The Power of No Words

It is said words are power.  Words can do anything, make anything happen. There are so many of them.  How to arrange them, pick them, put them in the right order is always the conundrum. 

Every now and then, people will say the right thing in an impossible situation.  Most of the time, people stumble over their words.  Or use words they know won’t help but are most commonly called upon when one must acknowledge an unfortunate turn of events.    

“I’m sorry,” or “How can I help?” or some other grouping of words that can, in no way, ease the pain or express the depths of our feelings. 

When I was 20, I had my tonsils removed.  I had been sick for a year, and finally the decision was made.  A tonsillectomy on a child is a day or two of being down, but on a 20 year old, with no complications, we were told two weeks.  I laid on my mother’s couch for a week.  Unexpectedly, my Daddy showed up.  He sat in the uncomfortable rocking chair next to the couch as I tried to be polite.  I guess I fell back asleep.  For the next week, my mother either was out or retreated to her bedroom - to give us space I guess. My Daddy rotated between the uncomfortable rocker or under my feet at the end of the couch for the entire week.  

And here’s the catch:  I don’t remember him saying ten words the entire week.  He would show up, ask how I was doing that day and if I needed anything. I never needed anything because my mother was doing all that work. Instead of leaving, he would then read, or watch TV, or nap, or just sit.  All day.  Every day.  Sometime in the afternoon, he would kiss me goodbye, and tell me he would see me in the morning.  

Then I started watching him.  He is not a touchy-feely man or very expressive.  He avoids conflict, probably because he doesn’t have much patience and can be short tempered.  But the way he can sit in silence is an extraordinary gift.  He holds pain for people, if only for short periods of time.  He can sit with the sick or the elderly, and click on a baseball game, and say, “I’ll bet you five bucks the Braves win.”  Even though I would bet he has never watched a complete game in his life, being that watching sports bores him.  In turning on that game and sitting there, he is taking the cancer away or lessening the loss of a loved one for just an afternoon.  He allows people to retreat to a happier place ever so briefly.  He has the rare ability to just BE with them. Few or no words are spoken. 

In the last months of my father’s father’s life, the Alzheimers had made my grandfather paranoid and anxious.  My Daddy drove the hour to his parents house several days a week to do his thing - just be with them. I was with him once and I was sitting in my grandparents now quiet living room with my Daddy and my grandmother and my grandfather.  My grandfather was upset about the kids hiding in the trees in the front yard.  My grandmother kept admonishing him that there were no kids out there.  The kids had been gone for years.  I was in silent shock at seeing this person who used to be my grandfather act like this.  This was the conversation for an indeterminable amount of time.  My Daddy wasn’t saying anything.  He was reading a paper or something regular that shouldn’t have been happening because we should have been trying to do something for my grandparents, something to help both of them.  

Finally, my Daddy got up, folded the paper, and walked outside without saying a word. “What the fuck?” was all my 20 something brain could come up with. “Don’t leave me here with them like this.  I am scared.”  But I was still frozen solid, words failing me.  

So I sat in the living room listening to my grandfather worry about the imaginary kids safety or learning that these kids were scoping out his house to rob him blind in the night. I listened to my grandmother tell him there were no kids - sometimes gently and lovingly, other times exhausted and exasperated. This is how it was with him - we had to tell him things over and over and over. I might as well have not been there - words were failing me.  I didn’t know what to say or do. 

After awhile, my Daddy came back inside.  He told my grandfather that he had talked to the kids and the kid’s parents.  Everything was ok.  They were just playing and there to keep them company.  My grandmother and I just watched in awe as my grandfather finally starting settling down.  

I was so ready to blow out of there at that point.  I was exhausted, frightened and needed to go.  

But my Daddy picked up his book and settled in on the couch, saying nothing. 

A Reminder from my Daughter

Some things that make me laugh are sometimes hard to put into words, but I will try.  When do our children turn into real people, ones that we MIGHT hang out with by choice, because they are funny or enjoyable?  

Sometimes people think my kids are funny because of what I post on facebook or the stories I tell, but those are different because I post most of those as coping mechanisms because thats just how they are. They aren't trying to be funny. 

This morning as we were passing the neighbors house, the for sale sign was lying on the ground. Sally thought this was very dramatic and a very big deal.  I said, "It's not that big of a deal.  It could have not been nailed down hard enough, or it could have loosened with the melting of the snow, or a car could have hit it, or the wind could have blown it down.  No big deal."  

And Chloe muttered, "Or it could have been the Big Bad Wolf coming around blowing it down."  And she gave me a look that, all at once said:  " I could have said this louder and made Sally scared but I am saying it under my breath because I think it's kind of funny and you might too.  And don't worry, Mom, as I enter these teen age years, even though I am not always available and sometimes crabby for no reason, I really love you and we will always be tight.  This stuff is normal, Mom. Don’t worry.  I Love you.”

Yep, I’m pretty sure thats what the look said. 

On Friends and Myself

I have had so many ideas for books.  For as long as I can remember, well, let’s say high school - ish, I have wanted to write a book, or group of stories, or letters to those who mean so much to me, and how they left their footprint on my life.  I think the original idea was to write letters to these people.  My written words, more than my spoken words, have always been more indicative of how I feel. 

I think the idea morphed into a book once I started losing loved ones, and along with that, the realization there would be no more memories with certain ones, or certain times. I thought the relationship ended there, so I could summarize it, or even complete the story.  But then I realized, for those who have traversed my heart, the story  never ends. 

My memoir started out as a tribute to turning forty.  It started before I realized forty was old, or at least middle aged.  Of course, I had heard others moan about it, but I never felt it, and thought I never would.  A sigh and a chuckle as I write this - maybe thats the beauty of youth. We never think we will. 

Anyway, my memoir started before I had to be sure my legs were crossed before I coughed. I wanted to do something grand to mark the occasion.  Grand to me has often been different than grand to others.  One thing led to another, as things do, and I started focusing my writing and efforts on truly knowing who I was and what I stood for.  I felt it was essential to define myself, to truly know myself, who I had been before marriage and kids, what was still the same and what had changed,  before I decided what I wanted to do next. 

Part of my journey to know myself has been to explore my relationships and friendships. And I have discovered that I would rather try to catch a raccoon with my bare hands than look at this. This has been such an unexpected road block, such a painful process that I know I have only barely started. I start and stop, paralyzed into inaction. I can’t tell you how long it has taken to write this paragraph, because all of a sudden, knowing how much protein was in the white of an egg became paramountly more important, and I had to google that and read several articles on that intense topic. 

I wrote a piece, a good piece, on my first friends, my neighborhood friends. A week or two or a month later, it doesn’t really matter - the next time I sat down to continue, was the first time I encountered this block, this pain.  I couldn’t look at what friends I had at the next stage.  We had moved to a new house, and in the picture in mind, my Dad moved out, then back in, then my mom moved out, and there were other houses to visit and extended time with grandparents - things that clouded my search for friends, among other things.  

The next few years were rife with moves and school changes and emotionally unstable parents, and perhaps I missed a window on how to learn to engage, to trust, to even conceptually understand that people could or would last longer than a few months.  I never had the experiences to learn that people would disappoint and anger me, and that I also would disappoint and anger people, but that relationships can sustain those disturbances.  

I can write those words now, and theoretically understand the concept, but I feel like a fake.  I don’t necessarily believe it. As a matter of fact, I get so scared when I even get the whiff of a negative feeling for any friend. If someone is annoying me, I don’t tell them.  I just put it off as I am tired or not in a good place.  If someone has treated me unfairly, I won’t tell them.  I just tell myself that it’s no big deal. I try to ignore it. I am scared to address the issue, scared it will cause the friendship to end.

In the end, sometimes, I realize now, that I push the friendship to the limits and it has no choice but to end. I keep burying my feelings, the demands of these friends, the disappointments...... and it eventually comes to a head and I dance with my righteous anger of all they have done to me.  And all the while, they never knew a thing, never had an inkling that I felt hurt, mistreated, taken advantage of... because I kept doing whatever they asked, saying it’s no problem, being the one who could take on everyone’s problems. 

And there are other scenarios.  I have put people on pedestals.  I think they are wonderful in every way.  And slowly, I realize they are not who I thought they were - how could they be? No one is perfect. My friend who is so bubbly and outgoing and has so much energy.  The one who organizes tons of gatherings and showed up at my door with flowers when my dog died? When I discovered her darker moods, the razor sharp tongue that could leave me bleeding? I have no tools, no experiences to weather this.  I don’t have the lens to see whether this is something that I can accept and continue the friendship. I certainly can’t talk to her about it.  My walls go up, I will not be hurt, and the door closes.  But, boy, do I miss  her smiles, the connection, the long upbeat conversations.

I won’t even go into the scenarios where I wonder why in the world they would want to be friends with me.  Just wait until they know the real me. This is fodder for my soul. 

I am thrilled that my circles are again widening. Outside of the western suburbs, and on the web.  I am putting no one on pedestals, and proceeding with caution.

I have a long road of self exploration ahead.  Hopefully, at the end of this road, Lindsey’s post about friendships won’t make me feel so lonely, or Christine making wise, thoughtful decisions for herself won’t feel like someone is breaking up with me. 

Dear Husband

Sometimes, I question , as I’m certain you do, if I am the right woman for you.  Your life would have been so different without my complexities.  The terroir of my emotional landscape is as familiar to you as Mars.  You don’t question like I do, and for God’s sake you value keeping the peace over speaking your mind.  My softness often hides inside, under my quills, where the good it does is more elusive.  You might have been served better with the opposite, soft on the outside, quills kept tucked safely away.  I am much more than I do, and this lies in direct conflict to one of your most esteemed values and identifying trait of being a hard worker.  

But, still waters run deep, and in my heart, I know you have a very deep well.  You are my private iceberg.  Only the tip can be seen; the majority of the mass is hidden, undiscovered, unknown, unreachable.  One of your favorite quotes is, “I like a challenge.”  You might say that about me, although I know I am, and our marriage is, harder than you ever thought it would be.  

Many of the things I want from you, I now realize you want from me too.  And I wish, more than anything, that I could give them to you.  I think the reason I want them so badly from you, is that I don’t know how to give them..... to you, to me, to anyone. 

The soft, calm, centered, artistic, playful soul beckons to me from somewhere, and I greedily want it.  I get glimpses of it, and pounce, ravenous for what has been missing for so long.   But, you see, a calm soul can’t live with ravenous, pounce, and greed.  It may not be as elusive as trapping a moonbeam, but the challenge needs more tools than I have right now.  

So, I unabashedly demand it of you. Unbeknownst to me, I am asking you for something I am seeking, perhaps for myself, perhaps for others.  Something I have been exposed to, yet do not know intimately. 

Welcome to my inner journey.  My hidden softness can only be exported through the written word for now.  It can’t be spoken yet; it gets distorted and torn and hardened when I try to speak my truth.  

I know, in the subterfuge of your iceberg, you can comprehend, interpret, listen, feel, at least part of my pilgrimage to my center.  I invite you, to understand my deepest and most private self, through my written word. 

A New Topic

Women write about slowing down, trusting.  They talk about time flying, and years passing.  They write about motherhood and kids; oh, they write about their kids.  They try to write about themselves, distinguish themselves from their kids.  They write about nature, and details, and overcoming whatever has come their way.  They write about books and arts and politics; they write of painful pasts.  They write of their causes, they share their insights.  They speak of friends and dreams they have.  They write of health and change. They write of their sadness, their darkness, their depression.  

It’s harder to find, or at least I haven’t found it yet, writing about marriage and the spousal relationship.  I mean real writing, intimate, true.  Or perhaps what I have always thought is true, no one feels or experiences the world as I do.  I had talked myself out of that because I never dreamed of finding people and making connections with those who understand some of my struggles.  I do understand the tenuous ground of writing about spouses, (or teens or parents or sisters...etc) but I yearn to understand and have someone identify with me on this level.  

I have an added advantage right now of having a few trusted readers, none of whom appear in my real life.  Except for my mother.  And I have another blog where I write about her.  Kidding.  

Even though we have made major changes, our lives are still full and busy and, frankly, we are tired.  I don’t take the time to talk to Steve about much of my journey, and when I do, it doesn’t come out like I want it to.  Over the years, especially when tempers run short, I have written him letters so that I can let him know what’s going on. I wrote one to him a few days ago.  Not only did it explain where I was coming from, but, as with most of my writing now, it led me to new places that were unexpected.  I have done this the past few days, and I have taken to filing them in a folder I have dubbed, The Husband Series.  

I am not sure what will come of this, but I like it now.  Parts of these letters are very personal, but I think parts of them may be more universal.  The biggest surprise for me is what I am learning about myself.  Writing to him has pushed me to look at some things in a new way.  And as a disclosure, I may not give him all of the letters.  And I certainly won’t share them all here.  But I would be interested to hear what you think.  

Praying for Grace...and More Bad Dreams

Chaucer has attention deficit disorder.  It is fairly severe.  After I learned more about it, he perfectly fits the standard definition, a classic case.  His body simply can’t be still.  

Since he was able to get out of his crib, he moves through the night.  I would say he doesn’t wake up, but, now that he is almost 9, he can tell you what time he moved from his bed.  He has found different spots over the years - in the hallway, on the couch, in our doorway.  But his most visited spot is on the floor next to me.  He curls up in a little pile of blankets, and sleeps.  My husband used to fight this, but it was a battle I made him give up, because he was fighting not only Chaucer, but me. 

My son has never been a snuggler, which has led to hours of me wondering where I went wrong.  Now, cerebrally, I understand that he can’t be still, his body feels trapped.  He gets anxious. His building of his little nest and need to be close to me fed me as much as it fed him.  He wanted to just be close. To know that I was close, and I needed to know he needed me as his mother.  Often he is gone before morning, without my ever being aware he was there.  When I wake, I know.  I can smell him, feel him, but he is gone, like a phantom.  In the winter, he moves around 5:30 or 6 into the living room where he turns on the gas fireplace and curls on the floor and dozes.  In the summer, he often goes outside.  This summer, his choice spot was in front of the tomatoes he was growing.   

Steve travels many nights, and I often find my room littered with kids or their trails.  There may be one or two on the floor, or one or two in my bed.  Or a blanket or bear or doll left behind that sells out my kids.  This is a terrible habit they have, and I know I should do more to stop it.  The girls don’t do it when my husband is in town, because he gets grumpy about it.  Chaucer, however faithfully, usually visits for a few hours even when Steve is in town. 

Somewhere in the deep of the night last night, there was a body snuggling, maybe.  It felt like an an assertive, if not aggressive snuggle. It was as if Chaucer were trying to literally crawl back into my womb.  His head was in my neck, and his knees burrowed into my stomach, and he grabbed my arm to wrap around his body. He wasn’t crying or talking, he never does.  Truth be told, I am not a cuddler when I am sleeping either.  In my half dream, barely alert state, I fell back into a full sleep.  

Around six, my older daughter comes in our room to take a shower.  (Yes, our kids have their own shower, and there is a third shower in our house.  And another half bath with a sink.  But they all shower and bathe and brush teeth in our bathroom.)  I stir and something feels weird.  Was I dreaming I was pregnant?  I feel pregnant.  Then I realize my son is still not only in bed with me, but still locked into his position next to me, like a baby kangaroo in a pouch.  

I am awake enough to enjoy it, relish it really.  I have to go to the bathroom so bad, but I don’t want to lose this.  I want to rub his head, rub my hands all over his little body, kiss him, and eat him really.   But I don’t move.  He rolls over onto his back and stretches out.  Only his left arm and left leg are touching me now.  I really have to go to the bathroom, but I know this is borrowed time.  I let myself rub his head, and maybe a leg, and an arm.  Just like that, he is tossing and moving, a prisoner to the lack of hormone connections in his brain.  He somehow flips into a position where his head is on the other side of the bed, but both of his feet are on my stomach, and he stills again.  

His little feet move with a twitch or two, just as they did when I was pregnant.  But they are big feet, warm feet.  It’s like a fire in bed, warming my heart.  I know he needs me, loves me.  He has never been expressive.  He was never the little mama’s boy, never the three year old that wrote notes saying I love you.  He did however used to say that he was going to marry Mommy, so I hold on to that.  

I asked why he was there, even though I know the answer.  It has happened before.  “I had a bad dream.”  

“What was it?”  

“I don’t remember now.”  

Sometimes he remembers, sometimes he doesn’t.  Because of his over activity, people always assume he is tough and not needy.  Even I do this sometimes.  He has always had the worst dreams, or needed the most comfort.  Movies have always scared him.  Even now, one of those Christmas movies - is it Rudolph? has a scary snow monster that prevents him from watching it. 

I love the kids in my bed and in our room.  I know more than ever now that it will not last.  Soon enough, the little nest by my bed will stay empty forever.  Already, there are nights when it is.  But I think thats more getting ready for Santa.  

Last night, a friend posted a picture of her daughter who is fifteen.  She looked.... well, grown.  My daughter is 11 1/2.  Less than 4 years from that.  My son will be nine in January.  How much longer do I have him coming to me in the night?  Each time, I wonder if it was the last.  I am glad I think like this, but I am also glad I don’t know the answer.  The answers to hard questions.. like when was the last time I held them on my hip? or the last time I nursed? or when will be the last time I see their little naked bodies? Or the last time they say “lellow” for  yellow or “becktast” for breakfast?  

I don’t think I could bear to know these answers. 

Thank God I am learning that they will always need me.  Of course, it will look different as they grow older.  May God give me the grace to embrace their changes and grow in my motherhood.  

And, naughtily, I pray for a few more bad dreams.  

The Times, They are a Changing

Our family life is much better.  I want to tell you all the things I’ve done to make it that way.  And let you know what a hero I am for rescuing my family.  

But I can’t.  It’s my husband.  He got on board and has taken flight.  He literally does everything at our house.  He works full time.  I don’t get paid for anything I do.  He does most of the grocery shopping, most of the cooking, most of the laundry.  He pays most of our bills and budgets our money.  He does lots of random projects too - he fixed the Wii, got our locks replaced after the scary stuff this summer, mows the grass at the Lake House, waters our plants, changes lightbulbs.  And more. 

I could tell you what I do (and I just might before this post is over) but thats not the point.    The point is that he has not traveled in several weeks and has really stepped up at home.  In the past, even and especially the most recent past (six months or so), he has done many of these things.  But he did them begrudgingly and with venom.  

“Of course he did.  Why in the hell aren’t you doing these things?” you might ask.  And if I were honest, I am struggling a bit now.  Because now he does all this, and he has changed.  He is joyful, happier, and has lost all judgment of me.  Honestly, I feel as if I am in a movie and I have a fatal disease, and now they are ready to make it on their own without me.  Or the other movie about the man who is having an affair and is suddenly happier and doing more to assuage his guilt.  

One of the more subtle changes in our Take Back Our Family is accepting each other for who we are.  I am in the beginning stages of it.  So that means that I am trying to accept myself for who I am, instead of trying to be someone else. If this concept were linear, I would first accept myself, then my husband, then my children.  But since nothing in life is linear, I will probably start and finish with myself, if there is even a finish.    I am working, we are working on loving who we are, not changing it.  

Sometimes these theoretical musings become so vague that they are not productive without a trite detail to bring it into focus.  Without doing a complete genealogy report, let’s just say that my husband is a typical hard working mid westerner coupled with the fact that he is a dyslexic first born of four, charting him at Type A times ten. I was raised in the Deep South, where naps and reading and thoughts and rocking and talking formed the core of my very being.  He is at his happiest mowing and caring for the lawn, whereas I would be happiest reading in the hammock for the day.  He doesn’t know how to “work” a hammock.  

So, it is not surprising that we have different approaches to housework.  That’s fine and good.  But my husband is a perfectionist, and not only unrealistically expects himself to be perfect, but he also projects that on me.  It has taken me over 16 years of being with him to figure this out, though.  That fact is staggering.  Note to self:  Fill children in on this detail early in their relationships so they can spend the first 16 years on something else.  

Honestly, I would work and work to get things right for him.  Doing laundry his way, doing the checkbook, cooking dinners.  And it was never quite right.  I didn’t realize this and he didn’t either.  We were both just being ourselves.  I gave up on the checkbook early on.  Perhaps my way wouldn’t have worked long term, but it worked for a single 20 something.  Say I had $500 in my checking account, and I charged $50 on a credit card for dinner.  I would just deduct that from my check register, so that when it came time to pay the bill, the funds would be there.  He thought that was ridiculous, refuting the accuracy of my checking account.  So, who cares? He made more money and wanted to handle the money and I didn’t want to fight it.  Fine.  

Without going into every detail of our laundry and cooking life, just understand that I finally gave those up too.  Over the course of the past six months or so, I realized that I was spinning my wheels all day on shit like this, and never being enough to anyone.  I did laundry.  I just didn’t put matching up all the socks at the same importance as the national debt crises.  Sure, mornings are easier when the socks are matched up.  Evenings are easier with a cocktail.  It doesn’t always happen.  Move on.  

Ever since my kids were little, it has always overwhelmed me that these little beings HAVE TO EAT AT LEAST THREE MEALS A DAY, EVERY SINGLE DAY.  Yes, I cook.  I actually like to cook.  I would spend so much time planning, and cooking only to be met with complaint after complaint after complaint.  Kids eat a bite and say they are full or thats disgusting.  And complain of hunger before the dishes are even cleaned.  Steve would say my meals were too complicated.  Just make it simple.  Fine.  Or just coordinate the finishing times of each item.  Or just add a little garlic.  (He IS a chef by trade.)  Or he would come in and make something else.  Or complain that they kids needed something else besides cereal and fruit and milk for breakfast.  Look, I ate Fruit Loops for breakfast for the first 18 years of my life, and I am fine.  

I spent years trying to please them, and it was never enough.  I spent years trying to show him what all I was doing.  I spent some angry years telling him if he didn’t like it, he could do it himself (or go to hell or some other negative non- Buddhist gentle approach).  But I kept trying to please.  

And then I laid down my sword.  Peacefully and without fanfare. I told them I was no longer giving my all so that they could have full lives, especially when they all treated me like it was their God-given right and not experiencing gratitude. I quit doing anything for them that I didn’t want to do or deem absolutely necessary.  I told them to expect cereal for breakfast and a ham and cheese sandwich for dinner every single day.  Anything more than that, consider it a bonus. Period.  I started reading and writing again.  I take quiet times.  I am happier.  

I am not sure what happened with Steve.  He continued to do the laundry, but he seems to enjoy it.  He cooks and cleans.  He doesn’t seem mad about it anymore.  I think he quit fighting me.  He quit expecting me to be who he wants me to be or who he is or who he thought I was.  I think he is happier because his clothes are folded and put away  just the way he likes them.  He is happier with his meals and what the kids are eating.

We are all learning a new way of being.  The kids are saying thank you when I cook dinner or breakfast.  They are thanking me for rides to friends or activities.  They are asking about my day. 

It’s not perfect.  Picture day is today and several days ago my oldest daughter said I needed to make her a hair appointment for her pictures.  I said that even if you would have asked nicely, I wouldn’t do that.  We are not spending that money for school pictures.  She said get Ann (a favorite babysitter).  I said no, we are not spending that money - I will help you straighten your hair.  She went off on a spiel about how horrible I was at hair and that definitely wasn’t going to happen.  Yesterday, she realized I was serious about not paying for the stylist or sitter, and said OK, you can do it.  And do you know what I said?  NO.  I am not doing that for you.  You were disrespectful to me and I didn’t deserve that.  Figure it out yourself.  (I never would have done this in the past. NE-VER.)  

So, last night I showered and read while my husband learned to use the straightener and enjoyed a half hour with our oldest daughter.  She was thrilled with her hair and I think he was secretly proud too.  

The times, they are a changing.  

  

Friends and The High Road

Who are your friends? What does it mean to be a friend? Do you have different kinds of friends? 

Do you like friends who tell you what you want to hear? The correct answer to this loaded question is no.  But, if I am honest, yes, sometimes I need that. I want a friend who can be honest with me, one that I can be myself around, that helps me to be a better me. I like friends that make me laugh. I value honesty over most anything, and acceptance is a fairly close second. 

Do you have many friends? Are there room for more? Really.  What about the fact that I don’t have time for the ones I have now? Do we need to weed our friend beds? 

Is there a balance between “I have never had issues with anyone” and leaving a trail of friends behind over the years?  Are certain friends good for only periods of time, like a coupon that expires? Do you consider it a failure for a friendship that has run its course? 

Are some friendships built on a false life?

And what do you do when a friend hurts you? Do you work it out? or write it off? What boundaries are non negotiable? 

My husband always speaks of taking the high road, and not burning any bridges. While I  sometimes think that he denies himself, and those that he holds most dear, I am learning about this road. Instinctively, I either take the low road, or fly over the high road on my way out. 

A few years ago, my husband took my girls to a playground.  My youngest was at the top of a slide and my oldest had climbed up the slide to help her. A lady then tore into my daughter and my husband, citing the rule book in her head about slides being one way roads that go down, and uncontrolled kids and on and on.  My husband chose to ignore her, grabbed our girls and came home.  My oldest daughter, the ever indignant six year old, came home running up the stairs ranting, spurned, as I often am, by her righteous anger. Steve, coming soon behind her, disgustingly calm, proceeded to offer his fatherly advice, “ I explained to her about not stooping to other people’s levels, not burning bridges, and how we like to take the high road.” 

My daughter screamed her response to his unemotional speech. “ MOM DOESN’T TAKE THE HIGH ROAD, RIGHT MOM?” Her implication being that road was for pussies, a road our alliance would never take. 

Part of my intrigue with relationships is exploring not only friendships, but how I act in these relationships. I have had friends come and go without incident -- either outward or inward-- these are not the friendships of which I speak. I have had relationships that I have backed away from for different reasons. Something inside me realized that they were not healthy or good for me.  And I have had friendships end painfully. 

When I look at those that ended painfully, I realize that there was conflict and my flight response took over.  For whatever reason, lack of skill or lack of desire, I did not stick it out.

Over the last few years, I have gained some skills, or coping mechanisms.  I have learned to compartmentalize.  With husbands and children, and husband’s friends, and children’s friends, relationships tend to compound. Friendships become tenuous when a  mother’s instinct to protect her child trumps everything else. 

So, I have tentatively reentered relationships that I had backed away from. I have entered them guardedly, and understanding the limitations. I am not in flight, and not giving up on my ideals. But I am acknowledging that you can’t run away from everything, and there will always be difficult situations and people with whom you don’t always share the same values. I am not denying my feelings, and I will protect myself and my children, while learning to live in a world that has many truths.  

I am trying the High Road.