Our first house was in the city.  It had a beautiful albeit tiny backyard.  This view is from from the deck looking out toward the garage. 

On my way to meet Bradley for coffee at my all-time favorite coffee+free wireless spot in Richmond, I swung by the old house (built in 1934).  The house looks much the same with upgraded window treatments and a freshly washed front porch.  I realize time makes one nostalgic, but if I could suddenly be 28 again (and 118 pounds!), living childless in that house, I would - for a couple of weeks.  Just as the house I reside in has become a symbol of the things I would like to fix, our first house on W. 45th Street symbolizes a time in my life when I actually felt settled and in control.

When I first met co-worker and future friend Bill at Witt Mares, we connected when we realized we were both real estate nerds.  I’m the type of person that could spend my weekends going through open houses in the city and dreaming.  I love architecture and originality.  I love looking for the little hidden details in older houses.  My favorite part of Laura’s house is the little tiny door between the living room and master bedroom where the phone used to be.  He pointed me to new areas of the city I wasn’t aware of, and even today, I’ll browse the real estate websites in my favorite zip codes. 

Being at Crossroads was another reminder of why I love the area so much.  The place was packed, even at 10.30 on a Wednesday morning.  Most of the customers knew each other - and most called the staff by their first names. It’s dog friendly which works well for the neighborhood, since it seems to be a prerequisite that you own some form of canine to live there.  It has an earthy, unpretentious air.  Even the Target near my current house is snooty. 

I felt a sense of community living there.  Neighbors were friendly and watched out for you, but without stalking you (mostly).  There was no pretention - but that might have been because the houses around us weren’t exactly pricey.  I miss that community.  Staying at Laura’s reminded me of that, and is probably one of the reasons I felt immediately comfortable in her home.  Instead of talking about someone’s new size 0 jeans or the cashmere wrap they picked up “for a STEAL!”, we talked about local politics or the economy or the amazing amount of leaves those big hundred year old oaks dropped in the fall. 

Nothing’s perfect, but I’ve always loved Richmond’s warty city center. I love the mixture of grime and history, white and black, safe and dangerous, beautiful and decaying.  Out in the suburbs, everything is bleached and sterilized and served up in prepackaged designer cups. 

Sitting at an outdoor table while Bradley slowly killed himself with cancer sticks cigarettes, I people-watched and missed my old neighborhood, as they say in the South, somethin’ fierce. 

First, the good news and the easy news.  I’m down 31 pounds - broke my first MAJOR milestone.  I’d like to lose another 15, but at least I can live with myself now.  I also got a haircut today. I desperately needed one - it’s been since June.

Second, the not good and not easy news.  Richmond’s a very small town, and some membes of my family have very large mouths.  That’s okay, we’re a bunch of height-challenged emotional Mexicans - what can you expect?

(Note to my mother:  Stop reading here.  Seriously.  Close the browser and step away from the computer.)

(takes break to allow mother time to stop reading)

Okay.  Blogging is a weird thing.  You develop an online persona, but it’s never truly who you are.  With blogging you choose what and when to expose, and you can make things look pretty or ugly depending on the way you shine your literary light.  During coffee with The Checkout Girl earlier this week, we were discussing the dreaded Mommy Blog and how someone she knew who was fairly famous was going through a divorce.  Unfortunately this person makes money giving parenting advice, so she was feeling like her life was over.  Or something like that.  We were talking about how refreshing it would be if people would just come clean about their realities.  If you’re divorcing, just say it.  No one expects us to be perfect.  Well, maybe some do, but we can just ignore those people.

Because I have had such trauma in my head over the past few months, and because I have to self-censor here to protect the innocent, I’ve been really feeling neglectful of this blog.  I’m holding up a Photoshopped version of my life right now because that is what is expected of me and that is what certain others are comfortable with. 

Again, if you are becoming uncomfortable, stop reading and go to your happy place.

Obviously I am not going to discuss the deep and dark specifics of my issues.  This isn’t because I’m embarassed of them, but it’s because my drama involves someone else (my husband) and I can’t tell those stories.  For every inch that I am open, he is a closed door. 

That being said, I’m just going to cut down on the speculative emails I’ve been getting today and say that yes, Mike and I have separated.  It is not a bad thing. It is not a negative thing. It does not mean we are getting the big D. It means that he and I have some stuff to work on individually, and we are both working very hard on that.  The space gives us the chance to do that without feeling like we are walking on eggshells all the time.  It allows us to both focus all available energies on our children, and that’s really the most important thing right now. 

Marital problems are a big no-no in our family.  That doesn’t mean our family has none, it just means that they aren’t discussed and no one divorces.  Stay married and be miserable, dammit!  That’s just how we roll.  Even though most of us are non-practicing Catholics, Catholicism has a way of seeping into your bones at a young age.  It’s hard to forget those lessons beaten into us during our tender years. 

I’ve just found that I’m already so very tired of being asked, “Does so and so know?  Oh my god, what about the holidays??? Who will go where?  And so and so wants to come up, whatever shall we tell her,” complete with hand-wringing.  It just seems so much easier to tell my family and friends:  yes, we are separated, no we are not getting a divorce tomorow, yes the kids are fine, no we don’t hate each other, and let it go at that.  It is private, between Mike and me - but I’m not going to pretend the reality of the situation does not exist.  Is it serious?  Yes.  Is it sad?  Yes.  Are we surviving?  Yes. 

The great thing about my husband (and myself - hell, I might as well give myself some kudos while I’m writing this):  his primary concern is our children.  We are doing everything we can, at great personal cost, to keep their lives stable and as comfortable and normal as possible.  Although we’re doing it in a fairly non-traditional way, we’re doing what works best for our family as a whole and trying to put our individual needs and wants aside.  Those of you with opinions on the details or the hows or whys will just have to be satisfied knowing that we have discussed everything and are a united front.  We always have been. 

It’s been a simulatenously amazing and sobering experience to realize that some of my friends are going to be there for us and some are not.  People I didn’t think gave two craps about me have come out of the woodwork.  Others that I thought would support me no matter what have not supported me.  In a few cases, my perception tells me that a back has been turned on me.  Family members I thought would be judgmental have shared their own stories with me.  Other family members have freaked out on me.  It’s like living in Bizarro Cristina World where everything is upside down.  I realize that when you admit you are having marital problems, many people with their own panic because it makes them insecure or afraid.  I remember when a close friend told me she was divorcing. I felt personally threatened. I went home and clung to Mike and said, “God I hope that never happens to us.”  Thankfully I was still able to support my friend, even though it scared and saddened me.  Not everyone is able to do that right now, and I am trying to forgive and understand. 

So there you go.  This post negates the need to put unicorns and rainbows up daily, which is good, because all of the graphics I could find were getting progressively more disturbing. 

At the end of the day, this is my blog.  It is my space.  If you are uncomfortable with what I’m sharing, please do yourself a favor and don’t read it.  You can be assured I won’t be sharing any more than this in terms of details, but I will be free, in my own space, to say that I am having a bad day, or that I am doing better, or that I am concerned for myself or for Mike.  Otherwise, this entire blog becomes a big fat lie and a huge waste of my time. 

I’m getting ready to head out tomorrow. I pulled some pictures off the camera so I’d have plenty of space for the upcoming photo extravaganza.  I’ve been so overwhelmed this week with work,Lily’s walking pneumonia, Thora and appointments that I forgot to post pictures of the jack-o-lantern known as Lily.  Her front left tooth fell out this week!  She was very proud.  There are some new pictures of Thora and the cool river rock Risa sent us to memorialize Delilah.  In one of the pictures, you can see Thora’s umbilical hernia.  Unfortunately the SPCA didn’t feel it was necessary to remove it when she was being spayed.  Our vet likes to fix hernias like that as there is a small hole in her abdomen, so we will have to put her under general anesthesia and they’ll repair the hernia.  Thankfully it isn’t a very expensive surgery but all told, between paying the last bill for Delilah and the new bill for Thora and her medicine (heartworm, tick stuff), I stroked a check for $600 this week.  Not including her upcoming surgery.

I picked up Delilah’s ashes yesterday.  It was bittersweet, being there with Thora and holding what remained of Delilah in one hand.  The vet also made a paw print impression after she died.  The paw print slayed me.  When I got home I had a good cry while Thora went nuts licking my face.  Apparently she does’t like crying.

We had a great day yesterday visiting with Anja and Mia.  Anja will be watching Thora next week for a day while we have a quick vacation in Virginia Beach. 

Speaking of leaving, I checked the weather forecast for TC.  Brrr.  It’s in the mid-50’s at night. I’m looking forward to it after being steamed alive in the humidity this week.  And now I’m off to finish laundry and packing. 

Bear with me.  It’s the last post. 

I’m doing better today.  Yesterday was, well, total crap.  I didn’t expect it to be different.  However, I didn’t expect that watching Mike be so upset would be the difficult part. 

I absolutely loved how the vet handled it.  They have a private room with a big comfy chair and a rug.  We spent about 20 minutes in there just loving on Delilah and trying to calm her down (she pooped on Mike during the 1 mile car ride to the vet’s office).  One of the techs brought in a sheepskin mat and two big towels to make a bed on the floor.  The vet talked to us - she wanted to know what was going on with Delilah.  After explaining about her falling, her arthritis, her mouth tremors, her incontinence, and her general dislike of anything other than sleep, she agreed it was time.  After explaining that they would take Delilah out of the room for a moment while they put in a catheter for her vein, she asked us if we wanted to be there.  We did. 

Once Delilah was back with her bandaged front leg, the vet came back with a sedative.  If it hadn’t been so sad, I would have laughed - within seconds of the sedative going in, Delilah made this weird and happy ‘MMMMmmmmmmm’ sound as she keeled over.  We stretched her out into a comfortable position. The vet said we could stay as long as we wanted and to let her know when we wanted her to inject the medication that would stop her heart.  We got plenty of time to kiss her and pet her.  Once we alerted the vet that we were ready, she came in with two syringes.  Delilah was still sort of awake, but completely relaxed and breathing softly.  Once the first medication was in, it was literally seconds before she passed away.  The vet had warned us that there might be twitching or her chest might expand after she died, but none of that happened.  She just looked like she always does, asleep on the living room floor or passed out in our bedroom. 

I’m really glad I decided to stay because watching her go gave me a lot of peace.  I never doubted we were making the right decision, but there is something very unnatural about “killing” your pet.  After watching it, I wished that people could be so lucky as to choose when they go, stretched out on a big comfy bed, and totally high on sedation before taking the big sleep while people you love hold and talk softly to you.  It’s really quite a contrast after watching Mike’s mom take her last breath after months of suffering from cancer - and ironic how in death we can be more humane to our animals than we can with each other. 

The hardest part has been looking at certain things, like Delilah’s bed.  I had to get rid of it this morning because literally every time I came into the room and saw it empty, I’d start bawling.  I took some of her joint pills over to a neighbor with a 13 year old lab, and dropped off some of the better dog treats and rawhides to another neighbor with a three year old lab.  She’s the one who unfortunately got to see me cry because she was asking me questions about Delilah and I have trouble talking about it right now.  She’s a dog lover so I think she understood. 

Lily and Arden are doing okay.  Lily cried last night, after she went to bed. I’m pretty sure 50% of the tears were a stall tactic to get us back in her bedroom, but 50% were genuine. She said the house felt weird without Delilah and she didn’t like it.  Both of them took pictures of Delilah into their schools today - Arden’s teacher said she carried it around next to her heart between activities.  Those little actions mean so much to me - and even though we often yelled at Delilah to quit breathing in our faces, we all loved her very much. 

By the way, these pictures were taken right before we took her to the vet.  She actually ran across our front lawn for about 10 seconds before deciding she’d rather be inside.  It was great to see her run one last time. 

*warning - serious post ahead. if you feel like laughing or reading some light-hearted parenting stories, keep moving along, people. nothing here to see.*

It’s been a weird day for me.  About an hour ago, I was on top of the world.  Right now, I feel like I’m 50 feet below it.  Manic anyone? 

I had a personal goal on my weight loss journey.  I’m officially through the halfway point right now. In fact, I managed to break through the plateau I was firmly sitting on with my ample rump.  When I weighed myself today, seeing those beautiful numbers made me so very happy.  All the nights I’ve sipped water while Mike toasts up a tasty batch of bagel bites . . . or the times I’ve gotten orange sherbet instead of double chocolate peanut butter chunk ice cream . . .or when I order the heart smart items on the menu when all I really want is a platter of pancakes and fried eggs.  It seemed, well, almost worth it. 

What amazes me after all these years of dieting, gaining, losing, puking, starving, and taking amphetamines to really put the screws to my metabolism is how much my self-worth is still wrapped up in what other people think.  Really?  Can I really be 38 and still worrying about whether I am good enough, or need validation from certain people in my life?  When will I finally move beyond that?

How is it that a few words can knock me down?  That’s a lot of power to turn over to someone, isn’t it? 

Here’s the deal.  My need for validation is making me a walking target.  This means I have to stop talking about my weight loss. I can write about it, but I can’t talk about it.  Because I am not strong enough to handle the weird, insensitive, and sometimes, downright mean comments I get from less than a handful of people.  Because when 21 pounds lost isn’t something to feel good about, it’s time to reassess how I communicate, and to what I open myself.

I can give negative people a lot of leeway. I can remember how it was they were raised, or what was done to them.  I remember that sometimes when you love people, you want them to be the best they can be, and sometimes that need overcomes the need for gentleness and respect in your speech.  I can also remind myself that it isn’t wrong of me to want to hear the magic words:  “I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished”.  I will also fully admit that I am extremely sensitive about my weight.  When I was thin, I was sensitive.  When I was fat, I was sensitive.  Really, you can’t say anything to me other than “I’m proud” without me getting my panties in a twist.  That also doesn’t give anyone the right to smack me down or set goals for me. 

It is a major feat that at 159 pounds (look world, I admitted it!), I can look at myself in the mirror and begin to like what I see.  It doesn’t mean I’m giving up - I have a long way to go.  But for me to be able to wear new clothes, walk around, and feel okay is a big freakin’ deal.  Even at 98 pounds I couldn’t honestly say that to myself.  Remember the burlesque show?  Yeah, I actually felt - dare I say it - pretty.  It’s been a long time since I felt that way.  I plan to keep feeling that way, despite the fact that, Yes, I Know, I Am Not Perfect Yet, But Thanks For Pointing That Out.