Hi. My Name is Jeanna and I'm Boring.

I have a confession. I'M BORING. I go to work Monday through Friday. I sit at a desk. Then I go home. I have kids and dogs. When I’m at work I daydream about boring things like naps. My favorite way to spend an evening is in front of my wood burning stove, maybe with a dog on me, next to my fiancé. Eating. He is also boring. We are monogamous. I don’t even drink.

 Hell, I don’t even eat bacon.

I’m boring and that’s why people like me.

 

Image provided by www.paulocoelhoblog.com

We live in a world that has become so impersonal and so segregated from the community, that people all feel crazy. They feel alone. They feel lost. And they feel hopelessly “different”. Human beings were meant to be communal animals. Being with others is an integral aspect of our ability to be alone. We derive our consciousness of self through the reflections of others. We learn “self” reflection by acknowledging our likenesses with others. From viewing “without” we gain insight to “within”. And this ability to self reflect, well, “sapience”, “to know”, is a vital part of being a “homo sapien”.

I turn on the TV at home and see a show about people who write parking tickets. We make dinner with Honey Boo Boo’s family. We go tuna fishing with a group of strange guys. Why? Are these lives really more interesting than our own? Why do we care about things that aren’t that interesting? Why do we care about people like ourselves?

Simply, because, we can relate.

We live in a world that moves fast. We have the ability to access so much knowledge of so many interesting things. Most of us possess this ability in the palm of our hands. We, for the first time in history, are able to know how NOT interesting we all are. Most of us live simple lives. So, when we see a glimmer of recognition in the mediocrity of someone else’s life, we cling to it. We cling to it and breathe a sigh of relief that we aren’t missing out on a life better lived.

And the more we get to know each other, the more we delve past the surface and begin to explore and reflect, we realize; despite the similarities of our mediocre lives, it is our individual experiences and our ability to share them, that makes us uniquely interesting… and human.

***Dedicated to Mary, who says I'm not interesting.

How I wooed him in.

As most folks know, Mr. P and I met on Facebook. But it was not the online dating experience one might expect. 

He was FB friends with my ex husband's cousin. They went to prom together back in the days when everyone was skinny and he had a giant high school porn star mustache. I've seen the pictures. She looked stoned and he had a protruding adam's apple and bad posture. 

He added me because I made him laugh. I imagine he spent all day, as a stay at home dad, online waiting for pics of her to pop up so that he could read our commentaries. Knowing this made me want to delve into the past and find his first comments. Back when he called me "she" (because he was posting on my pics that Cousin was tagged in). Back to the beginning of how we met. Mr. P and me, and apparently, we started with a duckface....

Comments on this picture, July 1, 2009:
Me: I would prefer to be Latoya.  
Cousin: I've always been Penny therefore I am Janet. 
Me: Ms. Jackson ( I'm nasty) 
Cousin: Nasty pretty much sums us up. 
Me: yep. 
Cousin: 'tonite, I'm livin in a fantasy, my own little nasty world, tonite, dontcha wanna come w me, do u think I'm a nasty girl!' 
Me: Who's that thinkin' nasty thoughts? 
Cousin:who's dancin 2 my nasty groove?! 
Cousin: I hate u. U r photogenic. I have 2 b appreciated in person. good thing I dnt need 2 do any internet dating! 
Me: No my first name ain't baby... 
Cousin: ...sittin in the movie show thinkin nasty thoughts. 
Cousin: i was channeling some Vanity 6 earlier. much nastier, more our speed. 
Me: I don't like no nasty car, I don't like a nasty food! 
Me: Hey, what was the hateful comment stuck in there? U r gorgeous! 
Cousin: lol! yeah but i take crappy pics. it was a compliment!! 'hate' meaning 'love'. kinda like how 'no' means 'yes'! 
Me: Right! As long as they're wet!
Cousin: OMG! we r TOTALLY sharing a brain 2day! I was gonna put that in next! I swear! Why did those Drs ever separate us and adopt us out 2 diff families in the first place?? Damn them! Damn them all 2 hell! ...and they took our brother [other fb friend] away as well, which was prob a good thing since he has no reservations about sibling sex.
Me: he's scerry. 
Me: so r we actually related to [ex-husband]? maybe im more like [fb friend] than i want to admit... 
Cousin: no, [ex-husband] was found in the dumpster behind Fraser Ice Arena. That's why he doesn't look like us. [fb friend] is frightening but we are more dangerous. 
Me: oh so its not even weird that he is madly in love with you! 
Cousin: Right! Damn, i was gonna mention that 2. The 'force' is strong btwn us 2nite 

THE ENTRY OF MR. P: 1st of all, very cute pic!!! 2nd,,,,,, reading this, you two need a comedy show!!!! You two ROCK!!!!! Or a reality show, could you emagine???? LOL

Cousin: Yes I could imagine bcz we r funny, but it would have 2 be an internet routine since we are at our funniest online. 
Mr: P: Oh to be fly on the wall!!!! 
Me: i know a web designer.... 
Me: [Cousin], we should set up a website. I'm serious. We will be billionaires. I could finally buy the team of cabana boys I've been saving up for. You could have fried chicken every night. And pay naked men to oil up and mow your lawn. Things would be perfect. 
Me: [Mr.P]r would be our first web customer for sure.

That was it. From that moment he was hooked. He would like all my photos for the next 2 years. He would "laugh his butt off" and give {{hugs}} whenever I was sad. Cousin and I would tease him, calling him "Norman Rockwell" with his statuses about his kids and cleaning and how he loved them, God, his country and fuzzy animals everywhere. I would roll my eyes at "Mr. Perfect."

And tell him to  "stop being so obviously, in love with me."

On August 14, 2011 we met for lunch. Just because we talked so much online we might as well. It wasn't a date. It was a curiosity. It was a whythehecknot. It was a wehavebecomefriends. And I knew. I knew right then and there as I said "hi", I would marry the guy. I didn't know when or how, but I knew I would.

So...Happy birthday Mr. Perfect. I love you and am so glad you thought I was funny! May I always make you laugh.

Now

And the reason I started My Children Think I'm Perfect, to deal with http://mychildrenthinkimperfect.blogspot.com/2012/04/never-wake-bleeding-bear.html

July 1, 2009:  
Mr. P: She just ruined this pic!!!

 Me: not if u saw the bottom half...

Our first photo together 2011

Putting On My Socks (A Quick Jaunt into Panic)

The kids weren't at home. Mr. Perfect was at work. The day had started off miserably, so I figured the quiet house was begging me to take a nap. And I did. It was the hardest I had slept in months, I was solidly tucked into dreamworld, comfortably pantsless and wedged between my squishy pillow and the rhythmic breaths of my sleeping dog.

I woke two hours later, startled by my phone. Mr. P was on lunch and wondering what I was up to. Nap guilt washed over me. Sleep, as is the case for most moms, is my guiltiest pleasure. "Not much," I assured him. I drifted downstairs and threw a frozen pizza in the oven. Thank goodness for lonely days where I can sleep when I want and eat what I want, I thought. I sat down and absent-minded flipped through the Kindergartener's backpack papers that were strewn on the table.

As I was contemplating ordering over-priced meats of which 5% would go back to his school, I noticed my heart was racing. That's strange, I thought. I must just be tired. Am I dehydrated? Did I take my thyroid medication? Did I take it all week? What if I collapsed and died alone with the oven on? I went back to the papers, signing off on his report card. I smiled, he is too social and having a hard time following directions? Ha, what a shocker. Son of a bitch, why am I having palpitations?

I got up and checked the pizza. It was difficult to tell myself to walk to the kitchen, but this pizza was taking what seemed like hours. I took it out of oven and cut off a giant piece. I sat back down, winded and shoved it into my mouth. I chewed thoughtlessly and swallowed. I hated eating the pizza, but something felt wrong and my mouth seemed to be working so I went with it. I devoured another slice while I listened to my heart race. I tried to catch my breath. I felt panicked, but I also felt to still be half asleep. I crawled upstairs and laid back down. It suddenly hit me what was occurring.

I was having an attack. It had been so long since I had a panic attack. I didn't want to. I started sobbing hysterically. I hated being so screwed up. Why had I eaten that pizza? All I did was get fatter and now I'm back in bed. I needed to go outside but I couldn't get to my sock drawer. It was so far away. I was fairly certain my underwear were suffocating me. GET THEM OFF. I couldn't, though. I was never happy when I wore these underwear, was I? I thought if I could get up and kill myself I would. The man who lived here before me did. Imagine what they would say about the creepy suicide house in the woods! Maybe I was possessed by him. I knew I shouldn't have stopped taking my anti-anxiety meds 2 weeks before. Why was I still in bed? A normal person would just GET UP AND PUT ON THE FUCKING SOCKS. Breathe, breathe, breathe. You are a fucking nutjob, I told myself. Snot and tears covered my face. I looked at my phone. I had been crying for an HOUR. Nausea pushed me from my paralysis and I slid from my bed, like an obese, insane snake. I crept on all fours into the bathroom and threw up my pizza. As I started to breathe again, I noticed most my day was gone. I begged myself to get in the tub. I sat in the water until I began to shiver. I begged myself to get out. You can do it, I pleaded. Get dressed. Put on a shirt. Good job. Put on pants. Yes! Put on socks. No? Skip socks, then, put on shoes. See? Leave the house. You HAVE to get out. You have to breathe. STAND UP. STAND UP and go take your medication.

Sometimes, my hands go numb. Sometimes, I just cannot catch my breath. Sometimes, it takes me hours to convince myself to put on my socks. I have to be extra careful during those strange moments between waking and sleeping. I have generalized anxiety disorder. There are triggers, but occasionally I will just be happy as a dancing clam and I will feel the nagging tightness in my chest. I used to be paralyzed by it. Now, I am a seasoned warrior.

What they didn't know was that she was a warrior, a survivor of a thousand battles, within her head.

Missing: Parent

Last night, as I lay in bed adding celebratory pictures for the Facebook page’s 6 month anniversary, Mr. Perfect came into our room sobbing. Not tears in the eyes, general weepiness, but full on spastic, chest heaving, gasping for air sobbing. Anyone else might have thought someone he loved just died. But I knew better.

For his son’s recent 8^th birthday we bought him an iPod. We bought it for him not so he could download Minecraft, 12 versions of Angry Birds or the football game he loved to play on his dad’s phone, but so he could have Facetime. We bought it the week his dad came to live with us in the Treehouse, an hour north of his kids. We bought it so that every night he could see his daddy and so his daddy could see him and his sister. We grasped methodically at ways to allow a parent/child relationship to flourish, without kisses goodnight. Mr. P had just gotten off a call where his six year old daughter begged him to retire so that he could take them trick or treating. He told them he loved them and put them to bed.

It’s not the same to say “I love you best buddy” without being able to ruffle your son’s golden hair and pull up his covers tight. It is not the same to tell your princess it’s time for bed, without being able to tickle her tiny body, smooth back her messy hair and kiss her forehead. For a parent, who loves their children, to infinity, it’s not enough.

“I want to smell them.” He sobbed.

 When my children’s father and I first split I tried hard to keep him updated on their lives. I sent texts of our 2 year old son doing cute things and our daughter’s accomplishments. I sent adorable pictures of his smiling offspring, happily adapting to their new lives, splashing in the pool, jumping at the park, dressed up for events. Sometimes he responded, sometimes not. One day he sent me a text back and told me to stop “guilt tripping” him. I honestly didn’t understand.

There have been many times in my life where I have passive aggressively played dumb in order to solicit a response, logically back someone into a corner and intellectually dominate them. Heavens knows, I’m practically a professional Facebooker. Knowing how one comment can affect the next is an interesting game to play in the land of words. This time though, I was clueless. The last thing I wanted to do was tell him anything. The last thing I wanted was contact at all with their heartbreaking dad. I kept him “up-to-date” because I thought I had to, according to the court mandates and what was probably best for the kids. I was enraged at the thought that having children hurt him and he was choosing to withdraw. I let him know the children would like to hear from him. I gave my daughter a phone. I stopped “bothering” him. I decided if he wanted to call her, he could, and vice versa. He let go and stepped into the role, I’ve not so affectionately named, The Wallet Father; obligatory every other weekend visits (usually) and scheduled child support payments. He is lost to communication in between.

I will never know if he is off living the life he prefers or if he was just unable to cope. Unfortunately and more importantly, neither will his children. And no child should have to wonder whether their parent actually cares.

 Mr. Perfect was a stay at home dad and when he did go back to work, he worked midnights so that he could be with his 2 young children during the day. When he was little he only wanted to “be a dad” when he grew up. He considers his children his dreams come true. Being a devoted father is how he has defined his last 8 years and who he is in this world. His ex-wife was the primary breadwinner and he was the booboo kisser, sandwich cutter and the guy you called for play dates. He loved his position as Daddy. I loved him as a father on Facebook, a friend of a friend, long before I knew there was an option of falling in love with him as man.

When his divorce originally was finalized a joint arrangement was worked out. He worked nights and picked the kids up from school, dropping them back off with their mom for the night. In the summer he picked them up at 2:30 am on his way home from work. He did his best to have his children as much as he did living in the same home. It became an impossible battle. He knew he could no longer do his dangerous night job and live sleepless days, entertaining two bored kids in his tiny apartment. He also knew moving to days meant giving up his joint status.

We knew it wasn’t going to be easy. We knew he would ache for them. No one could question his devotion. Or could they? As Mr. Perfect slipped into the non-custodial role everything changed. How does he now define himself? How does he keep his connection? What if they don’t miss him? What if they do? Can you wish for your children to be happy but also take a smidge of glee in them being sad? If you choose to go home early and drive one way rather than another, do you become unfit? How do you cope with the absolute destruction of a dream and transform it into an acceptable reality? Does eating breakfast with my 2 children remind him of what he had or does it close the hole and make it all a little easier to handle? Should I hug him or let him be? Am I doing enough? I held him as he sobbed, like a child lost, but he was a father, missing his identity and weeping in my arms. His happiness, health and future versus what…? What was right?

 
We live in a country where 50% of marriages end in divorce. Nearly 25% of parents do not live with their kids. Add in the children who never had married parents and we have an enormous amount of non-custodial parents out there who are missing their children right now. Where is their support I wondered? How many times have I taken the grand power of being the sole caregiver? How many times have I complained about absent parents? Can I imagine the guilt, pain, uncertainty and longing these parents feel? I cannot. I was blessed to have my children with me through ever step of the chaos that was divorce. In my most imperfect of days I was still able to smell them, still able to feel the incredible burden of doing it on my own; and take credit. No one ever doubted my loyalty and most importantly I didn’t need to doubt myself.

Here it is, if you are a non-custodial parent, mom or dad, no matter your story, I am asking that you share it here with other parents. This can be done completely anonymously if you wish. I want to know you, support you and I hope together we can find ways to ease the pain and strengthen the bonds between absent parent and child. Personal stories, tips on blending families, custody, staying connected, active non-present parenting, distance parenting will be incredibly appreciated. Please send me a facebook message at www.facebook.com/Mychildrenthinkimperfect.

Reflection

This post is a celebration of one year since the night of Unsinkable. It should be read first. Thank you.

My apartment smells of bananas. I am not harboring monkeys, despite what the downstairs neighbors may have thought over the past two years, my children running and screaming and jumping all hours of the day and night. No, I am moving. The walls are lined with banana boxes, picked up in sets of 5 or 6 from the grocery store. Inside I pack the contents of my life; 25 boxes of books, 6 boxes of shoes, dishes, paints, blankets and other acquisitions with which I define my life. Packing, unlike cleaning, is comforting to me. Packing is organizing the past and preparing it for the future. Cleaning is hiding, hiding stains and dirt, removing them from existence and putting things away, lost behind cupboard doors and in drawers. As the stacks of boxes grow taller, the apartment grows tidier. The children and I glide around our towers of possessions, labeling their ownership with a purple magic marker, trying not to stub our toes.

I spray Windex on my bathroom mirror and scrub hard, but the writing merely fades. Apparently it is going to be harder to remove the words than I thought it would be when I wrote them two years ago: "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step- Lao Tzu" printed in black Sharpie. Is moving to a house my 'step' or my 'thousand miles'? I wondered, smiling. Moments are letters that become words to the chapters of our lives. The ending of a chapter is not the end of the book. I scraped at 'thousand' with my nail and decided I would consider this the first in many thousands of miles.

Last time I printed these words it was on a chalkboard in rec room at the hospital. One year ago, I chose the quote of the day. I looked around at the addicts, the schizophrenic, the compulsively lying teenage girl who spent hours a day on the phone at the end of the hall, giggling with various men, telling each how she loved them. It seemed like a good quote, despite the fact that a year of having it on my bathroom mirror hadn't done me much good. I wrote it across the chalkboard in pink chalk and dedicated it to the skinny old biker who was recovering from a heroin addiction and suicide attempt. He had lent me a hair tie earlier in the day which the nurse had acquiesced to letting me use, despite my restrictions. He laughed and I egotistically told myself I was helping him. Chronically addicted to deflecting my own painful need to let go, I dedicated it to him with no idea that my step from the hospital on Monday would be my first step to my 'thousand miles'.

A couple days ago I was thinking to myself how well I am doing for a 33 year old. I am educated, have a good job, am purchasing my own home on four acres, I have two fantastic kids, one starting kindergarten next week and another starting middle school next month. I drive a nice car and I have some good friends. I have a loving and funny boyfriend. I'm 33, still young, not bad at all. One year ago all I could think is of how I had lost 13 years. And now I feel ahead of the game, or at least right on time.

Two years ago I printed the words at the top of my mirror. I was broken, split and determined to find myself. For a year I clung to identities and filled my every moment with self realizing activities, which kept me busy and deflected my pain. I took pottery classes and watched art films on the lonely nights that my children left. I volunteered at the soup kitchen and the community garden. I worked out. I kayaked and biked, I sweat and I bled. I tried to purge the guilt of failure, to "clean up" my identity through good karma and positive living. I scraped up my old life and hid it in cupboards and drawers until I became a hoarder of my past. And then, one year ago, I took my first step. I stopped trying to find myself and accepted who I was. I stopped searching and started living. Today I celebrate the anniversary of pulling away from the dock.

One year from now I might look back on what I thought I knew now and laugh. Realizing this makes me happy. No good journey ends at a thousand miles.