When it rains, it snows

I didn't believe it, even after the weather warnings and news blasts, long after the rumor of the first Chicago Public School closing in twelve years, not even after my dad called to tell me to hunker down. I thought this snowpocalypse, as it was being called, was simply hype. Or possibly, the meteorologists' big union play for more screen time. I peeked out my window periodically throughout the day and scoffed. We'll see, Chicago. We shall see.

And then, just moments before the time we kept hearing it would land, it really did come. The Blizzageddon. The snOMG. The Blizzard of Oz. The Snow Throwdown. A snowgasm.The Blizzaster. SNOWPRAH.

Twenty inches of snow fell on our city. And just as we always do, people found a way to cope just when the city seemed to be coming apart at the seeams. People who'd waited in a hellatious traffic jam on Lake Shore Drive for hours and hours -- some rotating time in strangers' vehicles to help each other conserve gas -- finally abandoned their cars and headed home, leaving a parking lot lining the lakeshore with its 18-foot icy waves and blowing snow.

Businesses closed. Trains slowed. Buses plodded along, packed full of people. Eventually, the busiest intersections from our neighborhood to the main arteries of downtown were abandoned. It was eery.

And then came the lightening and thunder and more wind that blew the tree branches so low that they scraped across our frosty windows. Blightening. Blizzfusion. Thundersnow.Visibility was nearly nothing. When I peekd out at the night, I could only see a dusting of snow in the street. But up against the cars were drifts climbing as high as Lil E.

It felt as if this city, the one we compare to big shoulders, was swept up by millions and millions of fragile snowflakes, countless breaths of wind off the lake, collisions of warm and cold air above us, misfires of electricity. All of it together was haunting.

 
This morning, our building looked wedged in among the snow drifts from the alley, through the gangway, all along the sidestreets, up on to our porch. We were held tight by snow and winter and forces much bigger than kindergarten schoolwork and little plastic shovels and media hype.

OK, I was wrong. It came. It came big and loud and dramatically. But what it became was quiet and beautiful and even serene. And I admit, I love it all.

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The meeting

We have this way, the Not Boyfriend and I, of packing in months' worth of time into a few short days. It has to be that way. The little touches, the reach for a knee under the table or hand across table or back of neck across the car have to last weeks and weeks and weeks. By the time Sunday morning arrived, the day we planned for him to meet my son, the Not Boyfriend and I had already had a big night out at one of my favorite bars, had a quiet night together at one of my favorite restaurants, introduced more friends to each other, had a congenial and relaxed lunch with my parents with nary a "oh, is this your friend" mentioned, slept in lazily and languishly far further into the late morning hours than either of us is used to, whispered gasps and little awed comments to each other while watching "Black Swan" and shivered in a broken down car waiting for AAA to jump my very dead battery on a very cold night.

It was already a lot in that short time.

But that Sunday morning, we moved about at our own different paces, poured the vanilla cream he made just sweet enough for me the day before into cups of anticipatory coffee. I put our house back together in a way that would make Lil E comfortable, opening the door to his room wide and putting his little chair and table back into place. The Not Boyfriend quietly moved in his own ways, sliding his suitcase out of view, making himself comfortable on the couch while I got ready.

Minutes later, Lil E was home and bounding up the stairs in his bright blue down coat, trailing one of his three Daddy-bags full of Legos and stuffed animal babies and clothes and odds and ends and treasures he cannot possibly travel back and forth to the suburbs without. I stopped him just a few stairs shy of the door to where the Not Boyfriend sat patiently.

"Do you remember I told you we'd meet the Chef Soldier while he's in town?" I asked him, looking up at his red, cold cheeks a few steps above my own.

He nodded. Maybe even smiled.

"Well, he's here. That time is now."

Another nod and smile. And then Lil E finished up his bounding and went confidently into his own familiar home, tearing off his coat and boots and gloves and socks just as he does with every entry.

"HI!" He said it happily. The Not Boyfriend returned it, but in his own understated way.

"Lil E, this is the Not Boyfriend," I said hostess-like. Perhaps it was too formal, but it felt necessary to mark the moment that way. "And this is Lil E."

I looked at the Not Boyfriend. There was some exchange but I was already talking about our plan to have some breakfast and then go bowling. It was calm, steady, kind -- that's what it felt like to me, standing there watching these two suss each other out with pleasantries and long looks.

We followed that plan, wearing matching shoes at the bowling alley, cheering on terrible and pretty darn good attempts at knocking down pins. And then, because our next plan to hunt down an arcade with skee ball was a total bust and I felt the need to keep up the momentum, I suggested what Lil E and I have done on rare but prideful times together -- make ice cream a meal.

Chocolate goatee

Lil E was very tired and it had been showing from the time we sat down over bagels and strawberries, started slowing him down as we laced up those green and burgundy shoes and even more as he hurled his bright pink ball down the lane for the fifteenth, sixteenth and subsequent frames. Standing outside the bowling alley with heaviness of sleep bearing down and the disappointment of no skee ball, he tried very hard to rally excitement at a big bowl of ice cream well before noon. But we all could see the exhaustion there.

We went to Margie's Candies, the original one that's cluttered with memoribilia and has juke boxes that don't work. We laughed and I let him make more potty jokes than usual while we waited for our ice cream to arrive in a giant plastic clam shell bowl. The sleep turned to six-year old antsiness and goofiness and the Not Boyfriend participated quietly, asking questions and smiling at me sweetly every once in a while.

It was nice. Comfortable. Even fun. I knew my boy was not completely himself, but then, maybe none of us were. Maybe that's to be expected during the first meeting of your mommy's (not) boyfriend. Perhaps, over an indulgent (not) meal on a sleepy Sunday in the middle of a bitter cold winter day, that is OK.

I tried to let it be. But of course, I wanted it to be perfect. I had this pang, this (sort of) momentary (maybe longer) hope that the Not Boyfriend would whisper to me that I am a wonderful mother, that this boy...this boy!...is incredible. I wanted him to be in love with all of it. I wanted it to be dreamy.

It wasn't. It was good. Very, very good.

I didn't have those same desires for Lil E, didn't feel the need for him to be bowled over by the man there with us. I didn't have expectations or outlines or restrictions or hopes for how he'd feel. I'd made it very clear that this was his time to get to know the Not Boyfriend, to see what he thought of him, to be honest with me about that, to investigate.

And so I let the fantasy edging around the Not Boyfriend's reaction slip away and tried to let it be. The afternoon unfolded at our place, playing a few hands of cards, with Lil E popping in to play a bit and then sit silently a few feet away, playing Lego alone. He asked for it to be that way, sitting in between us for a hand of Go Fish or Rummy as he pleased.

He was more and more tired, the scene got more stilted, and finally, well after he should have been napping, he fell apart during a lost round of Rummy. The Not Boyfriend won it. Lil E wasn't upset about that, but he wasn't saying what he wanted -- to finish out the hand with me -- and I wasn't reading his signs right.

He melted into tears and shouts of "I just want to play cards with JUST MOMMY" and door slamming and sadness. He was saying it all. Dramatically. Loudly.

I tried to talk to him. He wouldn't let me, ordered me out of his room. I apologized to the Not Boyfriend. He said he got it, that it would take time. And I buzzed in between them both, not sure how much space to give any of us.

Finally, I called it a day. The Not Boyfriend compassionately kissed me, got his coat and said good bye down the hall to my boy. I required Lil E to be polite in spite of his weariness and he yelled thank yous and then peeked out to say he'd see this new friend later.

I felt bad. I'd pushed back nap time, I'd maybe wanted too much to see what a lazy weekend afternoon was like for the three of us in this home together. I was trying to let it ride and I let it go too long.

Then, in my guilt and worry and middle-ness, I did what I would tell Lil E to do. I took a big balloon breath, filling my cheeks with air and then letting it slowly seep out into the room around me. I quietly pulled him down on his bed next to me, stroked his hair, held him tight, sang us both to sleep.

Later, I reminded him that, of all the people in this big and wide world, I love him the most. That I adore his silliness and smartness and sweetness and smile. I thanked him for meeting this man who has made himself at home in my heart.

In my own thoughts, I spun a bit, wondering if maybe this was too much of a stretch. What if I just stayed single? Would it be easier or better or SOMETHING to just forget this all and not take this leap with this man? Should it just be me and Lil E? Was this fair to this child? Would it all be OK? Was it worth it? The questions batted around in my brain and irrationally, I gripped on to each of them as they flew by. I didn't know how to stop the back and forth except by reminding myself, "It's OK. It was all OK. It will all be OK."  I didn't want to blow it out of proportion. I wanted to trust myself. I wanted to believe it.

We did some quick debriefing, but it was a few days later, after the Not Boyfriend was on an airplane back to San Francisco that he told me how he felt.

"Tell me about meeting the Chef Soldier," I tied to say as benignly as possible in the last few minutes of our commute to school. The night before, the two men in my life met up again at our house while Lil E ate mac and cheese. It was more comfortable. No screaming or teenage door slams, some exchange in calling each other "bro. There was even a hug goodbye, albeit at my prompting. It was protective but polite. Nice. Good.

In the car alone and with some distance from those encounters, I peeked at him in the rear-view mirror, bundled up and red-cheeked once again.

"I think he's nice. And fun and funny. I think he's really funny," Lil E said. It would have been generous and lovely enough if he'd stopped there. But he went on. "I like that you have someone to hang out with when I am not home, someone to do fun stuff with! He's really nice and funny and I liked meeting him."

I smiled into the mirror at him.

"Yup," he said as if it was any other comment about any other thing on any other day, "he's my kind of person."

And that was better than anything I could have written in my own head.

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That whole thing about a door closing and a window opening? It's totally real

He said it matter-of-factly. The Not Boyfriend looked at me through my computer screen on Skype and said in his serious voice that he would like to make a plan to meet my parents, to meet Lil E.

This was a few weeks ago but it's something we've discussed before in a "one magical day, far far away" kind of way, but with the complexity of reason and responsibility.

"When that happens, it will be a commitment to be present," he said once many months ago. I was struck by that. I agreed and I was used to be the only one to think on that trajectory.

Still, the distant future-ness of the message was there. I knew the time would come. I wanted it to be organic, not forced. I wanted it to be right, not questioned.

So when the real planning started taking place, you'd think I'd be prepared. Maybe you'd assume that I was really ready. Oh, no. Instead, I started to get scared. Later, I cried and went to see my therapist. But first, I got scared.

Well actually, very first, I pictured it, Lil E and the Not Boyfriend meeting and high-fiving or collapsing into some kind of boy-wrestle sesh or speaking Star Wars in some gutteral 6-year-old testosterone language I can never quite get the right accent in. I wondered what they would say about each other. I grimaced to think of myself singing and tap dancing to a Black Eyed Peas song in some desperate attempt to entertain in the center of them. I played these scenes in my head.

Then I got scared. Not because of Lil E -- I knew he was ready, I knew I could handle it with him. Not because of the Not Boyfriend -- I know him well enough to know he'd be sage and calm and kind. The fear was the change in time, the change in our ways of being. The shift in the way Lil E and I are. How would we feel on the other side? Who would we be?

The fear turned to panic. In a rare moment just after my divorce was finally finalized two years ago, I made a handshake agreement with The Ex that we would inform each other before we introduced Lil E to a significant other. That agreement, requested after deep breaths and made with serenity, was devised out of panic much earlier on when Lil E revealed in his then-three-year old way that he'd already met the woman his dad was involved with. I didn't want him to be caught in the middle of those situations. I thought we owed to each other as parents to share who we are bringing into our son's life.  I wanted to speak to him in person about this and some other issues that I felt needed to be in person.

But once the decision was set, The Ex couldn't meet me. Then he wouldn't return my attempts to find a time that would work. The fear was rumbly and I couldn't hear my other thoughts about why I felt this was right and good. The pain was old. The M.O. was familiar.

I contemplated cancelling it all. I came close. I held off talking to Lil E, hadn't asked my parents if they'd like to meet the man I'd been dating for a year.I worried. A lot.

What to do? What to do?

Then I got mad. This was old shit. I am used to being ignored and can deal with it when it is about something I need. But when it impacts Lil E, I'm so NOT good with that. I also felt myself pushing back, wanting so much for my life to move on from this pattern, this old stuff, this dynamic.

I want to move on, I thought. But I'm afraid and it's complicated and maybe...it's not time.

With that thought, I breathed deeper. Some kind of relief, maybe. The leap did not have to be lept. It could wait. It would wait.

I made the decision in my head, closed the door. Then, somehow a window creaked open. Just enough.

My mother called, knowing the Not Boyfriend would be in town.

"Will your friend be here this weekend?" she asked anyway.I laughed at your friend. She took it as a cue to continue on with the questioning. "Will you introduce him to Lil E?"

I was afraid they were more afraid than I was, that they might be protective, closed off to the idea.

I could only give her a maybe.

"Well, this is your relationship and you will make the right decision." It was a comfort."All of that is up to you and only you know what's the best thing to do."

Later that day, I told Lil E a sitter was coming for a couple of hours while I picked up a friend from the airport. He asked who it was and I mentioned the person I'd mentioned a few times before, my friend known as the Chef Soldier. He recognized him from letters I got when the Not Boyfriend was in Basic Training for the National Guard and rolls of cookie dough and caramel sauce he sent over Christmas.

"Ahhh," he said nonchalantly. "Will I get to meet him?"

It was all so no-big-deal, I was almost knocked over.

"Would you like to?" I tried to be as relaxed.

"Sure," he said, moving past me to a pile of Legos on the living room floor. "It's kind of like he's your best friend."

"Yeah," I smiled. Then back to to no-biggie. "I'll think about you meeting him."

The window seemed to be open wider.

The next day, still not etching in any plans, I thought and thought and thought some more. Well, first, I dreamed like crazy about all of it, then I woke up and drank a gallon of coffee to wash all that away and focus on the (more) real (ish) waking thoughts. The thoughts and feelings were caffeinated and churning.Finally, I inhaled and put my fingers to my keyboard and just wrote.

I wrote and wrote and wrote an email to The Ex. I listed all the issues I had to address with him. Inside it all, were a few short sentences that fulfilled my agreement. Nothing more.

In all that fear and dreaming and typing, I finally saw clearly that I'd moved on long ago. And the only person keeping me from moving forward was me.

That is OK. If I wanted to opt out, it would be fine. But if I wanted this all to happen, if I was ready for these introductions, all the signs were there and were telling me that it would be fine, too.

So I decided to trust myself and the moment. I hit send. I called my parents and asked them if they'd like to meet the Not Boyfriend for lunch or something casual and simple. I let the words I would say later that day to Lil E pour into my thoughts.

"Do you remember when you told me you thought it would be nice for me to have a boyfriend?" the words went in my head and that evening as I pulled him to the couch next to me. "Well, I think I'd like the Chef Soldier to be my boyfriend."

His whole face lit up with surprise.

"WHAT THE --?!" He shouted it but was smiling. He leaped from the couch, shaking all of his 39 pounds. "MOMMY AND THE CHEF SOLDIER SITTING IN THE TREE...K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

He fell over laughing at his own cleverness, of jumping on his own cue.

I told him the Chef Soldier-Not Boyfriend's real name, spurring more of that rhyme and more giggles.

"What do you think of that?" I stopped it all and it was too soon for his liking.

"GOOD!" he said in the way that is more the beginning of GUD JUL than the goooood I let slide out of my own mouth. Quick, sure. "I think it's good for you to have someone to hang around with."

It was months later, but the words were so much the same.

"And would you like to meet him?" I added this time.

"Yeah! Sure! Good!" More quickfire assuredness.

With that, I grabbed him up for a forced hug and we settled in deep into the couch cushions to read MONSTER BUGS!, the book he'd checked out from the kindergarten class library.

It was settled then. It was happening. I was still a little afraid, sitting there on the ledge, looking out on all that was ahead in the next few days. I saw my parents and my boy and the Not Boyfriend, all telling me to trust myself and they were fine and good with it all.What was out there looked foggy but good and happy. Sure, that could change, but those were worries for another time. For now, I felt OK. Still and supported and ready. Or at least, still and supported and ready enough.

Up next: The meeting

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