The journey of a thousand miles...

... begins with a single step.

I took that step this morning, when I filed for my divorce.

I was stressed, nervous, and flustered, certain that I hadn't all my paperwork filled out, but I figured I'd have someone official tell me what I'd missed.

They did, and sent me to the courtroom labeled "Ex Parte" to request that my filing fees be waived.

Traveling by bus, and having to restrict the items with me in order to make it through security, I didn't have my normal backpack... which made it awkward to carry everything. I had my briefcase (which is roughly twenty years old now--- yikes!) and a small basket with me, as well as my raincoat, which fortunately has a lot of large pockets. But I hadn't expected to need to remove my sweatshirt due to my overheating in the courtroom while I waited... and juggling all of these items as well as the papers I needed in-hand made for a difficult time on top of my stress. The sweatshirt landed on the floor more than once, remarkably remaining folded each time.

The judge spent several minutes reading the paperwork I presented him, his expression a cross between puzzlement and disbelief and becoming more pronouncedly so with each successive sentence. He asked me only one question: "Are you filing this today?"

I gulped and said, "Yes... if I can."

He waived my filing fee.

Next, along with a younger woman whom I vaguely knew from yesterday's visit to the Family Law Center, I was led downstairs by an even younger lady who I guess was a law student. As we walked down the stairs, she explained what was to happen next.

Naturally, I forgot every word she said.

We found ourselves in a line in front of the filing clerks' desks. I did some spindle-spinning, shuffling my basket and briefcase along the floor as the queue made its way forward, one person at a time. The girl who'd brought us down soon deposited two more people behind us, telling them the same thing she'd said to us. As she left, I said, "I'll bet you say that to everybody."

That brought a few chuckles from others in line.

Finally it was my turn at a window. The girl behind the counter looked at me expectantly.

"Um..." My faulty memory held nothing. "I'm not sure what I'm doing..."

She remained calm. "I don't know what you're doing here," she pointed out, not unkindly.

"Oh." Something clicked. "I'm getting a divorce. I just got the fees waived."

She got my name and retrieved the papers that the judge had signed, then stamped, stapled and wrote the case number on various papers. Then she asked if I had copies of any of them. I hadn't, nor did I know which ones I needed to have copied... and she couldn't tell me, because that's considered "giving legal advice."

I paid $5 to get copies of all twenty pages. *sigh* But that was the end of it.

I had finally filed my petition for a divorce from my husband of twelve years.

Then I went downstairs to the Family Law Office, to have the clerk there verify that I had everything else filled out.

While I was waiting, I overheard a young man talking with the clerk about his having mailed the papers to his wife, who was in jail in another state. He'd made the mistake of mailing them directly to her, instead of to a sheriff in that county, and thus he had no proof that she'd been served. So he needed to have her served again... and in the meantime, she'd been released from jail and had vanished.

I made a mental note to ask specifics for my own case.

When it was my turn, the clerk carefully explained that if I have the sheriff serve my spouse, I will get my proof of service. (Whew!) She made a number of copies for me, had me sign a few more places, made notes of what I needed to do next (like serving a second set of papers to the Child Support Department, or whatever it's called), and then as I gathered my papers, she asked me to read off the case number so that she could enter it in her computer. I did so... and we both stopped, frowning.

We both remembered the last number differently.

We double-checked all the papers.

More than half of them were labelled with the wrong last number, as compared to the court number written on the receipt of my fee waiver.

The Family Law clerk corrected them quickly, and agreed that I should go upstairs to make sure the clerk there had caught her mistake. I pointed out that I did not want to go through the whole routine all over again simply because one number was written incorrectly (!), and hurried upstairs after thanking her profusely.

I was just in time. The clerk who'd filed my papers was just leaving, and I ran to catch up with her. After I quickly blurted out the problem, she immediately turned back, indicating that I should return to her window. She found the papers quickly and corrected them, thanking me for letting her know. I wished her a good weekend, and she laughed softly, murmuring, "Oh, you have no idea!"

I didn't ask. I just thanked her again and left the building.

I called my BFF as I strode toward Pearl Street. I explained that I needed to serve the papers on the Child Support Division (or whatever), and then I was free for the day. We made tentative plans, and I told her I'd call her after I was done serving the papers. I started down Pearl Street toward 7th, according to the address I was given on a Post-It note.

Two blocks later, a scruffy-looking older man called to me, asking if I knew the local bus routes. I hesitated, admitting I didn't know them very well. Very seriously, he told me, "I missed the bus. Maybe you can help me find my way. Which bus will take me to Hawaii?"

I broke into a slight grin. "Oh... I think your best bet would be the Greyhound bus down the street here," I told him, shaking my head as I chuckled.

One of his companions agreed. "Yeah--- they have those floaters now..."

At this point, I suddenly realized that I'd been walking the wrong way--- I was nearly to 10th Street, not 7th. I reversed direction, wishing the men a good day as I went.

The building I needed was across the street from the courthouse, as it turned out, and I was done with my task within five minutes. I called BFF again, and we hammered out plans to meet at the Target on West 11th in an hour. I strode to the nearby bus station (the local bus, not Greyhound) and boarded the Number 43.

Seated on a bench in front of Target, I pulled out my spindle and started drafting out the merino batt I'd brought with me. The sun was warm on my face, and I was grateful I'd brought my sunglasses. A man crossed in front of me... and slowed.

"That's really neat!" he said, smiling. I smiled back.

He sat down next to me. "Do you know how to sew?"

That caught me off guard. "Um... a little?" I admitted.

"I need the pockets fixed on my work jacket."

Nonplussed at the apparent implication, I stopped spinning. "I don't have anything with me to be able to fix it," I finally managed.

"Oh, I don't have it with me anyway," he told me blithely. "How do you tie a knot?"

I considered that carefully, wound the working single around my spindle shaft and put it away. I pulled the cord closure of a small bag out of my basket and showed him how to tie a half-hitch. He asked if a square knot would work, and I allowed that it would, as would several half-hitches in a row. After he suggested that he would then use the needle up the side of the pocket, I recommended that he go up and down the pocket sides several times, stating that the more stitches he put into it, the more secure it would be in the end, and the longer it would last before he had to repair it again.

He looked at me with wide eyes. "That's good to know. I was just going to go up it once."

I'd suspected as much.

He got up then, and I pulled out my spindle again. He commented again about my spinning, and asked what I would do with it, so I gave him a wee spinning demonstration, finishing up with a brief example of plying. He bent close to look at the resulting yarn, smiled, and said, "That's cool. Thanks for helping me." And he continued into the store.

The rest of my day was rather tame after that. BFF brought me home, and I took Lucy for a walk, then started split pea soup in the crockpot. I called my first stepmom and broke the news, and she offered to go with me to talk to the sheriff in Marion County. I then called Dad, and he said he'd send me money to cover the service fee and gas funds to drive up to Salem early on Monday morning, to make sure the papers were received by the sheriff's office so that my soon-to-be-ex-husband can be served as soon as possible... or at least before Friday.

My split pea soup was a fitting reward for finally filing. I truly enjoyed it for my supper tonight.

It'll be even better tomorrow.

Out with the old, in with the new!

2012, I am so done with you!

Here's to 2013.

Here's hoping this year's a good sight better than the old one, and may my sons be home before it's done!

Happy New Year, everyone!

Eighteen years ago today...

... I was awakened by the start of labor, pain that was so strong that I couldn't walk when a contraction hit.

Fourteen hours later, at 4:45pm, my firstborn child slid into the world... and was whisked away without anyone telling me whether I'd had a boy or a girl! My sister ran after the retreating nurses, saying, "Wait! What is it??"

The need for speed was because the doctor was afraid the baby had breathed meconium into those wee lungs, so the special respiratory team needed to suction out every possible bit of foreign matter before the infant drew a breath. While they were doing so, my sister took a quick photograph, then hurried back to tell our mother and me that I'd had a baby girl.

Great blackmail photo, let me tell you--- all you can see is her swollen genitals, her legs, and the oxygen mask over her face!

We've had our ups and downs, to be sure. But I don't know if I'd change a moment of them, because my daughter is a force to be reckoned with, a strong, vibrant young woman who knows what she wants and isn't afraid to express her opinions.

Beans, Nana-berry, Hobbes, my little girl with the blonde brain (another long but excellent blackmail story!), I love you so much, and I am so proud of the woman you've become in spite of all the trials of your young life.

Keep up the great work, Beans!

Love always,

Mom

The REAL reason...

Ever since my Youngest learned how to write his own name, he's insisted on leaving out the second letter... the letter A.

Before I go on, just know that I am fully aware that you're not supposed to publicly post your child's name on the internet, for fear some internet predator learns it and starts stalking. I'm always warning friends and family about that very danger, and normally I follow it to the T (in case you hadn't gathered by the names Youngest and Older Son). However, his is a fairly common name, and since I'm not sharing any information beyond his first name, and since his last name is not the same as mine, I think it's okay to impart this wee bit of information, just this once, for the sake of this post.

Besides, I have to have blackmail material for when he starts dating, right?

Danny is like many children--- inquisitive, compassionate, and independent. He loves life, loves his family, and loves trains and firetrucks.

But he does not like that second letter in his name. And so he insists on spelling his name "Dnny."

It's actually rather comical, and I like the way Dnny looks when it's written down. His foster mother said once, "I don't know what the letter A ever did to him, but he does not like it when we spell his name with it!"

I've asked him several times over the past few months, "So, Danny, how do you spell your name?" And his answer is always the same: "D-n-n-y."

But I know that he needs to be able to spell his name properly, so I finally decided to ask him about it. This ended up being asked during a visit when his older brother was sick, so it was just Danny and me, playing with Legos on the floor of the DHS office.

"So, Danny, how do you spell your name now?" I ventured while fitting a neon pink brick into the wee house I was building.

He grumbled, apparently disliking the question. "D-n-n-y."

I cocked my head to look at him. "Why don't you spell it D-a-n-n-y? That's the way it's supposed to be spelled, you know."

"I don't like the 'a.'" SNAP went another piece into place.

"What don't you like about the 'a?'" I prompted, struggling with another Lego that refused to go where I wanted it.

He continued building the rocket launcher in his hand. "I don't like the way it looks. Teacher won't let me write it the way I want to write it, so I don't use it at all." He reached for a piece, and I handed it to him.

A light bulb flashed into brilliant life in my head. "You like the big letter 'A,' but not the small letter 'a,' is that it?" I queried.

Danny nodded, not looking at me.

I put down my half-finished house and pointed out where I have his name tattooed on the inside of my left ankle, all in capital letters. "So you like it when it's written like this?"

He stopped what he was doing (which is a rarity for him!) and took a long look. "Yep. That's right." Then he resumed retrofitting his rocket launcher.

Now I'm wondering whether this has been explained to his teacher, or if I can talk to her about it. While I understand why it's important for him to know the difference between upper case and lower case letters, I do not think it's important that he spell his name with lower case letters if he can demonstrate that he knows how to write them when necessary.

Smart little rascal...

The face of agoraphobia...

Tonight the true meaning of agoraphobia hit me like a ton of bricks as I stood in the pouring rain outside the nursing home where my beloved grandmother now resides... and could not bring myself to go to the door and ring the bell to be let in, simply because there were other residents who would see me.

No, they didn't pose a danger to me. Most of them were in wheelchairs. Most of them seemed to be in their late seventies or early eighties, though at least one man seemed to be around my age.

So why couldn't I go in?

Because they could SEE me.

My counselor mentioned during my session the other day that a phobia is an irrational fear (we were discussing spiders, and how I'd managed to overcome the worst of my fear of them), a fear without rational cause, and at the time I didn't really understand why he said that. I couldn't think of any sort of irrational fear I had, now that I've overcome my fear of spiders.

Obviously, I forgot my diagnosis of agoraphobia (cue heavy eye-roll here), and now it makes sense to me.

This is a good tool for me, knowing this, because I can (hopefully) use it to explain to my family why I can't just come to visit like I used to do, or pick up the phone and call.

I waged an internal battle all the way over to Grandma's nursing home. I knew that I love her, and that she loves me. I knew I wanted to see her, and that if I didn't, and she happened to die over the weekend, I'd never forgive myself. But at the same time, I was afraid to go see her because I didn't know what to say to her, other than, "I love you, Grandma." I didn't want to go to her room and say, "Hi, Grandma! I love you, but I can only stay for a few minutes because Lucy is waiting for me at home and needs to go out."

I finally convinced myself that Grandma would rather see me for a few minutes than to not see me at all. I told myself I can tell her about my new home in Veneta, near the community in which she used to live when my dad was in high school. It didn't matter that she won't really be able to talk to me--- it was enough to see her smile and to hug her.

But I couldn't get past that simple glass door because then the people in the entry room would see me.

Rainy days...

I'm actually enjoying the rain today... it matches my mood.

I'm accomplishing a little bit each day--- some days more than others. But I'm okay with that, because it's still forward motion.

Today is an oatmeal day. It's a day for steadiness, for warmth and comfort and progress. I ate Scottish oatmeal for lunch, have laundry in the dryer, put away a few more books on the shelf, and will soon head off for counseling (rescheduled to accommodate Dan). After that, I'll stop by St. Vincent de Paul's and donate some more books--- more forward motion.

Just another day in Oregon.

Missing...

Today I was scheduled for a visit with my sons.

That's right--- I no longer get to have them for four hours each in the wild.

Seems Older Son's counselor has decided that I am the cause of Older Son's misbehavior at school, and she says that Older Son has stated that I remind him of the sexual abuse his sperm donor inflicted upon him... so she recommends that I no longer have unsupervised visitation with him, and that such visitation should be extremely limited.

I won't go into the rest of what she said. But I do admit that I brought my sons to my new apartment to show it to them... and then we went to BFF's house so that they could play with her kids. Oh, yeah--- Youngest got upset one time, so I brought him to my apartment to play on my computer.

SO... because I was stupid and thought that it was okay to bring my sons to my empty apartment without DHS's approval ahead of time, I can't have unsupervised visits anymore.

I got it. I screwed up.

But I came to DHS's office for our visit today... and my boys never arrived. And the foster family didn't answer the phone when the supervisor called to find out what was going on. And Anastasia, our caseworker, is out of town this week... so nobody knows what to do.

I don't even think I can call SIL or MIL myself to ask... I'm afraid it will be held against me in court.

Court, by the way, is on December 3rd, 2012. DHS is pushing for making SIL guardian of my sons... and I'm afraid that if that happens, I'll never get my sons back, no matter how perfect my life becomes.

I miss my kids... especially my sons. DD is on Facebook, and I can text or call her whenever I like.

But my sons... I don't even know if I can call them on the phone anymore, or if they're allowed to call me. So the only time I get with them is during this one hour a week... and if the grownups in the house don't bring them, I don't get to see them. I don't even know if I will get a makeup visit this week.

All I have are photos and memories of my sons to tide me over 'til the next visit.

I miss them...