Thoughts on Announcing Your Divorce on Facebook

Since I’ve reached a certain age, I’ve noticed that I don’t get very many wedding invitations any more. In fact, I think it’s been a good four or five years since I’ve been invited to a wedding. Which might mean I need to make some new friends. Or it might mean I’m getting old. Either way, it’s kind of a bummer, because I do like cake.

In direct contrast to the lack of wedding invitations in my mailbox, I also have noticed several friends getting divorced, which isn’t something you celebrate with cake (at least most of the time). And it’s occurred to me getting divorced makes things terribly awkward in certain social settings, both in real life and on the Internet.

Since Facebook connects me with people I don’t see on a regular basis, this provides our world with new, socially awkward situations. Facebook has dutifully notified me of certain relationship status changes. When someone I know was formerly married and suddenly becomes single, well, I admit that I appreciate the notification. In general, I follow my own rule: if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. And if I found out about someone’s divorce on Facebook, there’s a high probability that we’re not close enough for me to find out in person.

But having that little notification does come in handy when and if I run into someone at the grocery store and ask, “Say, how is your wife doing?” — only discover that the correct noun is now ex-wife.

I haven’t had anyone play out their divorce on Facebook yet, for which I am quite grateful. I’m sure it’s happened though. I have, however, run into the opposite situation — someone who got divorced and didn’t tell anyone. That creates a whole new level of social awkwardness, let me tell you. Because I did run into this person in real life… and it was… um… awkward.

Anyway, I’m not advocating for one method over another here, only acknowledging how difficult it is to navigate the new virtual social network when it collides with our real-life social network.

I am advocating for eating more cake though. That’s a trend I can get behind.

Why I Strongly Dislike Mother’s Day

Be grateful to your mother. Or else.

Tangent: My original title was, “Why I Hate Mother’s Day,” but if you have small children, you know the word “hate” is frowned upon, and sometimes outright banned, starting in preschool. Part of me has an issue with banning a word like hate, which I think comes in handy sometimes, even when you are five. However, to minimize visits to the principal’s office, I’ve resorted to the tongue-in-cheek “strongly disklike” because, well, I’m weird like that.

Anyway, Mother’s Day is upon us again, much to my dismay. I’ve always suspected Mother’s Day was a made-up holiday, even when I was too small to understand about Hallmark and FTD. The idea of showing gratitude to your mother is, in theory, a very nice idea. However, there’s something about having a day set aside for it that leads to unrealistic expectations, resentment and a whole lot of discord.

I’m sure we must have had a good Mother’s Day at some point in my 17 years with a mother. The ones I remember, however, were not. There was an underlying current that whatever we did, it was not quite enough. We were not behaving well enough. We were not expressing enough gratitude. Whatever it was, it was clear we did not have enough of it.

Mother’s Day usually involved going to church, where all the mothers got a flower, then going out to brunch. There were probably homemade cards and some awkward-looking school art projects. Then we all came home and went our separate ways.

Then there was the Mother’s Day where I was 14 and hormonal and exhausted and I DID NOT WANT TO GO TO CHURCH, thank you very much. I WANTED TO STAY IN BED AND SLEEP. And I WAS SO UNGRATEFUL, I COULDN’T EVEN BE REASONABLE AND GO TO CHURCH ON MOTHER’S DAY. Good times. (Not proud of myself, by the way. Just realistic about what it’s like to be 14.)

Of course, nothing could top the very last Mother’s Day with my mother, who died the next day. Then the years followed where Mother’s Day was an emotional punch in the gut until finally enough time passed where I could just ignore it.

But then I had children, and Mother’s Day in the intervening years became even more firmly entrenched in our society. This year brought no less than four Mother’s Day gifts from two children’s very creative teachers as well as a Mother’s Day tea at one school.

The day itself, however, feels like a repeat from years past. When charming children present Mom with cute, handmade gifts. And things are okay for about an hour, until the squabbling starts. And Mom starts getting tired of the squabbling and everyone starts feeling resentful of the need to stop squabbling, when if this was just a normal day, there probably wouldn’t be quite as much squabbling because there wouldn’t be this PRESSURE to not squabble and BE GRATEFUL to the person who gave you life.

So at the end of the day, everyone is mad at each other because nobody really likes being forced to feel grateful and the person who is supposed to be honored by this tradition feels resentful instead of loved. When really, if we just left well enough alone, it would have been a fine day after all.

Yes, I’m pretty sure my mother is laughing wherever she is. Because I’m not there yet, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a Mother’s Day argument with a teenager coming to me.

Payback.

I Do Not Have Cancer

I do not have cancer.

That’s a sentence I’m very pleased to be able to write. Because for a few days here, I didn’t know if that sentence was true. For a few days, I glimpsed a different path — one that looked very, very scary.

For a few days, I wasn’t sure.

It started with a blip on a mammogram. A phone call from my doctor’s office, saying, “Don’t worry, it’s probably nothing. But we want to schedule more tests.”

Then came the waiting… for the more in-depth tests, taken by more powerful machines. Then came the imaging waiting room, which held women who had already been diagnosed. Who already could not write that first sentence. Who had already started down that other path.

Then came the very serious technician, who asked me, in a badly worded question, “Have you had cancer before?” — implying the blip was already something that wasn’t “probably nothing.”

Then came the fear.

I know friends my age who have battled breast cancer. I know there’s nothing special about me that might prevent my body from going down the same path. I know it’s possible that first sentence could look very different.

I am grateful for this new day. And mindful of the ones who didn’t get the same good news.

I wish we all could write that first sentence, and it could be true.

Bad Days

It’s been a whirlwind of bad news around here lately. Lots of little things and a few big things.

I’m frustrated by others who are in a state of inertia. I’m feeling unappreciated by many. I’m tired of pettiness. I’m angered by cruelty. I’m enraged at injustice. I’m intolerant of ignorance. I’m annoyed at my aging body. I am afraid.

I am afraid.

Saying it aloud makes it better. You wouldn’t think so, but it does.

I spent a great deal of time in my youth ignoring unpleasant feelings. As an adult, I now try to acknowledge, to feel each one intensely, to give it my full attention so I can let it fall away. I have been looking at each of those feelings in-depth, particularly fear.

Fear is a big one. It lurks inside, sometimes disguised as anger, frustration or something else. It can rule a life, if you let it. I know. I have.

I’m learning to acknowledge the fear. It takes away its power.

After 40 years, I know that this too shall pass. Some of my darkest days always fall right before some of the best times. The trick is to get through the dark part without losing sight that better days might be ahead.

Some days it’s easier said than done. Today is one of those days.

And tomorrow is another day.

Weather Appropriate Clothing Disorder

The same child who begs and begs and BEGS to wear thin, cotton sundresses in mid-winter got her opportunity today  when it finally hit the high 70s around here.

However, I nixed her suggested accessories of… drumroll, please… a thick winter jacket and a wool scarf.

Sigh.

I couldn’t make this stuff up if I tried.

Happy May Day

Happy May Day!

May Day is not exactly a holiday around here. It gets lost in what I call the Spring Stress season (when the lure of summer is close, the irritation of homework is at its peak and the complicated sports schedules make every day feel like a race to get here or there on time, even when only one kid is doing just one sport).

As a child, however, I loved May Day. Leaving flowers on someone’s doorstep and running away? That’s an eight-year-old’s dream.

I don’t think I’ve left flowers on anyone’s doorstep in at least three decades. Today, however, I will. I’ve chosen my new, elderly, very charming neighbors as the recipients. I will enlist the kids. And we will pick flowers from the garden, ring the doorbell and dash around the corner, giggling.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll feel like I’m eight years old again.

Thoughts on Owning Your Birth Experience

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was a very nervous mother-to-be. My childhood was full of stories from my mother, grandmother and aunt about the difficulties of childbearing. The pain. The length of labor. The medical difficulties. As a family, we do not give birth easily.  I didn’t see why I would be any different.

Also, it was pretty clear to me at a young age that my mother and aunt considered life before having children to be vastly preferable to life after children. They were honest about the struggles of parenthood in a way that is almost considered to be taboo in today’s society. And with the 1970s feminist movement swirling around them, the women of my family were caught between the values they grew up with and a society that suggested they should want something different. It wasn’t an easy place to be, I think.

As a product of that mindset, I waited to have children until my early 30s. I don’t regret waiting — it was the right time for me. The uncertainty about motherhood I harbored for most of my life needed time to give way to different life perspectives, ones that simply come with age.

My first pregnancy and labor were relatively calm and drama free, until an emergency c-section was performed. I don’t regret the c-section, although I would have preferred to avoid it. My mother and grandmother had c-sections, and sometimes I wonder if there’s a link there.

What I wasn’t prepared for, though, was when I first held my son. Bruised and red-faced, I looked into his gray newborn eyes and thought, “Where have you been all my life?”

It was like I started breathing oxygen for the first time in years.

The birth of my first child was an awakening. To date, I consider it to be the most pivotal moment of my life. The connection was instanteous, and three days later when they let me out of the hospital, I remember feeling blissfully happy for the first time in a very long time.

Not all women feel the same way about their birth experiences. I understood a little better a few years later, when my daughter was born. Her actual birth was sedate by most standards — a planned c-section. But the moment she drew breath and I heard her ear-piercing scream, I knew something was different.

My first words upon seeing her were, “What’s wrong?”

It took us three months to find out what was wrong. Three very long months of a screaming baby, of sleepless nights, of doctors and hospitals, of glimpsing the ugliest parts of ourselves. The experience pushed both me and my husband to our absolute limits. It was one of the hardest periods of my life.

She is fine now. We are fine now. But took a lot of work on both of our parts to not let those first few months define her. It is a piece of her story, but not the whole story.

I tell you these two stories to show the difference between them. Two birth stories, and both of them are mine. I have learned not to compare them, but to accept them for what they were.

Someone once told me that everyone’s birth experience is so different, and it’s almost like picking a card from a deck — you get what you get by the luck of the draw. I think she had a point, although there are only 52 cards in a deck, and I suspect birth stories are far more numerous.

If you had an experience that wasn’t positive (or was downright terrible), it can be difficult to listen to others tell their birth stories. It can be even harder when judgement, disguised as advice, slips into the conversation — something that’s all too common in today’s parenting world.

Tell your story. It’s a part of you. But it’s only a chapter in a very long book. There’s still time to write the ending.