A year to the week: Back to court

I stopping in the middle of my week to try to settle myself, to just take a look around.

This week, we will celebrate Lil E's fourth birthday. This week, we will turn my parents' backyard once again into a party full of kids and snacks and more presents than we will know what to do with.

This week, I will cuddle my boy and remember what it was like to hold my swollen belly four years ago and to wonder what it would feel like and be like to have him in my arms.

This week, we will also mark a year from the day my marriage fell apart, setting me on the path to single motherhood and a life I never imagined for myself.

Today, though, before we mark those moments, we go back to the courtroom with lawyers and spreadsheets and a supina and all the emotion and prayers it takes to separate the financial part of our long-over relationship.

After the last pretrial conference to settle and sign our parenting agreement, I've told myself that this part is easier, all about numbers, factual and devoid of the investment that visitation and educational decisions require. 

I've been centering on thoughts of forgiveness and release and I've called upon my grrrlfriends and music and my parents to remind me of how to stand tall, be still and stay as quiet as I can in the chaos of the negotiations batted around the courtroom hallway.

On the advice of one my best friends, an attorney who gets it, I will be wearing what she calls The Pearls of Believability.

I'm not sure what will come of today, but I will go in prepared -- my divorce binder full and at the ready, my mantra playing softly in the background of my thoughts, dressed for the part and ready to tick off this event on my calendar.

This is a big day, yes. On the other side of it, up next, is my boy's birthday. And isn't that proof enough that, past all the tough anniversaries, life does go on?

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Call me crazy but I think the kid and the condo are trying to kill me

Would it be too conspiracy theorist of me to say that I think my apartment is trying to kill me?

To be fair, the apartment is really a condo and completely our home at this point. And to be even more fair, if this place is trying to kill, the kid and the condo are definitely in cahoots.

Two weeks ago, in a fit of some kind of almost-four-year old insanity, Lil E had a tantrum. While peeing. At the peak of the potty meltdown, I ordered a self-imposed mommy time-out and headed to the kitchen for the comparable quiet of unloading the dishwasher. I have my moments as a silly, rule-bucking mama, sure. But if there is one thing I am not down with, it's being screamed at by a preschooler from his potty seat. Over the clank and clatter of glassware and sippy cups, I heard the bathroom door slam and then a sudden and complete silence.

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Wise words from your mother (well, if I do say so myself)

"No, honey. No, it's not appropriate for your penis to talk directly to me."

"No, it probably shouldn't talk to anyone else either."

"Yes, that includes the potty."

"No, your penis probably shouldn't talk directly to you either. If it does, it's not going to be good advice."

"Trust me. Definitely trust me on that one. Very few penises offer up sage words. Honest."

"OK, yeah. I think we're done here. Yeahhhh, we're all done here. This is a good point to end this conversation."

Feel free to download, print off, disperse at playgroup or hang up in your own bathroom in case the inevitable talking penis discussion (oh wait, is this conversation only inevitable with my kid?) happens just after bath and just before bedtime with your boy.

Every day's an education around here. No, not for him. No no no. I'm the one learning around here. Learning and wondering why none of my body parts ever talked when I was four. Or 27. Whatever.

No matter. This is a page to staple into the parenting books, my friends, because I am pretty sure no one ever told me to expect my kid's privates to go that public.

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