On Being Me

There are certain things in my life I can count on. The fact that my youngest son's morning diaper will peel paint from his bedroom walls daily. The fact that dishes will dirty, laundry will not wash its self, and little toys will find themselves in the oddest places- a matchbox car inside the diaper genie, a section of train track in with my dish towels. I can count on daily smiles and hugs (for now until they are too cool for mom) from each of my boys, and the glorious musical chime of their spontaneous laughter. I can count on the phrase that's thrown out each weekday by Smoochie while rushing out the door to catch the bus- "See you later, Alligator." And I can count on my daily response, "After while crock-eeee-dile."

During the week, things have taken on a sense of normalcy. I have essentially grabbed hold of myself by the scruff and shaken myself out of the moping and feeling sorry for myself stage. As each day passes, I have fewer weak moments (outwardly at least) and can at last breathe a little bit. During the week, when there are two boys to care for and a whirlwind of things to accomplish for them, it is becoming easier to accept the way things are.

I will not lie. It's hard not to hope I can reverse things. The reality that I'm standing on the precipice of divorce and will have to jump whether I like it or not is enough to leave me with anxiety attacks. After all, at some point I will have to jump off the ledge willingly or wait around for the push from behind- either way there's no turning back and either way will find me at the bottom.

This anxiety is easier to set aside during the week when I have to be strong for my boys. When they are there as a constant reminder of why life is good and glorious. It's easy to ignore a panic attack when Critter is busy acting like a giggly jack-in-the-box before launching himself at me with a little attack growl. It's easy to lose myself and my worries in the moment when I'm busy reading Harry Potter books aloud nightly to Smoochie (and listening to his giggles and gasps) while we enjoy a cup of warm caramel apple cider together.

With my great love and need to care for my boys, my weeks have become almost easy. But the weekends scare me.

The boys will be spending their weekends (away from me) with Bonehead. I don't worry about their safety for I know their father loves them every bit as much as I do, and will take great care of them. In fact, my fear has absolutely nothing to do with Bonehead.

I have heard choruses of "Oh honey, good for you. You get 'me time'. Oh how great, you get time to take care of you. Good for you to have time to yourself for a change." These phrases to me are the verbal equivalent of a haunted maze.

Here's the deal. I am on the brink of my 35th birthday. I pretty much know who I am as a person. I've got a pretty solid idea of myself and who I am in this world. I really don't need time to soul search- I have faith in God, and trust that he will help me to arrive on the other end of this every bit as optimistic good natured as I have been in the past. So essentially none of this scares me. Here's what does-

In my life, I have never just been me. In my younger years, I had my mom and sister, and throughout my teenage years I rarely went a month without a boyfriend (or two). I went away to college for a year and about the time when the whole 'just me' would have stepped into the normal course of things, there was a marriage. And now, at darn near 35, I am discovering that having been married since the ripe old age of 19, I have never in my life just been me. I have never had to rely on myself emotionally. Or in the middle of the night when the stresses of life creep into my blankets with me. Until now there's been a cohabitant. Someone with which to share these things and difficult moments with.

In my heart I know that I am strong and that I can face whatever life hands me with grace and dignity. Even so, the thought of being 'just me', of losing these things (to put it bluntly), scares the crap out of me.