It was while wrapping Christmas presents that I thought of him. The memories tend to sneak up on me like that now; something unexpected will trigger this explosion in me and they come flooding back in.
I thought of our last Christmas together. The one where Adrian was just twelve days old. That one, where I was still white knuckled, sick to my stomach, clinging to the hope that he wouldn't do exactly what he's done: leave us. I did everything for him, his way, hoping that he would stay. Right down to circumcising my son (which I didn't want to do) and giving Adrian his last name (which I've come to regret more than you can know). I understand now that desperation will do these things to you; make you give parts of yourself that you otherwise would never consider.
I thought of that day, how stressed out my body was from just giving birth and the lack of sleep that ensued, but how in comparison that was nothing on how stressed out my mind was.
"Going to a junkyard is a sobering experience. There you can see the ultimate destination of almost everything we desired." —Roger Von Oech, A Wack On The Side of the Head
I read this the other day and have since been trying to keep it in mind as Christmas creeps closer and closer and my bank account gets lower and lower. It seems that once you have a child there is so much pressure on you as a parent to perform in many areas, and acquiring "stuff" is a big one.
It was at the mall last night, where I was desperately searching for "stuff" to buy for Adrian, that this quote helped me the most.
Looking at rocket ships, dinosaurs, train sets — all overpriced — and parents stumbling over one another to have them; I thought about all of the toys that Adrian has had since he's been born. Then I thought about where they all ended up: either broken and in the garbage or outdated and donated.
We don't have tons of money, at all. Levi is still not contributing and as Adrian's birthday is so close to Christmas I'm still stuck playing a little bit of catch up from that.
I wonder if men would change their behavior if they could be a woman for just one day.
This thought occurred to me as I was walking in downtown New York this morning.
Still in my pajamas, donning a big, billowy winter coat and hat with a cup of coffee in my hand waiting for the walk sign, a man stops his car at the light, rolls down the window and shouts, "Yeah, baby" and "I'd like to get a piece of that."
His hollering then provokes the other cat callers in the neighborhood, and trust me, there are enough of them.
Yuck.
All I feel is gross and embarrassed as I try to quickly scurry up the block.
And how else should anyone feel?
Do these people actually expect me to feel flattered? Does that man think that just maybe I'll approach his car window and give him my phone number — or even the time of day?
Adrian's birthday is on Saturday. I'm going to have a party with my friends and family to celebrate on Sunday, but for his actual birthday I have planned for the two of us to spend a fun filled day together.
I mean really, its just been the two of us on this journey, so it seems right.
We're going to Manhattan to see a Dora the Explorer show — his favorite — and then I plan on taking him around to see some sights; the tree at Rockefeller center, to start with.
I can't tell you how excited I am for this day. Can't really express in words how much it means to me to see my little baby turning two. This has been quite the adventure so far. So many good times turned into wonderful, amazing memories; and I'm certain that there will be so many more to come.
It's times like these, times when I start to reminiscence on all that has taken place over the last two years — from first foods, to first smiles, to first steps, to first words...all the firsts — that I have a hard time feeling anything but absolute pity for Levi.
As I briefly mentioned in my last post, "Getting Rid of the Husband, Getting Rid of the Bed," Adrian and I moved last week. It wasn't a huge move; in fact, we just moved upstairs in our building, but it was exhausting nonetheless, and as of now I have vowed to never move again.
My landlords live above us. I remember a time in my life where I never would have lived in the same building as the owners. Hell, I remember when I didn't even want them to be in the same state. But upon meeting these two you instantly get a good feeling about them — they're pretty great.
But come to find out, they may be those rare breed of people that are just too great. As a result of living below them — under them — I'm starting to develop a serious inferiority complex. I do my best. I know I do. I work my ass off so that I can pay all of my bills and I spend as much time as possible with my son. In my opinion I'm a pretty great mom.
I moved again. Second year without Levi and our second move. Man, I'm getting tired of lugging all of this stuff around.
With each move, comes new discoveries. Papers stuffed into desk drawers, Christmas and Birthday cards from happier times, pictures of Levi and I — our various vacations, our wedding, and several goofy ones.
The last time I looked at these things, I couldn't bring myself to throw them out. Who knows why — I guess there's just nothing like torturing yourself when your massively depressed.
But the somewhat remarkable thing is, that this time, they didn't sting as much as they did before. Actually, some of them didn't even phase me. This time I was able to throw most of them out.
I suppose this is yet another sign that I've almost worked all the way through this.
There is one thing, though, one overwhelming piece of furniture that I am quite sick of: the bed.
This bed is a monstrosity, an enormous king-sized monstrosity. I look at it as a testament to everything that I can't stand about Levi.
Adrian will be two in just a few weeks. It's hard to believe that it's been two whole years already. Sometimes it feels like it was just yesterday that I was that frightened, mess of a woman about to embark on what seemed to be this hopeless, depressing journey of single mom-hood.
Sometimes still, if I'm not careful, it's easy to revert back to that woman — let my fears get the best of me. But for today, I must say, that I am no longer her.
This journey has transformed me, made me stronger, made me realize that I have potential far beyond what I could have ever imagined. And for that, I am thankful.
However, some of the transformative effects are not so great. This journey has rendered me guarded, cautious, and at times very cynical. Most of the time I am certain that I could never trust a man with my heart ever again. Other times, I have the clarity to know that I want to.
I suppose it's all part of the process of healing — working through the hurt — and when it's done, when I'm fully healed, I'll know and hopefully drop some of the cynicism.
