Sassafrass

What is this thing you call blogging?

Yeah, there's been a lot going on with the Sassafam.  There was the visitation dance, passing Lil E back and forth between parents, over the holiday. Then my brother and his wife came into town. Then I got all hell-bent on a crazy little idea called "cleaning the house."  Plus, there's been all kinds of avoiding online grocery shopping (yet to happen) and debating whether spending $80 on sandals can be rationalized in a recession (apparently, yes). With all these high-priority happenings laced with much more that is mundane and time-wasting, you'd think I'd still be able to take 5 minutes to throw up a little two-fingered hello over the Sassafrass steering wheel. But, nooooo.

In fact, I wrote more when I was riddled with bronchitis. I've blogged through bouts of crabbiness, raging PMS, desperate shoe cravings and years' worth of sexual droughts. But throw a flag, some firecracker pops and a 57-item grocery list in front of me and I avoid blogging like I'm dodging the bouquet toss at a wedding.

Not to worry, though. The house is (relatively) clean, the overpriced (but well worth ignoring that price tag part) shoes have been shipped and my brother and sister-in-law are packing up to head home. That means I can no longer ignore the whimpers of the blank screen.

So I'm back, y'all. Thank Blog Llmighty, I'm back.

4 favorite Chicago places you absolutely must visit during BlogHer

Am I the only one getting a little anxious over all there is to do BlogHer weekend? How in the world are we ever supposed to pay attention to the conference schedule? Especially when there are so many fabulous places in Chicago to eat, toast each other, and devise wicked plans with our favorite lady-friends to take over the interwebs?

Since BlogHer is back in my city (thank you, very much), allow me to be of service to you in your time of scheduling mayhem and big city panic. Here are 4 places I personally think you must go to, if not frequent, while you are in town.

Mind you, these are not just good places. These are some of my very favorite spots in the city. And kittens, you know I would not steer you in the wrong direction in my very own town. Gather your grrrls and put these four places on your itinerary. Now. Seriously. I insist.

1. Violet Hour - This speakeasy-inspired lounge, I've been told, is the perfect place to take your mistress. Perhaps that is because of the high-backed chairs snuggled into dimly-lit pairs. Or perhaps because the louder bar area and the hallway where you will inevitably wait impatiently are partitioned off my smoky-colored velvet curtains. Whomever you choose to accompany you to this, one of my very favorite spots in the city, choose someone who will enjoy the Wicker Park people watching while you stand in line, will ooh and ahh over the gorgeous design and stunning marble bar and will sip one too many ginger syrup and rosehips cocktails with you once you get inside.

2. Anthropologie - If you have only ordered from the catalog or don't have one in your city and you want to shop Chicago style, skip the Magnificent Mile and hop a cap to Anthropologie (there is one on State Street and one on Southport in the Lakeview neighborhood). Trust me, you want to be inside this store. Flipping the pages of the catalog will be mere foreplay for you once you've been to one. The clothes are divine and the sale room is a corner of heaven. Whether you need a sassy little skirt, a pair of good ass jeans, a swingy evening cardigan or a shabby chic something or other to place on your desk when you get home, you will not regret investing in an Anthropolgie souvenir for yourself.

3. Moon Palace in Chinatown - Shhh, don't tell anyone but...one time I was eating with my parents at this family favorite restaurant and we saw Alpana Singh, the glowingly gorgeous, clever host (who has a killer blog) of Chicago's prideful "Check, Please!" show on PBS. When my mother said she has always wanted to write in to nominate Moon Palace to be highlighted on "Check, Please!", Alpana begged her not to. She said it would get too busy and she would be so upset if she couldn't get a table there (now don't the four of you go nominating Moon Palace and making me look bad in front of Alpana after I pinky swore her I'd keep silent). Normally, that would be enough said for a Chicagoan, but I must tell you to be sure to order the sesame chicken and Szchuan green beans. After dinner, wander in and out of the shops and be sure to get a giant bag of fortune cookies to take back to the hotel for after- afterparty noshing.

4. Isabella Lingerie - Of course, of course. You have plenty of Targets bra shops where you live. As much as I am sure you think the 20-jobbers you've been wearing thin are doing a fine job for you, you need to visit the Boobologist. And the Boobologist (or one of her many wonderful staffers) is only at Isabella Lingerie. Trust me and my grrrls (Danielle and Jeanne), this woman will do wonders for your girls. You will spend a lot of money. And when you see your boobs in BlogHer pics all over the the damn place, honey, you will know it was worth every penny.  Take a cab to Isabella in the Lincoln Park neighborhood, where there is very little parking and too many ex-sorors and guys jacked up on Armani cologne and their own biceps who live there to stay way too long. When everything's hoisted, head down the street to Lori's Shoes and try on some fabulous footwear. Also expensive, also hoisting, also fucking fabulous.

4 little ways I know it is really, truly, thank you Jesus, finally summer

1. Popsicles on the porch.

2. Flowers in jar vases.

3. Cherries in a bowl.

4. Smell of marigolds in the air.

One more June 29th

In 2002, this was a beautiful, blue sky, sunny day. I was finishing a paper I had hanging over my head, long overdue and necessary for me to finally, finally finish a graduate degree I'd technically completed three years earlier. My parents were sitting on the deck at their lake house. My brother was riding his motorcycle on a long road in Virginia with a few of his friends who had just rounded the bend ahead of him.

I won't ever forget that day because it is the day I logged off the dial-up internet service at my parents house and the phone immediately rang and the hospital chaplin told me my brother my brother had been in an accident, was being transported from the ER to the ICU, and yes, that it was very, very serious.

[My brother and I last summer at my grandmother's 100th birthday. We are blessed to share the genes of many fighters.]

You may know the story. I've talked about it many times here and other places. That day changed the course of the lives of everyone in my family and so this day is one that need to acknowledge.

[My brother at age 11 or 12. Such a baby face. I mean...so cool.]

I call this day my brother's Survive-iversary. I occasionally envision my brother in his toughest moments --- swollen, marred by road rash, stapped down and cuffed by a neck brace and countless tubes. Fitfully unconscious for days. Crying out in confusion and pain when the coma began to recede. Taking his first steps after re-teaching his body to walk. Sipping rootbeer floats in celebration of being released to do rehabilitation in Chicago, then to return to school again months later.

Even those celebrations were hard. The constant process of letting go of someone so vulnerable made my parents and I ache, even as we toasted rootbeer floats back at him, even as we thanked God when his skull, jaw, teeth, tracheotomy wound, scars, and pieces of his life mended.

The balance of that is that we did find joy, laughter, and amazingly, some good times in the midst of all that pain, in the harsh light of the hospital. In the years since we have found ways to do that again and again when the road ahead of us is uncontrollable and bending, grieving and healing, crying and laughing in turn.

Last year, I didn't write about my brother's survive-iversary here. It was just too much at that time for me. But like we do every year, he and I shared a moment together on the phone. Just like it all began, we stopped what we were doing and focused in on that moment in time.

[My family, last summer in Virginia.]

This year, we exchanged acknowledgements on Facebook before we found each other on the phone. The messenger may be changing but the message is the same. This year, unlike others, I did not cry. But on this beautiful, blue sky, sunny day, I did feel the same rush of relief I did when I finally got there, became the first family member to arrive in the ICU seven years ago, the same rhythmic prayer of thanks:

He's alive. He's alive.

It was enough. It was everything. It was June 29th.

Our own little public service announcement: My brother suffered a traumatic brain injury and was wearing a helmet. We still advocate helmet laws in every state, angering some commenters and connecting us to others. You can read more about our efforts to promote helmet laws and helmet use here and here.

Today, for my grandfather

Today is my grandfather's birthday. He was a Methodist minister, an artist, an intellectual, a big man who gave hugs that could completely, protectively envelope a small child. He loved dirty jokes and would tell any joke he thought was good over and over again.

His job demanded a lot of his time and energy, and he repeatedly came out of retirement to serve people in churches. This wasn't always easy for our family, especially at holidays. But that need for his presence only came from the full attention he gave, that I remember feeling when he held my hand and listened intently as I told him about my senior play or college classes or being the camp where we went, just a town over from where he and my grandmother lived. As a little girl, I ran with my cousins to the altar during the Children's Moment, just to be sure to get the seats on each side of him. I beamed with pride as he gave the lesson, as I looked down at the other kids watching him. That was my grandpa.

He painted and his mind reeled with designing ideas and configurations. He taught my mother and I to play the "how would you renovate this kitchen?" game when we visited other people's homes. He (sort of) jokingly told me once that he liked the elaborately decorated envelopes I sent him more than the letters inside. He and my grandmother drove from Indiana to Missouri once to hear me read a paper at a conference. They clapped and lauded me, even though they were two of only five people in the room.

When my grandfather was dying eight years ago, my family gathered at his bedside for three days. It was agonizing and exhausting and emotional. When I got there, I put one hand on his chest -- inhaling and exhaling roughly under the weight of pneumonia and half-consciousness -- and one on his cheek and told him it was Jessica, that I was there and so glad to see him. Eyes closed, he smiled wide at me. I do not think that picture will ever leave my mind.

We read scripture, prayed, told stories, like a tribe surrounding their sagest elder. My grandmother stroked his hair, and I remember wondering how someone watches the end of life, the close of a relationship they've had for decades and decades.

As I am told by nurses it often happens, he died moments after we were all asked to step outside while his linens and bandages were changed.

My grandfather comes back to us in cardinal sightings. I feel his spirit strongly when I see red birds. And when I suddenly see red birds, I feel his spirit strongly. This is true for many of us in my family and it happens time and again.

Lil E, who never knew my grandfather but knows the story -- and maybe even his spirit -- well, insisted today that we will see a cardinal in honor of him. He rushed to the porch doors, pulled back the curtain and checked to see if one was perched on the rail, as one was often last summer, as one was for hours last year on this day.

"We shall see," I said. "I hope so."

"No, Mommy. I am sure of it," he countered confidently. "He will send one."

I loved the faith in that statement, so much that I could only nod. And I know -- I know -- my grandfather would have loved Lil E's faith, too. The faith that my grandfather preached, questioned, analyzed, scribbled notes on in his Bibles, shared, built, might just still be running through us. Might still be coursing through our blood. Might be perched on the rail just beyond my desk, behind the curtains, soaking up the June sunshine and waiting to be discovered.

This is what a little surfer boy does in the city

Because this is Chicago and there's no such thing as a smooth seasonal transition, it is suddenly, horridly humidly, blissfully summer. I dragged the kid out from behind the couch cushions where he was playing with 47 tiny Star Wars action figures to go to the sprinklers at the park. He insisted on full surfer boy gear -- because it is essentially a costume and that's how he rolls.Yes, those are new Darth Vader sunglasses. You know...because Anakin had sensitive eyes from all the sandy pod-racing (or something).

Amidst the babies in sagging diapers and exhausted parents and cold showers blowing through the still, hot air, my son squealed and screamed and leaped and raced through the sprinklers. And then, because there was stuff nearby to climb upon, that was all followed up by climbing upon those things. It was, by far, the best hour of my day. Maybe even week.

   

    

 

     

Jon & Kate: I hate to say it, but I relate

It was not my intention to watch THE BIG ANNOUNCEMENT on "Jon & Kate Plus 8" tonight. It was not my intention to watch it at all this season. Many, many episodes ago, Kate's germophobia and Jon's passivity wore me down.

Before the weariness set in, I did watch the show. When Lil E and I lived with my parents, we either watched or heard each episode detailed by my mother, who is delighted by all reality TV that involves a) small children, b) fashion, c) island challenges, and 4) food. Lil E and my mother were equally squealy to see kids Lil E's age times six, with two older, bossy girls corralling them through the house. When Lil E and I moved into our own place, we'd sometimes glory in the fact that we had our own cable and we watched old episodes while unpacking boxes and arranging pillows on the floor until we got furniture a few months later.

It all seemed innocent enough then, barring a yelly mommy with bad hair and a doh-dee-doh-dee-doh daddy and the tension of bringing so many children out of womb at one time. I no longer had the time or energy or emotional reserve to commit to any of the many television shows I formerly watched. And so there they were every once in a while, Jon and Kate and all their maniacal outings with too many children.

In the past few months, I've paid some attention to their lives off-screen. How could you not? I've oscillated in my sympathies, first rolling at my eyes at the all too familiar cheating husband and then watching in horror at the footage of Kate denying her daughter water while she sipped from a bottle herself. I felt for her, for them, but I was done. I didn't need to watch more.

So I am not sure how or why I ended up tuning in to the BIG ANNOUNCEMENT episode tonight. But I clicked on it and never looked away.

What I saw, what I heard saddened me more deeply than I anticipated. It saddened me because the words they each said -- about choosing to separate, about trying to find happiness, about hoping for friendship, about having absolutely no relatioship left with the person they are married to -- sounded so damn familiar. Except for the bit about striving for friendship (no thanks), it could have been a script out of my own divorce.

I don't feel sorry for Jon because I don't understand how a person can choose such a damaging, unfair, disrespectful way to leave a family, all in the name of finding himself. I do feel for Kate, not as the cringe-worthy mother but as wife on the end of all that other crap, and only because I understand how scary and sad it is to face the end of a love affair and the beginning of being the official primary parent.

Of course, I feel for the kids. Oh, those kids. But that's not what surprised me. It surprised me that I ached in relating to the parents.

Sure, they have cameras and access and money now. One day, the show will be cancelled and the parents will be left with split holidays and kids trying to play Jon against Kate. One day, the kids will be awkward teens and taller and louder than their mother's yelling and overhear the dad complaining about child support or never really completely escaping Kate's control. I mean, unless by luck or the grace of God, something goes differently for that family than too many others.

I am not Kate Gosselin and I am the mother of one child. But I have certainly had my yelly mommy moments, had horrible hair (and skin), acted out and been a bitch out of a need to be right or ahead or in control. That said, I also did my very best to get through my divorce. It wasn't always pretty.And I certainly am glad it wasn't all captured on camera or splashed across magazines. That was (and is) their choice, but divorce doesn't care if you are famous or not. It brings the bullshit no matter who you are or how much money or how many kids you have.

But maybe, they really will find happiness outside of their marriage, the family that was, possibly even the show. I was as full of pain and anger and fear that I imagine Kate is right now, and I have found more happiness than I ever dreamed. Than I ever dreamed when I first filed for divorce, and even long before I realized my marriage was over.

Not all divorcing or divorced people are the same. This I know. But I can't deny the similarities that I saw and heard tonight. I can't watch Jon & Kate anymore, but I also can't pretend that there's not some reality behind that reality TV.

Behind my own scene: Getting ready for the Gabbys

Yes, this is out of order. And yes, I know I am backtracking a bit, and I am sure you will forgive me since I've been all kinds of codeined and ZPac-ed in bronchitis hell. Before I headed off for a fun night of honoring Greek Americans, shaking it a little bit to the "voice of Greece" Glykeria (whatever this woman is doing in the motherland is working...she's 54, looks amazing and clearly has fireball energy), and wishing I could have squeezed my camera into my overstuffed clutch so I could bring you all pics of the phenomenal shoes I observed on lovely Greek lady feet, I turned my bathroom into a salon while Lil E documented Mommy "getting so so fancy."

Here's the scene, from his vantage point. [After the jump as not to overload the old blog with bathroom pics.]

Liveblogging the Gabby Awards: Moving on to the after-party

I'll be honest, no swag bag in the world is going to convince me to see My Life In Ruins. But Nia Vardalos, in her swingy mint dress ans with her quippy presenter comments, was engaging and funny and reminded me of many of my own grrrls. But there' s no time to ponder cinema. We're already on to the after-party with dinner (at last) and drinks (ahhh) and lots of people-watching. Bloghers, you will be ecstatic to know the after-events are at the same hotel we will be oggling each other geekside in just over a month. This event, though, has been styled like an HGTV wedding that makes you want to go through your own ceremony all over again. The chandeliers have been draped in transluscent gold hoops and there are flute vases of palms framing each table. Insignia-ed lamps outline a VIP area where white couches and fuschia centerpieces create a sexy lounge on the dance floor. Considering most everyone is a Greek American, it is an incredibly diverse crowd. Don't you love that? So Chicago... I'm having a blast and have (almost) forgotten not to breathe on everyone around me. P.S. One more lovely note...my gentleman friend's video caused both tears and cheers and so, in the loveliest thank you, they played it again at the end of the awards show.

Liveblogging the Gabby Awards: Inside the Merle Reskin Theater (so far)

We've been encouraged to Twitter, so I won't feel a bit of guilt for doing a little liveblogging along the way. I won't partly in awe and protest of "tweet" being word number five at an awards show. So far, Melina Kanakaredes, a co-chair of the event was just as sparkly and articulate as you'd imagine. Lifetime honoree Olympia Dukakis --does it matter how old she is? My God, she's just glowingly gorgeous -- seemed truly honored, which was a sweet surprise. The theater is packed full of more recognizable names and much more pride. (And yes, lots of fabulous footwear I am hoping to capture once the house lights go back up).

Mustering all my immunity and bling for the Gabby Awards

It has been a week of misery, Lysol, honey lemon tea and antibiotics that could take out a plague (at least that is the hope now that it is coursing through my veins). And tonight I am pulling myself up off the couch and into some merciful Spanx to head to the Gabby Awards. Huh?! I know! Who goes from bronchitis hell to a formal affair in a matter of hours? Apparently, a grrrl who has purchased some killer Cha Cha de Gregorio satin heels...and who also is very happy to support a certain someone she's smitten with who produced videos for the big event. So deep breath, lozenges, and red lipstick, darlings. Farewell to germs and hello to an evening to honor Greek Americans (and that talented gentleman I will be sitting next to).

The kid left and the germs settled right in.

My week alone, or at least relatively alone while Lil E went across the country for a vacation with his dad, was full of so many good intentions.

Of course, there was the to-do list that included doing all those things like throwing out gazillions of craplastic thingies accumulated in size 3T pockets and brightly colored bins and under the couch cushions...oh, and also the mama-equivalent that lives in my make-up and kitchen drawers.

There was also the good intention of having dinners with friends I haven't seen in way too long, and all this blogging I was going to do.

Then, like the inevitability of getting sick the day after finals is over, I sent my boy off and I got sick. I caught some kind of pandemic that has knocked me and my big list of good intentions the eff out.

Before I did get all feverish, I did get to see an all-grrrl tribute band called Lez Zeppelin (must love) that also gave me a bit of a shoe rush (helllloooohhh, lead singer with the white leather knee-high boots). It was so fun to spend a few pre-hacking cough hours at this phenomenal show.

I'm off to the doctor tomorrow after a stern warning from one of my grrls (who doesn't have white leather knee-high boots but totally could rock them) and then I am going to climb right back in bed with my Kleenex, sinus spray, cough medicine, neti pot, Riiiiiiicohhhhhhhla drops, and ibuprofen. Then, I am sure the nastiness will clear enough for me to write more. And not about my germedness, I swear.

Because pink makes me happy

There is much to post about -- it's coming. Eventually.

There is much to do -- it's happening. Slowly, but it's happening.

There is much to ponder -- it's all in there. Swirling, but it will soon settle.

For now, on this rainy day that seems much closer to autumn than the summer solstice, I am centering on this. Yes, taken in my mother's garden.

I am choosing to surround myself with colors (shhh, never mind the 27 black tees hanging in my closet) that make me feel good and to shift my focus from the craziness to the calm.

I took this picture because pink makes me happy, almost every time.  And because peonies, in their lushness made by ants burrowing into the buds, are among my favorite flowers.

So today, with all this stuff to accomplish and think about and unwind, I'm pressing pause with this one pink peony.

Postcards from the Past: The end of the school year last year

This is Lil E's last day of co-op, last year. I'd been in court and so there was no farewell post. There was, however, a recital and program the night before. He stood on stage, singing his heart out. I clapped loudly from the awkward position in the church pews between his dad and my own parents.

I waited to tell Lil E that he would not be going back, in part to give some space to all the transitions we'd already made that year and even that month. I was also nervous myself, maybe even a little guilty that he would be going from two half-days of preschool a week to a full-time academic program.

You can tell a lot about that time by the boxes stacked up behind my boy. We'd been living in our place for about a month and I was overrun by baby clothes, wedding china, and all of the bare necessities we had with us while living with my parents the previous seven months.

One more change, I remember running through my head. Can we do one more change? We can do one more change.

Of course, we could do one more change. In fact, that one change, going from co-op to his current preschool, is one of the primary reasons this child has flourished this year.

There was a surprise, he cried, and then it was all OK

Last night at t-ball, Lil E soared. We talked about where he could hit the ball to avoid the cluster of 3-6-year olds where the pitcher's mound would normally be, and he bulleted the ball right through that empty spot on the field. And because it was cold and many of the kids on his team left early, he fielded ball after ball, running hard and pinning his glove over it protectively until we yelled from the sidelines to throw it to first.

The kid was blissed out on t-ball.

His dad came to watch and he was thrilled. It was a make-up game andhis right privilege to watch Lil E play, but not normally a day when they see each other.

"What a surprise!" I smiled sharply, pointing toward his dad as he walked across the field toward our boy.

My parents cheered as Lil E confidently ran from base to base. He was supported. He was strident.

My son in the oversized team t-shirt draped on top of a jacket and long underwear top, was happy.

Until it came time to leave. Normally, game days fall on the nights Lil E spends with his dad. We have kisses and high-fives after the last inning, and I hand off the small child and his overnight bag brimming with Legos and stuffed animal babies and action figures. Last night, he said goodnight to his dad and we went home. It confused him, it upset him.

My son with dirt and a junior-sized baseball glove covering half his face, was confused.

He turned suddenly silent, asking why his dad didn't take him for the night, then yelling that I was lying about what day it was after I explained the (happy?) surprise of the situation. Once home, he collapsed on my lap, crying into my shoulder while the bath ran in the next room.

It all ended OK. We snuggled in his bed and were both enthralled by a new book on grasshoppers he brought home from school. We giggled and he gave me more kisses and tight hugs than usual before he fell asleep. I drifted off next to him after singing our standard ni-ni songs and woke up to feel his legs running like crazy his sleep.

Earlier, he was processing what are the real and daily and inevitable logistics for a child living in two homes. Most days, he rolls with that situation pretty well. And some nights, just like last night, surprises (even happy ones) throw the whole game off.

It was just a moment in time, and this morning, it was all better. Tomorrow, it's game time again. And then, he will go home with his dad, just another sign that our structure, our schedule has been righted once more.

Life, particularly this life, is not predictable. There's a pain that surfaces for him sometimes that I cannot make go away (I know this) but I can soothe (or do my best, at least). Until we are all a lot better at this (and you've all assured me that does come...eventually), I'm going to keep cheering him on as he runs and slides and dives into new things. But I'm also going to be enveloping him protectively, tightly. Just like his glove sheltering the ball from everything and everybody else on the field.

Channeling his inner Maverick

I can't bring myself to liken my sweet, sensitive, funny boy who happens to have a penchant for jumping on couches but I could never take the chance to jinx with a robot marriage, a narcissistic sneer or insistence that many medications will prevent him from taking a big spaceship to meet his maker.

So in these aviator glasses, he's my Maverick.

 

Not the aisle you want to be in

Especially at 10:11 p.m. on a Saturday night, even if you are walking beyond these signs to the third section, "Wound care."

Thank the goddesses I was only there Altoids and a bottle of water. No, really. I swear.

The only way this aisle could be more awesome is if there was jewelry like this on the other side.

One more way I'm ushering in summer

For years and years when I was a teenager and even through college, I painted my toes a bright, grassy, glossy green every summer.

I had a basket of green polish just for the warm weather months, and it made me feel a little rebellious, a little glamorous and very happy to carefully brush it on. These were the days when most girls I knew had pale pink or red polish, with the exception of the bored bad girls who dared to paint their nails with White Out. I made green my signature toe color (never fingernails) in one of my first and (not so) dramatic acts of individuation.

Until I had Lil E, I was a master manicurist and pedicurist. I enjoyed going to the salon but I knew I could be just as pleased watching "Temptation Island" and DIYing my mani-pedi as having someone else do it. Apparently, pregnancy took with it the time, patience and interest in making sure the polish is on perfectly, the nails are shaped precisely and everything is scrubbed down, rubbed up, and looking fine. Now I visit the ladies at the salon when I can and sit back with a People and let them make my toes (and sometimes fingernails) look the way they should.

And for the last couple of years, they've looked gothy and dark. I've been tempted by other colors, and on occasion I will give in, but visit after visit, season after season, my nails are almost always black, navy blue or the deepest purple. Even in summer, there is very little deviation.

Really, I am a pink grrrl. My favorite shoes are red and patent leather. I sometimes even wear green. Just not on my toes. Not anymore.

I thought about that today when I decided I'd use some of my time during this third free weekend in a row to take care of my tootsies. I pulled off my sunglasses to pick a color and smiled to remember how much I used to love looking down to see the happy green peeking out from my flip-flops.

So I did something bold -- prepare yourself, kittens, it's a big one. I put back the bottle of  Darkest Cherry and chose a summer color for myself. It isn't green, but it is bright and sunny and I can't stop staring at the not-black I'm now wearing.

  

Of course, it's not a big one. But, just like so many other details of our lives and our bodies and our beings, I think these tiny shifts are significant. Sometimes they are shifts back to the self we were a long time ago or has been quiet for many years. Sometimes they are shifts forward to a person we hope to be or want to be or maybe, we are and just have yet to recognize.

Since becoming a single mother, I've made those shifts both backward and forward in music, food, exercise, sleep, clothing, hair,  financial responsibility, friends. There's not a lot of radical movement -- in fact, most people around me probably wouldn't recognize it. But I see the little changes, I feel the difference.

Today, I'm seeing new summer nails, and it's enough.

And instead of yesterday's craziness, let us focus on this

A few precious moments of sunshine. The windows down, the sunroof open. Music playing too loudly. A spring skirt that has not been worn yet this year. A glare off the windshield that requires sunglasses and windblown hair that insists you use them later to keep it all tucked back.

The small child singing his own lyrics in the back seat. A calmed pulse. Prayers set to indie pop. Lavender growing wildly in the medians. Enough traffic to hear the entirety of the song that says, for some reason that is unnecessary to explore, "Summer is coming. It will all be OK."

Do you still believe the things your ex says about you?

I've heard stories about amicable divorces. They are surely out there. Right? Can anyone verify that people really do separate on good terms?  Are there any first-hand accounts available of what it is like to interact peaceably with the other parent or former partner? If there are, I think I need a nice, long sit-down over a pot of tea to understand the mechanics of that kind of relationship.

It's no surprise I don't have that. The peace I have has come from within, and I am grateful for that. I have worked and do work hard to get to that silent, still place in myself and in my life that is not cluttered by the noise of someone else screaming, of legal issues and complicated schedules.

And no matter what I write here or say to my parents or seethe over in my mind, I work very hard to have a workable relationship with The Ex. Sometimes, it goes better than I predict, thank goodness. Many times, it is tough but manageable. Other times, it is just awful.

Today was one of those days. A complete breakdown of communication into yelling and dredging up old stuff other ugly interactions that I am ashamed to admit. In defense of myself (and if I don't do that, who will?), I gave it my all. I tried so hard to just talk. I called back a second time, calmer, asking to negotiate, trying to reason. Sadly, none of that could be heard through the name-calling and accusations. It was as raw as it was early in our divorce process.

To be fair (and really, none of this is truly fair), I yelled back. I took the bait. I engaged even when I know, I know it is better not to engage. I tried to hard to let (my) logic win and I talked too much. I felt I was being fair, but I also know that too often I am not.

And in the end, I will not win this one (and no, when it comes to divorce, especially with kids, there is never winning). I will concede because otherwise the conflict will impact Lil E and I cannot have that. I am backing down.

Here I sit, hours and hours after the hour I spent on the phone with The Ex, and I am still sad, exhausted, overwhelmed by the idea it will always be like this (I know, it won't always be like this). The thing that feels the worst to me is being told how I am, who I am, and why I do the things I do (at least according to the other person on the end of the cell phone).

When I told this to my parents (as I tell all of these things), my mother asked me a hard but important question, "Why is it that you still believe the things he says about you?"

In my head, I don't. I know myself, better now than I did when I was married. But my heart sobs every time I'm told all of those awful things.

My marriage, until the end, was not like that. But my divorce is full of those hateful moments. I guess if I wasn't internalizing all those words, I wouldn't take it so much. I don't need anyone's "awww" for that. I am more upset that I let his anger inside the door of my home. Again.

Next time, I will end the conversation. Or hang up. Or follow through on my already-outlined list of exit strategies.

But I have a bigger task that clicking "end call." The opposite of love, my mother often reminds me, is apathy. Isn't that the damn truth? Truly, I was over the love immediately, and for most aspects of The Ex's life, I am completely un-invested. But I think today I got that I have been settled in the hate for so long, and now it is time to move into an apathetic place. Why is it so hard to get over so much other stuff but this, what the other person thinks of us, lasts so much longer than the loving feelings?

I have a lot yet to unravel. I have a lot to un-believe about the woman who messes up, yells, is miles away from perfect, but is doing her best in this single mama life a great deal of the time.

Even if none of you are blessed with an amicable ex-relationship, perhaps there are those of you who have been through the un-believing process yourselves. Please, share, share.

And if you, like me, are still caught in the chaos, do you continue to take your ex's beliefs to heart?

Also:

• Are you wearing your divorce?
• One small and significant reminder of new beginnings
• Holy oh hell, I am happy