Tag Archives: kids

I Quit!

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I’m resigning from my job tomorrow.

I do not have an “offical” offer for a new job yet.

I’m reminded almost daily by my boss that I am a “bonus eligible, stock optioned executive at a fortune 500 company.” I’m walking away from a salary I will NEVER make again, with a bonus package that pays more than most people make in a year.

I am not crazy. I’ve given this  A LOT of thought.

I’m working about 80 hours a week – I’m in the office by 7:30 a.m. and leaving around 7 p.m., then back on-line by 8 and working until 10 or 11. Then there are the weekends…oh, the weekends.

I do not see my kids. And when I do, I’m grouchy because there’s always an URGENT email. That’s a problem.

I don’t know if things would be different if I wasn’t a single mom, or if I wasn’t widowed, or if Mike wasn’t an alcoholic, or if pigs could fly. But I know that this isn’t working for us right now, and as Ethan continues to struggle, I need to be there for him. As Lauren starts to ask questions, I need to be there for her. As my mom’s health continues to be a mystery, I need to be there.

I’m fortunate. I can take a 50 percent pay cut and make it work. The basement remodel will have to wait. We won’t be going to Europe or Disney next year. I won’t be driving a brand-new car next month. But I’ve realized that I can’t put a price on my happiness, my kids’ health, or our sanity as a family.

Let’s just hope the unofficial offer becomes official soon…

“Poor Thing”

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I closed on our house three days after returning from Fort Wayne for the funeral. It was tough, wrapping up those last-minute details from six hours away, but when I packed our suitcases in the car, I included all my paperwork and documentation. Just in case. And I definitely needed it – the entire mortgage had to be reworked (and approved) following Mike’s death. Something about state law… Dumb community property state.

It was important to me to be able to close on the house as soon as possible. We had been living out of boxes in a temporary corporate apartment for six weeks. We had Christmas in the apartment. Celebrated New Year’s. Ethan started school while we were there. But we needed a home. We needed our “stuff” which had been in storage since we moved out of our house in St. Louis. We needed to be settled.

Since closing on the house eight weeks ago, I haven’t had as much time as I’d like to really get settled – after all, three days after the movers came, I as on a plane to Orlando for a four-day work trip. There are still a few boxes lying around. Things to hang on the wall are still leaning against furniture or are wrapped in layers of tissue paper and thick cardboard boxes. The basement storage area is quickly filling with stuff I don’t know what to do with, and the garage is still a mix-match of things I’m saving for a spring yard sale as well as some things of my mom’s from her storage unit in St. Louis (mostly big, giant furniture that we can’t move to her new storage place).

I haven’t met many people in the neighborhood yet because of my crazy work hours, but I feel like I know them. Or, more accurately, they know me.

A couple of times a week, my mom will tell me about some of the neighbors she’s met:

  – “Her THIRD husband was an alcoholic. She left him because of it, so she totally gets what you’re going through…”

  – “She’s a therapist. Now, she doesn’t work with people who have insurance, but she said if you ever need to talk through your grief, she’d be there for you and the kids.”

  – “His daughter was married to a doctor. They had a little boy who was about four years old when her husband went on a trip to Mexico. She didn’t know that he was an addict. Killed himself, well OD’d actually, in a hotel room in Mexico, can  you imagine?”

I’m sure my mom means well, but really? How do things like this come out of a 10 minute “Welcome to the Neighborhood!” kind of conversation?

They don’t. Unless they’re being offered up as part of the intro.

I’m not sure why she feels the need to air my dirty laundry to all the new neighbors. I’m certainly not hiding the truth from the neighbors, but it isn’t how I thought I’d “meet” the neighbors. I mean, if it came out in conversation over a summer BBQ or while watching the kids ride their bikes up and down the street, I’m okay with that. But, I’m kind of not okay with the new neighbors knowing that I’m a widow, a wife of an alcoholic who was going through a divorce and is now left with two small kids. I’m not okay with them knowing all this before I actually get to meet them.

I can only imagine what they think, and from the looks I’ve gotten from a few of them when I’ve taken out the trash or waved while getting into my car in the morning, I’m thinking it’s something along the lines of, “Oh, you poor thing…”

I’m not a “poor thing.” I don’t want to be a “poor thing.” I appreciate the sympathy, but it’s not what I need or want. Especially from people I don’t know, who don’t know me or my situation or my kids. I’m not sure exactly what my mom has told them or how it was worked into conversation. And, I’m not sure how to get her to stop mentioning it – or even if it makes a difference now. Apparently “third husband was an alcoholic” neighbor is the village gossip, so my story is as good as told around the neighborhood by now.

I guess until I get to meet everyone (maybe when the weather is warmer), I’ll just be the “poor thing” on the block.

Breakdown on the Playground

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Ethan had a major breakdown yesterday.

He was playing outside at Kids Klub, the after care program at school (don’t even get me started about the use of the “K”s and the lack of punctuation), when he lost it. Tears flowed. Fists balled up. And piercing screams came out of his little boy body.

The college-aged counselor supervising the playground had no idea what to do.

Luckily, on Thursdays, the program supervisor is at the school. She was able to pull Ethan aside, hug him, and comfort him.

Apparently, the cemetery set him off. When I first visited the school, I thought it was a little unsettling that the church cemetery butts up against the playground. You can’t miss the gigantic tombstones just off the rock wall or the huge monuments near the swings. The living and the dead play near one another at St. B.

Interestingly, he was crying about his grandpa more than his dad. He told Mrs. B that he was sad about his grandpa. Why did he have to die? Mentioning his dad was almost an afterthought of his grief. Kind of an “oh, yeah, and I’m sad about my daddy, too.”

Last night, after his shower, I held Ethan for a long time. We read parts of a grief book that my mom bought last week. Some parts don’t apply to our situation, but others seemed to resonate with him. Ethan asked why he didn’t have anything of his dad’s to remember him by – unlike the photos and hanky and keepsake box and some other small things that he has that belonged to his grandfather and that Ethan keeps near his bed.

The truth: I don’t really have anything of Mike’s anymore. Mike either took his stuff to his parent’s house (and I haven’t gotten anything back except two broken laptops – even though I asked for a few things specifically) or it’s in storage in St. Louis (which I can’t access until I’m officially named trustee of his “estate”). I started explaining that daddy didn’t live with us when he died, so there really isn’t anything of his around. Then I remembered the shirts.

When Mike came to get his clothes in September, he left behind three button-down shirts. I don’t know if he purposely left them or if he just didn’t notice them in the corner of the closet. But I have these three random shirts – a white dress shirt, a striped Ralph Lauren shirt that he never wore, and a casual shirt from his law school days. “Ethan,” I said, “how would you like one of daddy’s shirts?”

Ethan ran down the hall to my room. He picked the casual shirt and immediately he put it on. “Look how BIG this is!” he said. “It’s down to my ankles.”

He giggled as he struggled with the sleeves which practically drug on the ground. He wore the shirt around last night, during Lauren’s bath time and during story time. Then he took it off and placed it on top of his stuffed animals, next to his pillow. “I want to sleep with it here,” he said. “This is the stuff I cuddle.”

Heart. Broken.

How are YOU doing?

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I hear that question at least once a day, sometimes five or six times. And, I’m almost always at a loss for how to respond.

Mike and I were separated for months before he died, and honestly, I was emotionally and mentally checked out for almost a year before our physical separation. Yes, I’m sad that he died, and I have my moments. Like wanting to pick up the phone and call him to tell a funny story about something the kids did. Like crying because I really do miss him (the “old him” – the one I fell in love with, but hadn’t seen in years). Like knowing that I don’t (won’t) have him around to have my back when I’m overwhelmed with the kids or work or the house. But mostly, I really feel like I’m okay.

I usually turn the question back around to the kids, and how they’re handling it. It’s Ethan and Lauren that I worry most about. And it depends on who’s doing the asking for how much I divulge. For example, Ethan seems fine at home – he’s happy and playful, fully engaged, very animated. He occassionally mentions being sad about his dad, and we always stop and talk about it. But he’s really struggling at school, but that’s not something I tell just anyone who asks.

When Mike died, Ethan had only been at his new school for three weeks. He was just starting to find his groove and starting to make connections with the other kids. Then, BOOM!, his whole world changed.

When I found out Mike died, the school was one of my first calls. I explained the situation and asked to speak to the priest. The school was phenomenal! I sat with the principal, the priest, Ethan’s teacher, and a counselor, explaining some of the details and expressing my concerns with how to tell Ethan. I wanted Ethan to know that when he returned back to school, he’d have the love and support of his school family. I wanted Ethan to be able to ask any spiritual questions he might have of the priest. I wanted to make sure Ethan would feel like I handled it well, when he is old enough to reflect on the situation when he’s older.

After 20 minutes or so with the adults, Ethan was brought into the office. He sat around the small round table with us. I put my hand on his knee and told him the news. He looked at me, blinked hard, then jumped off his seat and walked to the door. “I want to go to lunch now,” he said, his eyes starting to well up with tears.

“How about we go home?” I asked, motioning for him to come back over to me.

He came over and I put him on my lap. “OK, let’s go,” he said.

The principal packed a care package for him – books, snacks, some small toys. The teacher hugged him. The priest hugged him. And we left.

Someone from the school checked in with us every few days. The first grade parents decided to make dinner for us twice a week for the months of February and March. It really reconfirmed my decision to put Ethan in this school system.

When his teacher called a few weeks ago to discuss issues with Ethan in the classroom, I broke down. I was standing in Walgreens, buying cold medicine (my fourth cold since moving toWisconsin– WTH?), and the news just overwhelmed me. Ethan was acting out (getting out of his seat, talking out of turn), breaking down at least once a day (missing his dad and his grandpa, who died in July 2010), and starting a weird and dangerous habit with his pencils. He was “eating” his pencils – the wood, the lead, the erasers, and the metal – chewing them to bits.

I knew it was time for some additional support. I made an appointment for Ethan to see a therapist.

Ethan regularly visited the school counselor at his old school for issues dealing with the separation from his dad. It helped, and the counselor became Ethan’s greatest ally. She cried on Ethan’s last day, and she and I regularly email about how he’s doing.

I chose a male therapist for Ethan this time. I thought talking to a man might be good for him. As I sat in the room at the first appointment, Ethan played with a tote of dinosaurs and other animals that the therapist handed him while we talked. Ethan sorted out the animals – carnivores, omnivores, herbivores, frogs by color, sea animals, mammals. Of course I couldn’t help thinking what the therapist would make of this OCD behavior. Here’s a kid who doesn’t organize ANYTHING in his life, carefully categorizing plastic toys in a very calculating manner. Ethan even offered very detailed explanations for his decisions. I’m sure there are some notes on Ethan’s behavior in the therapist’s notes…

Our next appointment is this afternoon. I hope Ethan continues to bond with Mr. R and that Mr. R can help Ethan sort through his feelings to find a way to deal with his emotions.

With Lauren, I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that she’s oblivious to what’s going on. Mike never really bonded with her, and when he died, she was only 20 months old. She won’t have any memories of her dad, which makes me sad, but also a little glad. The stories Ethan has of his dad in the last few years are heartbreaking – not being able to wake him up, thinking he was dead, being neglected when they were alone… Lauren won’t have those memories. She is very well taken care of, staying home with my mom during the day and spoiled by Ethan at night. I’m considering putting her in daycare for a few days a week to give my mom a break and allow her to socialize a bit – she LOVES seeing other kids and will not hesitate to go up and hug other toddlers, which is cute but also a little weird for the hug-receiver.

But overall, I feel like I’m okay. I had mentally prepared for being a single mom well before we separated. Sometimes, like today, I wonder if I’m really doing okay or if everything is just masked by everything else going on right now – taking care of the kids (including making sure Ethan is all right), settling into a new house, exploring a new city/state, onboarding at a new job/company. It’s kind of a lot, and I know my mind is racing most days just keeping up with everything. I don’t have trouble sleeping, and I can say that I’m widowed without breaking down in tears. (Relatedly, I still can’t say my dad died without crying.)

Sometimes, depending on who’s doing the asking, I feel guilty for feeling okay. Like I should feel more, be more devastated, more upset, more weepy. Like the person asking WANTS me to feel a certain way, wants to comfort me when I inevitably (in their minds) break down. Like they think I’m faking being strong.

So, how am I doing? I think I’m okay. And I know the kids will be okay, too.