things

I've been watching hours and hours of Dr Who.

My life has no meaning, no reason, and nothing to hold it together outside of work and Derek. When I have neither, I crash on the couch and watch Dr Who until I'm afraid to stay up any later than I already have.

I exaggerate, of course.

A little.

I love melodrama after all.

I like Dr Who, but it's so incredibly weird too.

I want someone to watch it with me. It will never be Bobby. I don't think it ever could have been him--as much as I've sometimes wished it would be. Even without all the madness and hurt of the past three years, even without another woman who he wants to follow around the world, I don't think Bobby and I ever really could have been. I'm so glad for Derek, I'm so very-very glad to have him, but I wish I hadn't wasted so many years wanting the wrong thing.

I want someone who gets it, someone who gets me too, who can laugh and say "this show is so weird, let's watch some more!"

But enough about that.

Maybe I like Dr Who because it distracts me and entertains me, of course, but also because it kind of sort of helps me think of the past and the future in safe and fictional couch-y comfort.

Reality sucks sometimes. Fiction is fun, but reality is a lonely middle-aged woman with fancy fingernails, crinkling eyes and a biscuit-dough belly wrapped in fuzzy blankets that smell like pee with my feet tucked under marker-stained couch cushions, watching too many hours of Netflix and tapping away on a Bluetooth keyboard.

Reality is me and I'm not magical or fictional. 

I feel incredibly sad sometimes. It catches me almost by surprise. I was sitting in the Subaru service center's waiting room yesterday, reading The Lost City of Z: A Tale of Deadly Obsession in the Amazon while I waited for my oil change to complete, when I suddenly started to miss my dad. I wanted to call him and say hello and talk about the book and about Percy Fawcett. It hurt. It hurt so so much. And today, driving home from work, I started to think of the kids I'll never have -- I'll be 40 this year and there's no one in my life and no one on the horizon. I love Derek and I love what I have (it's true no matter how much I whine on here), but I wish I'd gotten an earlier start. I wish he had a mom and dad who loved one another and a couple of little brothers and maybe a sister too. I wish he could be a big brother. I wish a million things. I wish I could appreciate what I have without all the niggling second thoughts. I wish someone loved me back for once and I wish I wasn't worried about Bobby's complicated woman stepping in to be another mom to my only son.

So I'm sad for things I've lost and things I've never had.

My friend Virginia thinks I need to "see someone." I don't know if that's code for "you're whining too much," but I think she's right either way. I'm just afraid. I don't know how to start or how to talk, so I think I'll write for now.

Writing has always helped--and maybe I'll even get into the habit of it again and find something new to say and to share and maybe I'll find a creative streak in my late night musings and before you know it, I'll stop writing about poor-poor me and I'll jump into fiction and follow in my mom's fabulous self-publishing footsteps.

We can dream, right?

Season 5 just ended and I think that's a good stopping point for the night.

Bon nuit.

baby dinosaurs dancing

It's been a frustrating and busy week at work and Derek's been so edgy for the past few days that coming home doesn't feel like much of a break. Almost anything can set off a full-blown meltdown right now and I'm just about ready to follow suit. Last night he said, "I love you" and I responded "I love you too." He went nuts. Apparently I had missed my cue to quote Rapunzel from Tangled by saying "I love you more." Tonight I answered his "I love you" with "I love you more" and he went nuts. "That's Rapunzel," he protested in a near scream. His teacher told me it wasn't a good day when I picked him up from school tonight. It was his first "not good day" since he moved to the threes a few weeks ago. She told me he had a hard time following directions today and then she laughed and said he wasn't the only one. She blamed the full moon. 

Whether it's the fault of the moon or not, I feel frazzled. 

But even in the middle of the craziest day, there's magic sometimes. 

I'm trying to focus on the magic: when he reached up and stroked my hair with a hot little hand and sleepily whispered, "you're pretty" ... or when we curled up next to each other in a blanket on the living room floor and took turns drawing dinosaurs, for instance. 

Drawing can be a dangerous activity when Derek is tired or edgy. His dinosaurs sometimes look too much like crocodiles and his crocodiles turn into whales and the penguins never turn out quite right and I end up with a sobbing boy and a pile of crumpled up scribbles thrown all over the house. But not tonight. Tonight everything was what he wanted it to be. Tonight we drew two dinosaurs together, a boy and his mom, and then he checked my ears and measured my face and gave the mommy dinosaur earrings. He let me draw the eyes and teeth and then he filled the space between our two dinosaurs with baby dinosaurs--tiny little scribbles with eyes and teeth and tiny legs and tiny tails--and he narrated his actions and told me about each baby, what they liked and how they cried, and it was magical and sweet and my day was suddenly a million times better. One of his baby dinosaurs even danced "like a dog in the shower" and Derek pirouetted to demonstrate and it was so perfectly ridiculous and lovely that I immediately wished I could somehow capture the moment and hold onto it forever. And then he drew a long purple line from the boy dinosaur's mouth and he growled and cried and told me his dinosaur ate all the babies and we squealed and laughed and ran around the room trying to save and capture all the little scribbles come to life. 

When I feel completely worn out and invisible, this is the kind of magic that makes getting up and doing it all again tomorrow seem possible.  

I'm always too dramatic, I know, but I love this boy so much it scares me sometimes. 

three years

On Sunday night, almost a week ago, Bobby suggested we carpool on Monday. He said he needed to talk to me. I thought it was a little strange, we were standing face-to-face in a WalMart parking lot, after all, so why not talk then? But Derek was goofing off in my arms and Bobby was eager to get to dance so I let it go.

I racked my brain that night wondering what I'd done wrong.

The next morning he texted that he wasn't feeling well and he didn't think he'd work a full day so the carpool was off. I responded with the standard "feel better" platitudes and reminded him that he said he wanted to talk. He asked if we could do lunch. I agreed. Thirty minutes into my workday, he pinged me and asked what time I go on break. I let him choose a time. He was standing at my desk before 10 o'clock. 

We walked outside and he started talking.

He first told me that he's okay, he's in good health, and just has a cold.

Then he rounded into a string of nicieties--you will always be important to me ... we have a smart and wonderful son and, no matter what, we will always be connected--that sounded like a break-up speech and totally fit with Bobby's standard method of delivering bad news. He likes to start with something nice (but what nice things does he have to say to me? Thank you for giving me a son, I'll love him forever, and for that you're kind of important to me?), to try to make the listener feel good before he delivers life-altering bad news. I tried to interrupt him, to skip past the nonsense and jump to the point, but he asked me to listen. So I listened to the impersonal compliments and then he hemmed and hawed and finally told me that he's in a "very very very complicated relationship."

I asked if he's getting married. 

"It's leading that way," he admitted.

She's in the Air Force. She's been accepted to a prestigious school in Washington. She'll be there for three years and then she'll be stationed somewhere else--it could be anywhere in the world. And he reminded me that he's in "very poor health" (he often gets dry eyes, after all, and his knees at 45 aren't what they were twenty years ago). He could be a stay-at-home dad. I asked if he's moving to Washington. He said he'll follow in three years. He invited me to come too. I told him I won't follow him and his wife. He asked what was holding me in Arizona.

I got mad at that last question.

I'd been walking next to him, tight-faced, feeling my life slip away and then he asked what was holding me here. "You!" I barked. I reminded him that I could have taken a job in Georgia two years ago, that I'd talked to him about it, that there'd been an opportunity for him to move too, and he'd told me he would never leave Arizona, he would die here, and I had decided not to go--because I didn't want to take my son away from his father. Bobby didn't remember any of that. He agreed that it sounded like something he would say, but he didn't remember it. 

My life and the sacrifices I've made, don't register to him at all.

He tried a different tactic. He said it could be somewhere cool, like England or Germany. 

I said no again.

He said a lot can change in three years. I agreed. I remembered three years ago, thinking he and I could have a family together, that Derek might even have siblings, never imagining the life I live now. But I didn't say anything. He answered a call on his work phone and said he had to go inside. He reiterated that a lot could change, that I could change my mind, he just wanted to give me a heads up, but he wasn't going anywhere yet--not for another three years, anyway.

I asked if Derek's met her. He said yes. It was the only question I asked about her. 

I cried at my desk, tossed and turned that night, and wrote and deleted a handful of angry texts and emails accusing him of taking me for granted. I reopened all my old wounds and wrote out all my grievances, reminding him that I'm not a nanny or a puppy dog who will follow him and another woman around the world, that Derek is my son and that I am Derek's only mom. I didn't hit send. I deleted everything. I texted and asked how Derek was on Monday night. I sent updates and pictures of Derek on Tuesday. I fell asleep in Derek's bed before 9 o'clock on New Years Eve on Wednesday night. It was the best sleep I got all week. And I finally started to eat again on Thursday. I had tried before then, but even the thought of food made me sick.

I make it so easy to take me for granted.

I'm better than I was. It took a few days, but I realized that Derek and I will be okay. The world isn't falling apart. It still feels a little surreal when I think about that conversation--the unchangeable Bobby, the man who didn't spend a single night with his newborn because he needed to rest and who preferred to be separated from his only son rather than risk letting horrible old me into his pristine life, is going to uproot everything and follow a woman to England or Germany? How long has he known her? Would he follow her to North Dakota or Alaska, I wonder, or is he only along for the ride if she's going somewhere cool? He won't go to Washington, after all, and he'll be 48 in three more years....

Having a baby with Bobby was a terrible mistake that resulted in the greatest joy of my life. I love Derek more than anything. It sounds like a cliche, but he makes everything else worthwhile. Even Bobby. And now I have three years to prepare for whatever is coming.

lonely night

I really need to make some new friends.

Or some friends, anyway.

Bobby picked up Derek at 2:30 today. Since he left, I've watched several episodes of Dr Who and I wasted a couple of hours at Last Chance. I don't even like Last Chance anymore. I walked away with two bras and a pair of earrings I'll probably never wear. As for Dr Who, I'm not sure if I like the show or not ... it's just something to watch ... over and over and over again ... it's a little weird and kind of fun, but I don't really care what happens or anything.

I've been alone for more than six hours. I have no one to talk to, no one to call and say "hey, let's catch a movie or go to the mall." I'm bored.

Tonight was the first time I've ever gotten a bra at Last Chance. I've been going there for years and years--since I was in high school--and I've gotten shoes and shirts and handbags and lots and lots of jeans and dresses and even underpants and jewelry and children's toys, but I've never picked up a bra before. I'm not sure why. They only cost $3 per ... and they're good bras ... and I haven't had a new bra in over three years, maybe even more four years.

So, this is the mundane tomfoolery that I have no one to bore with.

No one to shop with me.

I'm bored and desperate for someone to talk to.

not a fan of random pics

I was in such a good mood this morning. Really, I was. I was singing and joking.

We had an offsite lunch for the entire office. It was fun.

We had a great time.

I was having a great time.

And then my boss snapped this pic and sent it out to all my techs....

...and, for some reason, it just really really bummed me out.

Like I'm seriously depressed right now.

No wonder no one loves me. I'm a hideous, red-nosed, fat-thighed cow. And even though I know it isn't true, even though I know I'm being melodramatic and silly....that's all I can see and it makes me sad.

I guess I don't like me very much.

Poor crooked-faced, tired-eyed me.

Derek has started pulling my hair out of its ponytail every time he sees me, fluffing my hair out, and telling me that he's making me pretty. Maybe he has a point. Maybe I need to abandon the ponytails again.

I don't know.

a stripe of color

I tried to touch up my roots tonight.

Tried.

My hair is still wet so I haven't gotten a clear look at the results yet, but I'm afraid I messed up. Big time. I can already tell that I chose the wrong color and it looks like I didn't do a very consistent job covering the roots either--so I've got a brighter, oranger, redder, broken up stripe at my roots interrupted by chunks and dashes of natural color (or other color anyway).

Ugh.

I've got reddish hair right now. Even when I was younger and I wasn't worried about grays, I thought my roots looked gray when they grew in under red ... and now I'm older and I am worried about grays and I think my roots look gray growing in under the red and it drives me nuts. Hence the attempt to color my roots.

I hope the difference in the new color and the old color isn't as obvious when it dries.

A part of me thinks it doesn't matter because my hair is a jumble of colors anyway. A littler (but sometimes louder) part of me thinks it doesn't matter because no one ever actually looks at me anyway. A third part of me is afraid it will matter. A fourth part hopes it's not noticeable. A fifth part hopes it matters. So many parts of me!

I wonder how long I could keep going with this.

Oh, well.

We've just finished watching Brave. I wonder if I could keep the red going and my hair growing and go out as Merida for  Halloween next year. Maybe I could dress Derek as a bear--but would that mean I was dressing him as the queen?

I'm sitting on the couch. Derek's lying against my back. I think he may have fallen asleep a minute or two ago. He suddenly got heavy and quiet and still. It feels nice. I'm debating if I should carry him to bed or wake him up and make him brush his teeth and take a shower, He had a long day. We skipped church again this Sunday (we skip most Sundays) and Derek missed his nap. Bobby took Derek to the park. I watched Anchorman 2 while he was gone. What a stupid waste of two hours! I could have and should have done so many other things instead. Darn it.

Derek will be three tomorrow.

sorrow everlasting

It's been four months and four days and I still miss my dad like crazy. Every day. Walking down the street, driving to work, seeing a new book title on Amazon--the sadness can strike anywhere and anytime. I miss him. I love him. I wasn't ready to let go. I'm better than I was four months ago, but I'm still not 100% okay. Or maybe this is what it means to be okay now.