not my children's responsibility to make me happy that shook me awake. I had preached this philosophy to them forever. Which, I can tell you, sometimes came back to bite me. For example:

ME: Frank, you really should join the cross county team with your sisters. You'd love it. They have a lot of fun.
FRANK: Mom, I don't want to join the cross county team. I don't even like going to the meets to watch them run.
ME: Well, maybe if you were running in the meet, you'd enjoy it. They seem to like it. You should do it.
FRANK: I don't want to. I'm fine with soccer.
ME: But, you've never tried it. You should try it. You might like it.
FRANK: Huff! Mom, do you want me to go out for cross country?
ME: Only if you want to, honey.
FRANK: I don't want to.
ME: But...
FRANK: Mom, you always tell me it's not our job to make you happy and that we don't have to do stuff like that just to make you happy.
ME: grumble, grumble, grumble

Funny how that philosophical parenting stuff sounds really good until they use it back on us, huh?

Anyway, that morning...and it wasn't even Wednesday yet...I jumped out of bed smiling because I had found my life lesson. I blasted  Bon Jovi (because it is his job to make me happy and he does it so nicely!). I danced through my not-so-cluttered house with a joyful heart.

It isn't  their job to make me happy. And maybe it's not mine to make them happy. But it certainly is my job to provide an environment that fosters happiness. And apparently, that environment includes wayward shin guards, homeless shoes, and burnt toast. At least when they are here. Because when they are there, the maid provides a cleaner kind of happy place. And that's okay, too.

I still miss my kids when they aren't here. I still bless the technology gods for the invention of cell phones and texting and computers and Facebook so that I always feel connected to them no matter where they lay their heads at night. It's okay to miss them. It's okay to be sad that there's no one to burn toast for. It's not okay, however, to selfishly stop living and stop celebrating the fact that I am their mom every second of every day. Living in two homes, they have more of a burden than I do. I owe it to them to live gloriously and graciously. I owe it to them to take the Pity out of the Pity Party. I think a Parent Party is better idea anyway.

Can I Get A Heaping Helping of Normal, Please?

Normalcy? What's that?

Well, it's what all the parenting books and magazines and experts tell you to try to maintain when your family is going through the divorce transition. I'm wondering what exactly a parent is supposed to do when your family was never normal to begin with? And as far as going through the transition? Well, that's never really over, is it?

Now that we are a few years out, my educated guess that "maintaining normalcy" means to forge ahead like nothing is different. I remember a moment when we were just a few months post divorce and Frank developed this habit of asking the same question every single night.  "Hey, Mom, what's for dinner?"  On one particularly trying day, Frank came into the kitchen and asked this very normal question again. I took a deep breath, counted as close to ten as I could get and explained to him in my serious voice (which is quite an abnormal voice for me) that I truly, truly hated that question.

I don't know if that question bothers other moms, but it drives me nuts! WHY do they want to know what's for dinner? Is it so they can decide if they want to do the Secret Pizza Hut dial on the cell phone? Is it a gentle reminder that the rumbling noise echoing through the house for the last 30 minutes means everyone is starving? Could they be taking some kind of scientific poll to see how many times a week Mac-n-Cheese can pass for dinner? Why do they need to know?

Poor Frank. After enduring one of my well-worded, perfectly punctuated lectures, he smiles, hugs me, and cautiously whispers. "OK, but I still kinda want to know what's for dinner."

Years later, he's still asking almost every night, "What's for dinner?" I'm not sure why this habit started. Maybe, at first, it was his way of focusing on the "normal" stuff of families. He might have two homes now, and divide his holidays between parents, but there is always dinner. Or maybe (as is quite normal for me) I'm reading too much into it and he truly just wants to know what's for dinner. And sometimes, I'm quite sure, he asks just for the thrill-seeking pleasure of it. Nothing says you're living on the edge like sneaking up behind a knife-wielding, chicken-carving Roaring Mom at the end of hectic day and asking, "What's for dinner?"

I honestly don't know how well we maintained "normalcy" through the transition. In fact, we're still trying to figure out a whole lot of stuff.

A little over a week ago my oldest daughter left for college. She left behind a mess of clothes the sisters aren't sure if they are allowed to wear or not, an empty bedroom the siblings are wondering if they still have to stay out of, a cat she rescued a couple months ago that I'm not sure I'm obligated to keep, and a few decibels of noise level we're doing our best to fill up. In other words, we're once again striving to maintain "normalcy".

Tonight, after I finished the Roaring Mom Round-up (otherwise known as the extra-curricular taxi time), Frank followed me into the kitchen and asked, "What's for dinner?" This time I hugged him. It's good to know that, at least for now, some things remain.

The Psycho Ex

Don't worry. This post isn't what you think. It isn't a brutal bagging on my ex-husband. That would be unfair, tacky, and wrong. So let's get the straight right now. I do not believe in ex-bashing. Especially in a public forum and NEVER in front of your children. Maybe in private with your best girlfriend and couple of Margaritas. In fact, that situation might just be necessary for your mental health. But that's about the only time it's appropriate.

One thing I've noticed that all divorced people have in common is the Psycho Ex. I have a friend whose ex accused her of being a lesbian in an attempt to get custody. There's a lady I know whose ex was a doctor, but when she left, he quit and went to work part time at a liquor store just so he wouldn't have to pay any support. I know of a woman whose ex injured himself and then accused her of physical abuse when all the while he was stalking her. A friend of a friend had to get a restraining order against her ex, not for abuse but because when he would drop off the kids, he would come into the house and not leave. He'd just sit on the couch like he still lived there.

The Psycho ex syndrome goes both ways. I've heard of plenty of single moms with full custody who act like they own their children. They won't share doctor, school, sports information with the Dad. Then complain that he doesn't show up to events he didn't even know were taking place. I know of ex-wives who obsess over knowing who their ex is dating and then make a point of befriending that woman just so she can sabotage the relationship.

Once, when I was still married, we went to dinner with a friend of ours and his new wife. It was awkward because we had been friends with the ex-wife. It was also awkward because the new wife spent the entire dinner telling stories of "psycho" stuff the ex wife had allegedly done. And I spent the entire dinner trying hard not to say, "Well, you were the secretary that her husband was sleeping with for years and eventually left her for. That tends to make a woman mad, if not a little crazy."

It's clear that psycho ex-spouses come in all forms. You've got your stalkers, your drama queens, your guilt-trippers, your child-owners, your control freaks, your deadbeats, your mid-life crisis clowns, and your everyday wackjobs. This roaring mom isn't even going to breach the subject of the seriously deranged and dangerous. Except to say that if you are in a relationship with one of those, get out now. And get help. Don't wait and let someone read in your diary that if something ever happens to you, they should suspect your ex.

Still, I wonder...if every divorced person has a psycho ex, does that mean that I am a psycho ex, as well? I've never heard anyone say, "My ex is a perfectly wonderful human being and the most accommodating, generous, beautiful ex-spouse in the world." If you are divorced, do you sometimes wonder what story others are getting about your ex's psycho ex?

I commend myself that I have never even come close to committing the above referenced scenarios. But I know for a fact that I've done some things that my ex would probably consider to be crazy. I'm pretty sure he blames the 18 year old's tattoo on me since I am her only tattooed parent. Her nose piercing was probably my fault too, for being so lenient with the tattoo situation. Telling the kids they needed to talk their dad into getting a puppy so they could have pets at both houses was probably a little bit conniving, as well. But, hey, I've always admitted that I'm just one estrogen charged bad hair day away from the nut house. In fact, when I look around at the inundation of Lego's and soccer balls and music books and rescued kittens and more children in my house than I can legally claim even when mine are at their dad's that week, I'm pretty sure I'm already living in one.

So I guess the point is, single parents, if you are going to be psycho, do it in a way that ends in puppies and diamond studs (even if the studs are stuck in your 18 yr old's nose). At the very least, do it in a way that will eventually bring laughter, and I don't mean the evil scientist laughter. Not only will it make for less awkward dinner parties, but it might just make post-divorce life a more joyous place to live.

The Random White Trash Mattress

DISCLAIMER: If you consider yourself to be white trash, or if your ancestors were white trash, please read no further. I will probably offend you.

About five years ago, we purchased my son a new mattress for his bed. The old mattress was a perfectly good mattress. It wasn't falling apart or anything. We just upgraded him to something more supportive. The kids immediately found many playful uses for the old one. So we kept it. For the kids to play with. Just for the summer.

And the next summer.

And the next.

In fact, it now is a permanent fixture on the floor of the downstairs family room. We fondly refer to it as the random mattress. Well, maybe I don't refer to it so fondly. It's more like, "I swear I'm gonna burn that stupid, ugly random mattress if you don't get it out of the middle of my family room." Obviously five years of threatening arson has made not any impression whatsoever on any member of the household. Even the alien beasts we call dogs laugh at me from the random mattress.

My kids love the random mattress. All their friends love the random mattress. Having it means the family room is always ready for a slumber party. I, however, think it's an ugly tripping hazard that makes me feel very white trash. But, I also realize I can't actually burn it and it won't fit in the trash cart, so I don't know how I'd get rid of it anyway. If only I had a pick-up I could throw it in the back of...

And that's not the only thing about my post-divorce house that brings on that white trash feeling. There's the weed patch in my backyard due to the broken lawn mower, and the remnants of last year's Christmas tree that I know is hiding somewhere in there. You see, I was never in charge of Christmas tree disposal, so I tossed it in the backyard until I located the place to recycle it, but never was able to find that out. There's also the brown patch of grass in the front yard caused by the broken sprinkler head-induced drought. There was the dead tree in the front garden, until a friend helped pull most of it down except for about four foot of the stump so every time I pull into the driveway I feel like I'm being flipped off by the dead tree that I dared strip of its bare branches. (OK, I realize no one else probably sees the skinny dead tree stump as one giant "naughty finger" pointing to the sky, but remember whose twisted brain is blogging here.)

So when the downstairs couch popped a seem causing the stuffing to burst from the cushion I was very tempted to just put the couch on the porch. It would provide a comfortable spot to watch my brown grass grow, would it not? But we wouldn't be able to watch anything after the sun goes down because the porch light has been burnt out for at least 3 weeks. (The ladder that was tall enough to reach the porch ceiling didn't stay with the house.)

It's always a learning experience, this post-divorce, single woman life. While I have learned that men are good for some things, (like fixing mowers and sprinkler heads) I've also learned the importance of self-dependency. On some days, it would be very easy to feel bitter or jealous or something negative knowing that the ex-husband has a very nice brand new home filled with very nice brand new furniture cleaned by a professional cleaning service and surrounded by a beautiful yard kept by a professional lawn service.

But the feeling doesn't last long. Whenever I pout over the lack of a new sofa, I inevitably find peanut butter smeared on the old one. Just the other day, my daughter pointed out how everyone's grass seems pretty brown and dry this summer. Hmmm...guess I was too busy obsessing over my own yard to notice anyone else's. And nothing brings a smile like the vision of exhausted kids sprawled on the stupid random mattress the morning after a night full of laughter and happy memory making.

I guess it's good to have stuff around to remind me that just because life is messy, doesn't mean it isn't wonderful. That just because the stuffing is exploding from my sofa and my dogs nap daily on a random mattress doesn't mean our life is trashy at all. In fact, the true value of life is much more obvious when you're surrounded by hazards and inconveniences.

So if you stop by my house, don't be offended by the tree stump greeting or feel awkward about the shabby furniture. Just smile and make yourself comfortable on the random mattress. You'll soon feel like one of the family. Heck, we might even share our moonshine with ya.

Ya'll come back now, ya hear!

Sugar High

Ripped from the Headlines of Facebook:

"OH yes!...Paybacks are hell!...I just gave my daughter a tube of Liquid Lolly-pop & a Mountain Dew...now waiting on my Ex to pick-up my daughter."

True status posted on a FB friend's page. I read it and...laughed. It's just funny. But, judging by the comments she got, not everyone appreciated the humor.

This woman was chastised publicly for everything from manipulating her child against the father to committing child abuse. Child abuse? For letting her child drink a Mountain Dew? Give me a break.

Some folks did come to her defense, and I noticed the comments were equally split--men vs. women. Mom vs. dads, perhaps?

I have no idea what her family life is like, but I do understand the idea of payback. Moms, how many times did you prepare a nutritious meal, only to discover that dad had spoiled the kids' appetites with sugary pre-dinner snacks? How many times did you find creative ways to get the kids to choke down carrots and broccoli, only to have dad announce loudly to everyone that he was treating them to Dairy Queen for desert? How many times did you send him to the store for string cheese and whole grain bread, only to have dad bring home Fritos, bean dip, and double stuff Oreos? And my personal favorite--how many times did you specifically forbid any $100/100 calorie per kernel movie theatre treats, only to have him return from the "restroom" with a tray full of the stuff?

Mountain Dew and Liquid lollipops might be considered child abuse! My Aunt Fanny's fanny!

If sugaring up a child is abusive, there are a lot of grandparents with a lot of explaining to do. Most grandparents I know brag about the fact that they spoil the grandkids and then return them to the parents. And some even do it on purpose, just to experience the joy of payback!

My dad is an amazing cook. The kids beg to go to his house, sometimes just for the leftovers, which are always better than anything fresh off the grill in my kitchen. But even with a the luscious buffets he prepares, one of their favorite things about going to Grandpa's is the fact that the pantry is full of soda pop and the freezer is full of individual Haagen Dazs ice cream cups. And they can have as many of each as they want. Grandpa stocks these sinful snacks specifically for the grandkids. He and Grandma don't indulge in them. It's an investment he makes purely for the benefit of payback. And maybe for the hugs and smiles from the grandkids when I say they've had enough and they answer, "But Grandpa said I could!"

Grandpa has been spoiling his grandkids like this for a very long time. His oldest is 20 years old. He drives back from college and sometimes makes a stop at Grandpa's soda and ice cream shop before he even makes it home.

When my daughter was three days old--three DAYS old, Grandpa came to visit. It just happened to be Halloween. All the cousins had flocked to our house to see the new baby and, if the truth be known, because we had the best trick-or-treating neighborhood in the city. There was sweet stuff piled on every horizontal surface. I should have known better than to leave Grandpa alone with the baby. Thanks to him, she enjoyed her first lollipop that night. And when the moms caught him and screamed that he couldn't let a 3-day-old lick a lollipop, he laughed and continued to hold the cherry sucker to her eager lips.

So, did this mom commit mortal sin by sugaring up her child before sending her to Dad's? Well, scientists have been trying to tell moms for years that sugar has nothing to do with hyperactivity. That it's the party atmosphere that those snacks are served in that create the chaos. I never bought it, but if science is on her side, maybe she should embrace the official findings.

In any case, the daughter will soon crash, so maybe Mom did Dad a favor. Maybe he'll be able to sit back with a cold soda and candy bar and watch the game while the daughter takes a nice, long nap. We'll just hope he's not too hyper for her, once she wakes up.

What do you think? Harmless humor or abusive action?

Do We Own Our Children?

I hate sharing my kids. There, I said it. It's selfish and I never admit it to them, but I hate it.

On the day they switch to their dad's house for the week, my heart feels hollow. I hate that day. Which can make it very tempting to hold on too tightly to them when they are home again.

My oldest daughter, Kate, has a friend who is the sweetest thing in the world. She truly is one of the nicest people I've ever met. Unfortunately Kate and her friend don't get to spend as much time together as they'd like. Because when her friend is at her dad's house, she isn't allowed to spend much time with friends or at any other social function. Her dad is one of those parents who thinks that because she is only there every other week, she owes him her time. So sad.

Do our kids owe us their time? Really? If anything, we owe them the opportunity to live as normal a life as possible. In most circumstances, children did not ask for their parents to divorce but the children are the ones being asked to bear the brunt of the inconvenience of a two household family. Some of that is, unfortunately, just part of the deal. But as parents we should alleviate this in any way we can.

Manly Man Dad Friend, whom I have mentioned before, is a single dad. I'm sure there must be others out there who've got it figured out like he does. But so far, he's the only divorced dad I know of who does it right. When his kids have social events or slumber parties or lock-ins or sports camps or any other activity planned for his scheduled weekend, guess what he does? He shares in his children's excitement, makes sure they have what the need, taxis them to the location and picks them up the next day. Imagine that! He actually lets his kids enjoy their childhoods without making them feel obligated to give him their time and attention.

So, let me ask you, which kid has a closer relationship with her dad--the one who must log the prescribed hours or the one who gets to have a normal social life?

The parents who are so focused on forcing their children to log hours just don't get it. The parents who won't allow the child to go to dad's because it mom's week, just don't get it. The parents who guilt trip kids into staying home because the parent feels insecure just don't get it. What don't they get? Respect, for one thing. They also don't get that they are teaching their kids that love is conditional and that obligation is more important than acceptance.

So when I'm tempted to hold on too tightly, I give a great big hug--one that will last for the entire time they are apart from me. And I remind them over and over and over again: "I don't own you. I love you."