A decade after my career began, I was fired. And I realized that it had finally happened. I'd been revealed as what I'd been all along: A fraud, whose slights of hand nobody seemed to recognize as trickery save for me.
All episodes here.
My children have moved several times over the course of their lives. Probably too many. I have worried about this - about the effect all these moves might have on their sense of security; their understanding of "home." Not long ago, I confessed this to a friend - one who has moved her own children several times, including transcontinentally - and what she said to me was this: "There are parents who stay still. You don't. That's simply the mother they have, and it's neither a good thing nor a bad thing...it's just one of the things that make your family what it is."
I like to think that's true; that they'll grow up feeling like they've had the opportunity to experience many different places, and that those places - and the people who they've met and loved - are still a part of them. It is true that they have a mother who is restless, and who tends to impose her restlessness upon them, but along with all that restlessness comes adventure.
I grew up in a completely different set of circumstances. Shortly after I was born, my parents bought an apartment on the West Side of Manhattan, in a converted piano factory with massive arches that used to frame horse stalls, and wrought-iron balconies crisscrossing a large central courtyard that grew tulips in the spring and was the stage for what I firmly believe was the world's scariest Halloween display come fall. Most of the residents were in the theater or film industry; that was who gravitated towards Hell's Kitchen back then - or maybe it was just the only place in the city they could afford. When I was twelve, a director who lived on the first floor asked me - out of the blue - to audition for a commercial, and by the end of the day I had an agent and had set off down a path that would shape the next two decades of my life. I feel the butterfly effects of that chance meeting in my life still.
Yesterday, my therapist asked me what I've been doing for self-care lately.
"...I ordered a new bed?" I said.
And - according to my therapist, anyway - that's great! The bed is essentially an oversized hospital bed - it goes up, it goes down, it vibrates at different speeds (!) - and it's a gift to myself that will theoretically have a positive and long-lasting impact on my physical and mental health. Which: Hooray.
Read all my posts about divorce here.
On Valentine's Day afternoon, I took a nap with my kitten (pictured above having mixed feelings about this choice). I sat on a patio in the valley with my friend Margo, and ate some good sushi. I Facetimed with the kids, who were spending the weekend with their dad. I asked him to handle their Valentine's Day presents, and didn't beat myself up about opting out of this particular task. I fell asleep again only a few hours after I'd awoken from my nap, then woke up at 11PM, watched some bad TV, and went back to bed. Everything I did all day long - from the breakfast I ate to the midnight show that I watched - was my choice.
At some point during the day I posted this picture to Instagram, and thought about how happy I was when it was taken. I thought about what a difference a decade makes. I thought about how happy I am now...except I'm not even sure I'd call this feeling "happiness" - it's easier to define it as the absence of sadness. I think it's the kind of feeling I've spent my entire life both searching for and running away from.
All my son wanted for Christmas was a kitten. Literally. And I know, I know: Every kid wants a kitten...but I have never in my life encountered a human being so deeply connected to cats. I told him that Santa doesn't do kittens. I told him we have enough animals. I told him Mommy is all full up on responsibility.
...But it's Christmas.
