Co-Parenting: The Silent Partner

There is a new show called "Raising Fisher" or something like that.  Have you seen it?  I missed the pilot but got episode 2 on my DVR.  It was pretty funny and cute and made me feel good when the entire family was sitting around a candle lit dinner eating takeout smiling and laughing with each other.  What a picture perfect family. 

But wait. 

That couple had just gotten divorced. 

Say what?!?!

That picture doesn't look anything like what I have seen in broken marriages and relationships.  In fact, the image that media wants to put off about perfect co-parenting families really boils my blood (Trophy Wife?!?!).  Show me a real life situation where things are that hunky dory and maybe I will have a glimmer of hope.  

I usually see the situation between me and Michael's dad (D), as very positive.  In reality it's not positive at all - unless the fact that we don't argue is considered positive. 

It's impossible to argue with someone if they won't talk to you.  

Every Thursday I call D to ask about Michael's week.  I want to know about school, his friends, did he get to do fun stuff like go to a movie or visit his grandparents house?  I want to know what his life is like at his dad's house and have some pointers on how to talk to Michael when I pick him up.  This curiosity seems normal to me.  But.... maybe it's not? 

D NEVER calls me.  I'm lucky if I get a text saying Michael is sick and staying home from school.  D has not called once this entire school year to find out about Michael's week with me.  This tells me D doesn't care.  Maybe D wants to pretend that Michael doesn't actually have a life over here? I really don't know. 

Every once in a while the four of us sit down for dinner: both sets of parents.  Sounds nice right?  And it is.  On the surface.  We smile and chit chat and order drinks and food.  They offer to pay sometimes as long as we don't order alcohol.  Their beliefs tell them alcohol is wrong so instead they order root beer and mountain dew.  They always leave my one margarita on a separate bill for me and Mr. Sexy to pay for.  It's awkward.  But it's also stressful.  So I always try to ask the server to throw in some extra tequila.  Wink wink. 

Then we talk about Michael.  School.  His friends.  His behaviors.  Then we brainstorm.  Oh, wait, I'm laughing too hard.  I brainstorm.  Mr. Sexy brainstorms.  D and his wife don't usually have anything to say on how we can improve our co-parenting relationship or how we can guide Michael through his struggles.  It's nice that they always agree to our ideas.  It's not so nice that a week later D tells me they won't do it.  I'm completely fine with new ideas on how to parent.  I'm even fine knowing he is going to be parented completely differently at his dad's house. 

I am NOT fine with his dad and step-mom telling me one thing and then "changing their mind" once they walk out of the restaurant.  

I know things could be worse.  Voldemort is a great example.  It's just that things could be better as well.  So much better. 

The facts are: 

D and his wife are good people.  They love Michael.  They are nice - as far as I can tell.  

Mr. Sexy and I are good people.  We love Michael.  We are nice, too.  

So why can't we just get along like they do on TV?!?!  

Writing on the Mirror: Wordless Wednesday

To Wean or Not to Wean?

That is the question.

And we all have answers!

The interesting thing is that they are all different!

With my first, Michael, I was planning to breast feed for at least six months.  That date quickly moved
to one year.  I loved breast feeding.  The connection I felt with him was powerful and comforting for both of us.  I was also a single mom although I did date his dad during a portion of Michael's first year.  Michael's dad had a lot of family in the area and they seemed to always be around and they ALWAYS wanted to hold the baby.  I think this is why I hoarded our nursing times.  Every two hours on the dot I just had to take him from which ever auntie or grandma and hide in a private, quiet room for a good 40 minutes.  It was our hideout.  We got to reconnect.

I did, however, have some issues where I almost lost milk.  Working full time and then getting  very sick on top of that did nothing good for my milk supply which never seemed to fully come back.  So by the time Michael hit one year his dad was ready for Michael to stay with him overnight.  His theory was  that since my goal was one year, that goal has been hit, let's move on.

On one had I was ready to move on.  The weaning happened like a snap and he had his first overnight with his dad.  I'm not aware of any crazy emotional stuff that went on for either of us.  I am thankful that the transition was smooth.

The hardest part was transitioning to one overnight stay with his dad per week.  Then two.  Then three.  And now our schedule is week on, week off.  There is no right or perfect way to co-parent just like there is no right or perfect way to wean or when to teach your kid that bumps and bruises happen when they jump off the couch.

My experience breast feeding Deani has been significantly different.  I have really enjoyed it and was looking forward to it throughout my entire pregnancy.  But now that she is 11 months I would be perfectly happy to be done.  I think this speaks to the stability I have in my family and in my marriage.  I get to be home with Denai all day: cranky, happy or otherwise.  By the time Mr. Sexy gets home she is his until bedtime.

I plan to wean in about a month but I don't think I will do it cold turkey.  I will probably just gauge how she is doing, how I am feeling and go from there.  If she is ready to be done with a snap, well, so be it.  I still get to spend all day with her.  No love lost.  If she wants to nurse before bed for a few months, well, maybe.

I've got to be honest here.  I'm looking forward to being able to have a few beers and not be concerned with my breast milk!

Linking up with Wifessionals today!

A Beautifully and Wonderfully Made Me

At the bottom of my recent blog post, Journeying Towards Acceptance, is a beautiful picture of my daughter and I on my wedding day.  That picture used to hang, framed, just outside her bedroom door.  It was a reminder of who we are to each other regardless of the bumps along the road: mother and daughter.

This morning that frame is shattered and the photo ripped in 6 pieces.

Trying to live up to the image of being all-loving, forgiving and understanding is an impossible feat.  For me, at least.

The broken photo is my favorite of us.  We are both beautiful, smiling and happy with our worlds.  But that still-frame in time doesn't show the endless chaos that takes place as our worlds collide daily.  Moment by moment I make a choice:  Will I be calm, understanding and loving in my reaction?  Or will I allow anger to take control?

Today my anger focused in on one smiling woman and a happy girl.  Today those two people don't exist.  At least not together.

I believe in demons and angels that walk around with us and whisper ideas into our minds.  I believe in a heaven and a hell and in God and in Satan.  I believe that through even the slightest opening of a door evil can slither in and we are none the wiser until that evil reproduces itself over and over making its presence impossible to ignore.  Much like weeds.  I hate pulling weeds.  So when they're tiny, harmless, barely there, I ignore them.  What I should do instead is pull them out because they have no roots yet.  But wait awhile and their roots will grow.  I have come across some weeds so large and deeply rooted I couldn't pull them out even with all my strength.  That's when I realize I need to call for help.

I had to ask for help once.  A few months after being married my life changed and I learned things about myself that have changed me forever.  That's a tough story to tell and not one for today and probably not for a very long time.

It's been a long road since then and we have come so far as a family.  I began the process of learning to separate emotional lies from Biblical truths.

One huge realization that took way to long to figure out is that I don't hate Marie.  I don't even dislike her.  It's quite the opposite actually.  But does that make sense next to how angry I feel towards her when she acts out yet again?  No, it doesn't.  It makes absolutely no sense at all.  

Anger is my go-to emotion.  It's strong and powerful so that it easily clouds my true emotions.  The ones that are okay to feel and even embrace at times.  Such as disappointment.  But as I am feeling disappointed every single day, well, that emotion gets drab.  Anger, on the other hand, well I can really feel anger.  It awakens all my senses and makes the cold house feel incredibly hot.  I can feel the semblance of control as I hear power coming through my voice and I can see the effects that has.

But how is any of that positive and good for my family?  For my husband?  My kids?  What about the baby, the most innocent of any of us.

I really wanted to stop the line of anger issues with me in my family.  I wanted to learn to be better and show all of my kids what Jesus' love looks like.  But that's not what's happening.  Even if I'm not using words, my eyes can say so much.

Today I am feeling very beaten down.  I'm upset because that is so different from the past few days of feeling accomplished, optimistic and like a grade A parent.  Like I have said before, when I get lazy in the fight Satan attacks.

I've been to counseling a lot through my life but there is only one guy that I really liked because he helped me see things about myself that still stick with me.  Here's what he had me do:

First, I drew a picture of myself and drew/wrote what I liked about me.

Then, on a paper protector (plastic sleeve thingys), I wrote everything negative that I saw in me in black marker.

Well, when you put the black marks over everything that is good and true about me it's awful hard to see all that good stuff.  In fact, I couldn't read any of the words or see any of the pictures.  It was all a jumbled mess.  This is what shows.  What I see, what others see, what shows best, are the black marks.

 When I look in the mirror I tend to see a beautifully, wonderfully made woman overshadowed by black marks of sin.

Isn't this something we all do?  Isn't this what causes rifts in relationships?  I can rarely get past those black marks in other people - even in my own family.  My parents, relatives, my kids, myself, my friends.

The flip side is that we each can have Jesus who sees the black marks but He can erase those, piece by piece so others can see what he sees.  The beautifully and wonderfully made person in the mirror.

So today, that's my prayer.  All my reflection shows are the black marks and I see too many to count.  Today, before I go to sleep, I have hope that Jesus will erase just one of those marks so that a small piece of the beautifully and wonderfully made me will shine through.  One shining light in the midst of the dark.





Disclaimer:  The picture was shattered against a wall when no one else was around.

Just Chattin

I came across a really wonderful blog post today (Lisa-Jo Baker) and I realized I was in the process of writing a blog post in her comment section!  So I sent in my comment and realized I have more to say about this topic!


God has called me to do the unthinkable: Homeschool my 12-year old step-daughter who has down syndrome.  I also have two other kids with aspirations of one or two more.  

My life is crazy and a lot of times incredibly overwhelming.  Some days I just need to have a good cry on my husband's shoulder - and the tears always start over something silly (like an American Idol song. No joke). Every day is full and every day I am being stretched far beyond a capacity that I thought possible.  

Insecurities tell me I am not good at homeschool and I do a poor job of being a mom.  But I just have to remember that's not truth.  And I tell myself: "I think that's not true.  Actually I'm pretty sure that's not true.  Honestly, there is now way that's true!" God put me here in this season for His purpose.  That's good enough for me. 


'Nuff said.  And actually I didn't touch this from copying it from my comment.  I guess I said all I needed to say...

Journeying Towards Acceptance

I'm linking up with Kaitlyn today for her Friday series:

My daughter doesn't have Asperger's.  But she does have a disability: Down Syndrome.  

Also, biologically, she is not my daughter.  This would would make me her step-mother and I have only been in her life since she was eight years old.  

Step-mother. Step-mom.  Mom.  Mommy.  Mother.  Caregiver?   

Who am I? 

In Marie's world, I am her mother and there is no other.  Even after meeting her biological mother a few months ago Marie still has one mom.  That's me.  

And if I'm being honest with you, sometimes that down right pisses me off.  

See, I wasn't supposed to be her mommy.  I was supposed to be her step-mommy.  I had aspirations to be the best, too.  And before V (bio mom) left town three years ago, I was the best.  I looked past all the weird things Marie did all the time.  She has down syndrome for crying out loud.  I didn't even know what that was until I met Mr. Sexy and worked up the nerve to ask him about it.  Then I had to do research.  Lots and lots of research.  

Four years later I still don't understand down syndrome.  I still don't understand Marie. 

Well, I became Marie's full-time mom just a few months before Mr. Sexy and I married.  Towards the end of the school year Marie lived with me and my son in my two-bedroom apartment while Mr. Sexy lived with my parents two hours away so he could work until the wedding.  During those months leading to our wedding day I wrote Mr. Sexy three letters at three different times, each one giving him an out to our engagement.  I felt like I was going through hell and we weren't even married yet.  How was it going to work to become a loving family?  

In my letters I poured out my heart leaving nothing to the imagination.  I told him how I yelled at her and made her cry as my non-understanding of her was the gateway to anger leading me down a very dangerous path.  I have spent the past three years learning that my anger is not at Marie but with something else.  She just happened to be an easy scapegoat.  

God has been hard at work in my family.  And so has Satan.  There is a constant tension and when I relax Satan attacks. 

This next line is hard for me to admit and believe in my heart and believe in my head as truth: 

Marie is teaching me every day. 

When I'm too hard on her because she is not putting dishes away correctly, she is later able to smile, hug me and forgive me.  When I'm beyond frustrated at the fact she ate more inedible stuff and I lash out with a tongue of fire, she will later accept my apologies and return with her same love and affection.  

Bottom line: She loves me.  As much she doesn't understand me, she loves me. 

For a long time I thought I hated her.  Her differences were in my face, taunting me constantly.  I thought I disliked her so much that I would wish V would come back and whisk her away.  Then I joined an amazing support group and was able to talk openly with other women who understood how I felt.  The encouragement and truths they told me stunned me, motivated me, and gave me hope. 

"You obviously love her very much" is a comment I received so many times.  At first I shook my head (isn't that awful) and was taken aback because love was not what I was feeling.  As I heard this phrase from my friends over and over again I began to see the truth behind the words. 

I wanted her to succeed in life and when she didn't I was disappointed which looked like anger instead.  I wanted her to stop peeing the bed because she was getting a rash from the pee and it looked like it hurt.  I wanted her to stop binge eating in the middle of the night because one day it will make her overweight and sick.  I wanted her to stop chewing her fingers because it made her look weird to her classmates.  I wanted her to talk in sentences because friends and strangers weren't able to communicate with her well.  

I wanted a huge list of things for her.  But in my eyes she fell short over and over and over.  

Finally the darkness covering how I see her is starting to lift.  I actually think our new endeavor of homeschooling is causing relationship change in a positive way.  Now Marie and I spend all day together.  All day.  A year ago I was happy if she spent all day in her room after coming home from school.   Now we talk all day and I am teaching her things.  I am learning how her mind works and am challenged constantly to find new ways of getting information to make sense to her. 

We still have our off days.  She still likes to find random stuff to eat (and we are working on this).  She still pees the bed if we don't wake her up through the night.  

I'm finally starting to see her for HER apart from the down syndrome.  In my mind she used to be a walking Down Syndrome.  I know that's wrong and terrible to even think, much less voice out loud or on the internet where anybody can take my words and misinterpret them.  But it's the truth.  For so long I have struggled to see past the appearance.  Now, years later, I'm finally starting to see her heart.

Marie amazes me at every step of life.  It's hard for me to accept that God placed her and I in each other's lives for a purpose that will and already does bring him glory.  Our story isn't about me, or her or my amazing family.  It's about His Story.  I am lucky to have a part in it. 

Step-mother. Step-mom.  Mom.  Mommy.  Mother.  Caregiver?

So who am I really?   

Logistically I'm her step-mother and I accept that title on paper.  Emotionally, however, I finally accept my earned title of Mother.  

Naked Vulnerability

A dear friend sent me a text over the past week asking for prayer for her one-year old baby girl, her first born, because she had her second seizure.

I'm guilty of not always following through on my promises to lift others up in prayer even when I'm specifically asked.  It's interesting.  It's almost like I have to push myself to break down some invisible barrier just to send a few words up to Jesus.

 Prayer should be the easiest thing ever.

For me, right now, it's just ... not.

That day, however, I pulled that elusive barrier down, shut my eyes, and began to tell Jesus about my friends.  It didn't take long for my throat to get tight, my eyes to well up and I had to stop.

Prayer seems to make life become a reality.

Reading a text can sometimes be like reading a line from a book or a poem or a tweet.  It's easy to detach emotionally.  So when I let my friend's words sit in my heart and whisper through my lips, the weight of reality set in.  I found myself vulnerable and unsure about the future.

Talking to Jesus has become an elusive past time that is now filled with insecurities and doubts.

Blaming the choices I have made, such as a choosing to homeschool, is not the answer.

My reality is that I have let go of the fight.  At some point I started to relax and something told me everything was fine and would continue to be fine.  No, actually something told me things would be better.  I just needed to relax.  All that relaxing has led to higher tensions, flashes of an angry heart and someone who is giving off the portrayal of being beaten down by life.

Well hell no.

The elusive "something" will not be allowed to control me any more. 

Talking to Jesus about my friends, my kids, my burdens and even my joys opens up my heart to His unfailing love and faithfulness.  The weight lifts yet  it feels like an unwelcoming naked vulnerability.  At first.

With time, practice, faithfulness and hope, I will give  Jesus my heart piece by piece.  I will find that as I learn to take refuge in Him, again, I will be steadfast and beautifully vulnerable.

Yesterday I prayed for my friend.  Today I will pray for me.  Naked vulnerability awaits.