Is Ego Driving Your Bus?

An understanding of pride and ego has been a copious notion over the past few months. I have sought wisdom on the subject and as a result I was given a lesson in humility. Yet, I am writing a blog that basically spells out my life and gives one a much deeper understanding of my psyche. Is it ego that is driving my bus with regard to this blog? Perhaps, it is. I cannot apologize for this because it is the best thing I have done in my life. And honestly, it's not the debilitating pride that is pushing me to write - it's self-pride, and the wisdom of knowing that I am who I am, perfectly imperfect, a product of God's hands, I suppose.

I am willing to bet that the demise of most marriages, the hatred of most jobs, the insecurities of our bodies, the disassociation of our dreams and real lives, and the little voice that we hear on a daily basis that feeds us information that is so not who we are or want to be, are sitting uncomfortably on a bus, struggling for more (or less) room, staring at the back of a bald-headed bus driver and this bus driver is ego.

How many women have had a night out to look forward to and spent hours changing outfits five, six, seven times because the extra ten, fifteen, twenty pounds they've put on in the past few years makes them think they aren't all that? After the seventh outfit, they stand in their bra and underwear staring at the pants thrown across the bed, the dresses hanging on the door knobs, the shoes, shirts, sweaters in various piles around their room, and then opt for the first outfit they picked out an hour earlier. Unfortunately, the pulling, pushing, removing, buttoning, and zipping has messed up their hair and make-up and made them a half hour late, and when they finally arrive at their destination, they have to take a shot of tequila right off the bat because getting dressed for that rare occasion out has stressed them out! Ego has driven them around the block and back, and done donuts over their self-esteem, and for what? Dammit women, love yourselves, and forget about what you're wearing. Beauty comes from within. Say it with me! Beauty comes from within!

Every one knows what it is like to start a new job. The first week is exhausting, isn't it? There are so many variables to learn, and so many personalities to understand. Ego drives the bus like a drunken idiot. The new employee wants so much to impress, and to know everything, and when it doesn't come instantly, ego drives over his head, backs up and does it again. Relax... it's just a job. It's just a job. Putting the career in its proper place on that long list of priorities is the only way to get the bus driver to stop driving like a drunken idiot, so that you can actually enjoy your job.

Ego drives the lousiest when marriage is involved because although there are only two passengers, the bus is filled to the rooftop emergency exit with the past, present, and future of both of them. And their personalities are usually so entwined (did I say entwined? I meant knotted) that the ball of string tethering them together has no beginning and no end. Somewhere inside that ball is humility and compassion, and the marriages that are successful (did I say successful? I meant work), are those that leave that thread hanging loose. They don't allow the bus driver the opportunity to stop in the middle of their destination, put the bus in park, and climb into the backseat to start tying nautical knots on the those thick and thin pieces, those sick and healthy pieces, those better and worse strings until the knots get so big that the bus tips over and the passengers fall across the pavement with skin boo-boos and broken hearts, and broken spirits, and desperate notions, creating a heavier past, an illusioned present and a burdensome future. Always keep a thread hanging loose, hold onto it (and your lover's hand) and look through the bus window with your eyes on the horizon. It probably helps to keep the alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling and fears away from the driver because a lousy driver makes for a lousy marriage. And the bigger the driver, the tighter the knot, the greater the heartbreak.

That's just my opinion on ego and pride, but what do I know? I'm just trying to pass the time on this bus.

Working Mommmmmyyyyy!

I bought a half gallon of pineapple-orange juice yesterday. It was a special treat for the kids as they are usually stuck with water or milk at home. Although every once in a while I'll let them have a sip of my pop ("soda" for all you southerners -meatheads), and of course, they get juice boxes in their lunches at school, and occasionally they'll inadvertently slug down a sip of beer thinking it's pop but will spit it out, spewing, "That's beer! Yuck!" (They haven't yet realized the unbelievable healing effects of beer although I've noticed if I have too many I always get symptoms of the flu). Yet, I've digressed.

I picked them up from school, went over the usual, "What was your favorite part of the day" question with them. (My daughter's was "playing kickball" with her brother; my son's was "right now, Mommy." Awww... Mine was the moment they discover I've come into their classroom to get them. They yell "Mommmmmyyyyy!" and run toward me with their arms spread wide. We hug for a few seconds, exchange kisses and then proceed to the truck outside. The truck is only fifteen feet from the door, but it takes a good twenty minutes to get to it). And again, I digress.

I settle them at the kitchen table with crayons and note paper, or a puzzle, or a toy train set, or a dump truck as big as the table, or something else (like a bucket full of water that they've somehow snuck into the house from God knows where), and pour a glass of the pineapple-orange juice for them to drink while I get dinner ready.

"Yum. Delicious!"

I knew it.

We eat dinner. It is yum! Delicious! My son eats well past the time it takes a normal human being to eat. He eats, and eats, and eats, surpassing the amount I've eaten by about seven tablespoons (although 3 of them have gone from his spoon, to his lap, to the floor, to the dogs). When we get done, I clear the dishes, leaving them to "run around" until the dishwasher is full and the stove and table are wiped.

Okay. It took me thirty seconds to run outside to the front to get the recycle bin, walk through my mudroom to the back porch and put the bin on the deck. When I walked in the door, the remainder of the half gallon of (yum! delicious!) pineapple-orange juice is either on top of the dogs food (as the dogs are standing over it wondering why the hell the milk I usually pour over their dinner tastes like crap) and the rest of it is on the floor, a puddle in front of the stove, the sink and the refrigerator, with little feet marks all around it. (Mind you, I had given the kids a bath before dinner because it would save me time while dinner cooked in the oven. Oh, it was an Italian sausage, green and red pepper, potato and onion stew-like meal that tasted amazing!).

Anyway, my son's socks were soaked with pineapple-orange juice and when I came into the house and screamed, "No! Get out of my kitchen! What'd you do?" he proceeded to run away and onto the hardwood floors of the living room, crying. (Big baby!) "Ugh!" That was all I said after that, honest! He came back into the kitchen, crying and screaming over and over, "Mommy, I'm gonna tell on you!" He was so damn cute, but I needed to let him know that the pineapple-orange juice didn't grown on trees (well, technically, I guess it does) and that it's not okay to pour it all over the dog's food and the kitchen floor. I am saying this as I mop up the mess.

But he wouldn't listen! He just kept saying, "I'm gonna tell on you! I'm gonna tell on you!" So I asked, "Who are you gonna tell?" and with the meanest face he could muster he said, "Mommy!" And I said, "Well, I'm gonna tell Tony on you!"

It took a few seconds, but he got it.

He started giggling, and ran toward me with his arms wide open. We hugged and I stripped him of his pajamas and put him back in the bathtub.

That was my evening after a full day of work yesterday. So worth it!

My Best Friend Fergie?

My best friend Bruce hasn't spoken to me in awhile. I am not quite sure why that is. Is it because he hasn't quite gotten to the point where he can write a song about my shrinking bra size? Is it because he's never lost weight and known that a smaller butt means a bigger pair of jeans? Lately, the only song that has been going through my mind is the song "Fergalicious - I'm fergalicious, my body stay vicious, I be up in the gym just workin' on my fitness, he's my witness, I put the boys on rock, rock and they go runnin' down the block just to watch what I got." That has been the deep, meaningful mantra going through my head in the past couple days. Do you think I'm tired?

I am exhausted. Divorce is a full time job. Raising children is a full time job. My full time job is a full time job. It's amazing. All the little things, like my little boobs, like the little hairs growing above my lip, like the myriad of gray on the crown and within the part of my hair, and the smell of my skin after a night of nightmares... all these things are being noticed now. It's like walking down a long tunnel with nothing to see but darkness and then stepping into a room with mirrors and nothing to see but what I have physically become in the past few weeks. I looked into the mirror today and thought, "Oh my, that poor woman looks so worn down." And then I smiled because although I might be tired, I am still standing up straight, shoulders are back and I am looking into very strong eyes. My brown eyes reflect more than color in that mirror - there is depth there. I may look tired physically, but behind those eyes is a hive full of worker-bees... God, family, friends, and yes, perseverance standing up on tippy toes to allow for a glimpse of its forehead in the picture. And I realize that I am not alone. My gray hairs are gray, yes, but they can be shellacked and become shiny. My small frame is thin, yes, but that allows me to eat all the chocolate and double cheeseburgers I want for a while. And sad eyes, well, they never lie.

I'm happy, I'm doin' fine. Sad eyes never lie. Because sad eyes never lie... one day that something in the air that feels a little unkind, will someday slip my mind. And my gray hair, my shrinking chest and my exhausted eyes won't matter in the long run because essentially, I am Fergalicious.

love, ahem, LOVE!

In light of Valentine's Day, I thought I'd do my post on Love...

A good friend of mine sent me the following:

The philosopher Bertrand Russell once said, "Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness." It would be easy to assume that the love to which Russell was referring is limited to romantic love. But love can and (on a good day) does inform everything that we do.

When we are not "cautious" in giving ourselves to the task at hand, when our duties and responsibilities are grounded in love, then our work-whether it only lasts until the next spill by our child or is destroyed after only 20 years like the liturgical translations of Cyril and Methodius-is an endless source of true happiness. Today is a good day to ask, "Am I too cautious in love?"

I can't help but think that we all fail in this endeavor in some ways. Think about the marriage that ends after twenty years, or seven as is my case. It goes along with the post I did some time ago where I quoted my best friend Bruce, "You can't shut off the risk and the pain without losing the love that remains." If you're too cautious, you are busy worrying and that leaves no room for happiness. I spent many, many days of my marriage worrying... how many others are doing the same thing?

It ties into commitment as well. For those who are married, you committed yourselves through thick and thin. If you're not happy in your marriage, it has nothing, nothing to do with your spouse, unless of course, you're being beaten and abused, or your spouse is a louse. But, on average, a marriage has ups and downs - normal patterns of life - and it is my opinion (and take it with a HUGE grain of salt) that happiness comes from within and is reflected upon the marriage. Do the things that make you happy inside - don't lose who you are because that disallows you to love fully. Of course, I didn't learn this until after I separated. I believe it now. And that is one of the good lessons I've learned in the past six months.

It's too late for me throw caution to the wind for this marriage - to love as deeply and passionately as I had once envisioned, but maybe on the next go 'round, I'll be wiser. It's sad that pride and ego have such a huge part in ending the romantic loves of our lives. If only we had Confucious or Gandhi or God whispering loudly in our ears to hear over the pounding beat of our own self-protective ego.

Certainly, I am not cautious when it comes to loving my kids and my family - it goes back to that "unconditional" love factor. But why is it that I don't "judge" them, but I did "judge" him? There are many, many, many other issues at play with the demise of my marriage, but this is one I come back to and reflect upon every now and again.

This same friend suggested that confession might be a sound replacement for years of therapy. I don't know about that because I am quite aware of my neurosis from this divorce and I'm not sure if confession will heal everything, but freeing myself from the guilt and the blame is certainly bound to help. In so doing, I might be able to find that "true" romantic love. Until then, I am quite content laughing and sharing with my family and friends.

I Changed My Mind

I have this terrible habit of changing my mind, not just about what I am going to wear for the day or make for dinner, but about big things - life dreams and such. It drove my father crazy, and when my husband asked him for my hand in marriage, he said, "Beware: she changes her mind every ten minutes." Perhaps, my problem isn't that severe, but I do change my mind. I tend to think it's because I think too much about things. There are some days when I wish I didn't consider every single factor of every single thing I am deciding. I think about my emotional situation, the financial situation, the time-constraints, the emotional status of the other players, what my horoscope said to do or not do (not really), and of course, I end up following my gut. But sometimes, my gut is slow in responding, so I have to change my mind, or having already given a reason, change it to suit what I really meant. I think this divorce has me in the midst of one of those ever-changing moments. Of course, there are thousands of factors to consider. Thousands! Yet, I find myself only considering four: myself, him, my daughter and my son. And you know, thinking about it this way makes it even more difficult! I am an emotional thinker, no doubt, and it seems that my intellectual thinking only comes after I've exhausted all the emotional thinking. I suppose I am in the midst of that right now.

I have tried to stand back and look at this divorce, and all the occurrences with an objective eye, but I find that it is impossible for me. Someone said to me, "Think about it as though Paige is in your situation. What would you advise her to do?" I'd say, "It is what it is, move on, let go, and you will find happiness elsewhere." It's easy! Ha, I found the answer. I am healed! Alleluia!

But of course, it doesn't work. It is impossible to think objectively. It's not because I am self-centered, but because the topic is so subjective. But maybe I'll just pretend I am my own divorce lawyer, therapist and priest. That way I'll come out on top. Yeah, that's what I'll do. I'll give myself the essential legal advice, the best psychiatric evaluation and find spiritual awakening. It's easy!

No, it's not. Maybe it's that easy. It probably is. No, it's not. But it might be. But no. Maybe. I'll have to think about it some more.

RigaTONY and PAIGEYmeatballs

Ice-skating 2:

The rink was filled with smiling people, as it always is. People who choose to spend time ice-skating on a Sunday afternoon, with or without their kids, seem to have a sunny disposition. I am included in this category. I was dreading going since the morning began at 6:00am with two giggling children who had somehow snuck into my bed during the night without my being aware. I gave them both a kiss, turned on Blues Clues, brushed my teeth and then shuffled downstairs to enjoy a cup of coffee in silence before the breakfast demands began (Tony is now eating up to 3 bowls of cereal). They, of course, left Blue to hide his clues without an audience and followed me downstairs. It may have been my tiredness, but I swear they were skipping and singing. We did our morning thing, and then I put them back upstairs to tear my room apart while I showered, skipping the shampoo (conditioner only) and leaving the shaving of the legs for another day (it's been about 6 months now. Just kidding).

We were out the door for church by 9:00am. After church, in which I heard very little of the readings, but fortunately caught 6 seconds of the homily, we went to the grocery store. The grocery store was packed with meandering people, dressed in heals, coiffed hair and with a great deal of time on their hands. We sped through the aisles, and just had to get home so Tony could have another bowl of the newest cereal we chose (Pops). Incidentally, he had two bowls, an apple, some crackers and a few pretzels.

I began cutting up the onions for the sauce while Paige situated her stool by the stove and poured in the olive oil to sauté the garlic and onions. She pulled out the Oregano, Basil, Parsley, Lemon-pepper Spice, and Pepper (we, of course, put the Lemon-pepper spice back). She poured all the spices in under close supervision, and Tony pulled up his stool, grabbed the second wooden spoon and started stirring as I poured the tomatoes in. I grabbed my camera and started shooting pictures - they were eating off the spoons, saying "Mmmmmm..." while the sauce was still cold! About thirty seconds after everything was in, including the meatballs, Tony said in his sing-song voice, "It's d-o-o-one!" Let's eat, mommy."

By that time, I was worn out. I left out the pushing, pulling, biting and whining that went on between each event. It was time for ice-skating, but I was too tired. My back was killing me, and I just wanted to sit on the sofa while they argued and smell the sauce cooking. Then my cousin called and said "everyone" was meeting us there. So I had to go. And I'm so glad I did!

There were five adults and my two babies. This was only their second time, but they did so well. Neither of them fell (or cried, or whined) and they both skated the entire hour without complaint. There were kids wearing bike helmets, padding, etc., but Paige and Tony didn't even need it. They were surrounded by protective cousins (and friends). After the hour was up, I had to urge them off the ice by enticing them with hot chocolate. We walked into the "cafeteria" past a bunch of families, and ordered our hot chocolates.

The highlight of the day came when on our way to the table, Tony raced ahead and smacked some kid's hockey helmet as hard as he could. Unfortunately, the kid was still wearing it. I was shocked, but the kid just turned around, a little annoyed and said nothing. I apologized to the mother, she giggled and my cousin said, "He's truly a Fuzzy... the legend lives on." The lowlight, of course, was when I had to throw out a pair of Tony's big boy undies because he refused to use the potty, and instead, pushed one out while he was eating a cookie, and then told me about it later.

We came home, put on the water, boiled the "RigaTONY" and the "PAIGEY-meatballs" (they made it up and said it all day long...), and ate the best damn sauce I've ever had part in making. Life is good. My full belly and my overflowing heart tell me it is so.