Goodbye Grandpa

My grandpa passed away yesterday. He turned 82 on Monday. It wasn’t a surprise. He had been very sick for several years.

About 16 years ago, Grandpa suffered a major heart attack and had to have a heart transplant. He recovered nicely and tried to get back to his usual active lifestyle. But he just never did feel like his old self again. The anti-rejection medications he had to take for his heart began to wear him down and make him susceptible to skin cancers, strokes, and other ailments.

The last time I saw Grandpa was about 4 years ago. He was recovering from a recent stroke, so he had to drink his red wine through a straw at dinner. He was almost blind and missing an ear from one of his skin cancer surgeries. He just sat at the end of the table with a blanket draped over his shoulders, drinking wine, and listening to my brothers, cousins, and me talk and joke around. He was a shell of the man I grew up with.

To say I adored my grandfather would be an understatement. As a child, I idolized him. He was the epitome of the classy swinging bachelor. He always drove a sleek sports car. He worked as an attorney in Dallas. And I don’t remember ever seeing him without a glass of scotch on the rocks or a pretty girlfriend.

Growing up poor in Dublin made me hunger for life in the big city. We spent almost every holiday at Grandpa’s townhouse in Dallas. While he was busy cooking dinner for everyone, I would say I was tired and he would say I could crawl up in his bed for a bit. I remember laying in Grandpa’s waterbed with the satin leopard-print sheets and looking up at myself in the mirrors on the ceiling thinking “One day I’m gonna make it big and this is the kind of house I will have.”

The thing I loved most about Grandpa was that he was always relaxed and in-control. I never saw him lose his temper, cry, or raise his voice. Coming from a house of screamers, I always appreciated his silence.

Grandpa at my college graduation August 1997

He kept a small statue of St. Peter in his flower garden outside. One day while we were at his house, the doorbell rang. We opened the door to find St. Peter on the doormat. Someone had painted his face red and glued horns to his head. Grandpa picked up the statue and said, “hmm, looks like someone is playing a joke on me.” He calmly put St. Peter back in the garden and went back to cooking lunch.

“Aren’t you scared, Grandpa?” I asked him. “About what, dear?” he said as he took a sip of his scotch. “About the statue!” He shrugged his shoulders and said, “No, I’m pretty sure I know who did that and she’s just a little crazy. Can you turn on the television for me? The Cowboys are on.” And he went back to stirring the soup and humming to himself.

Grandpa was always dressed to the nines. He was the only man I knew who wore jewelry. His belt always matched his polished shoes and his pants were always pressed to perfection. He was one of the few people I knew who could wear a Speedo and not look like an asshole. He swam laps at the pool while we played Marco Polo and I thought he was the coolest guy ever.

Even his laugh was very controlled and classy. While we knew that fart jokes were off limits around Grandpa, we would throw out some pretty funny stories and he would always give a good-hearted chuckle.

One summer, he took my brothers and me to Six Flags in Arlington, TX—I was about 16 years old. He rode every ride with us. While in line, he would do his usual quiz and ask us educational things like, “If it takes 5 minutes for 20 people to get to the front of the line, then how long we will be standing here?”

I got to sit next to Grandpa on my favorite rollercoaster—the Shock Wave. I’m not sure if that ride is still there, but it has two loops that take you upside down. I knew there was no way Grandpa could ride this coaster and not scream. But as usual, he stayed completely cool. He just chuckled as we looped around twice. His hair was a bit off as the ride came to a stop, but he just ran both hands down the back of his head and smoothed it down and looked over at me and said, “Well, that was fun. Now what?”

And I guess that is what I have to ask myself this morning, “Now what?” Grandpa was one of those few people in my life who always believed I could be something really great. He talked to me about college since I was 8 years old.

In high school, I had decided that I would not go to college. I wanted to be a flight attendant so I could get the hell out of Dublin and see the world. Grandpa would just nod his head and listen to my plans.

“You know, Kim, you are one of the smartest people I know,” he told me. “You could go to college anywhere you want and make your own money and travel all over and have people waiting on you instead of waiting on other people.”

No one had ever told me that before. It had never occurred to me. Grandpa tried to talk me into going to Rice and studying law. And for a long time, I really wanted to do that. But my parents talked me into staying in Dublin and going to Tarleton State University. “Rice? You can’t afford that,” they told me.

I don’t regret my choices. My past decisions have gotten me to where I am today. Who knows where I would be today if I had listened to Grandpa and gone to Rice—but I still think about how different my life would be today if I had taken his advice. He was right—I was capable of becoming something great.

It’s been over a year since I spoke to Grandpa. I called him on his birthday Dec. 26^th last year. He still called me sweetheart and his voice sounded familiar but tired. He asked if my husband was still in the Army and I had to remind him that I was divorced. He said, “I’m sorry to hear that.” He asked if I had children and I reminded him that I had two. We didn’t talk long and he didn’t remember that I had called. I knew from our conversation that the Grandpa I remembered was gone and it hurt too bad to hear his voice.

My siblings and I are much older than my cousins on my Dad’s side of the family and most of them never got to know Grandpa the way we did. They never got to have their first sip of champagne or taste caviar at one of Grandpa’s Christmas parties. They never got to race down the interstate in Dallas in his sports car and talk about math and science with him. They never got to hang out with him at dinner parties and watch him flirt and make the ladies giggle, “Oh, Harry, you’re too much.”

My Dad’s siblings have been great in taking care of Grandpa for the past several years. They did their best to maintain his sense of dignity and love for finer things. But it’s been hard on everyone to watch him become a shell of his former self and I think we are all relieved to know he is in a better place today.

I guess a part of me wishes he would not have had the heart transplant all those years ago and that he would have just gone out at the top of his game. And I know that is selfish of me, because if he would have died several years ago then I would not have the guilt I carry now—the guilt of refusing to call him and accept the old man that he became. I’m sorry, Grandpa. I love you.

A trip to see Santa

It’s been less than a year since I first met Robby, and all I can think is “I’m glad I decided to open my mind to love.”

Some of you know the story of how I met Robby. I used to refer to him as Mr. EHarmony and some of my friends still call him that. We met online at the beginning of March, took our time getting to know each other, and fell head-over-heels in love by summer. 

Family photo with Santa



Robby first met the kids at the end of April. It was Easter weekend and my sister had picked up the kids and me from the airport. We had just returned from Texas after Veronica’s foot surgery. Robby had offered to make us Easter dinner and leave it at the front door. I decided it was time for him to meet the kids and I thought it would seem more comfortable if my sister was there, too.

After Robby left that evening, my sister and I did our usual—put the kids to bed, made martinis, and played cards for the remainder of the night. Amy liked Robby and she could tell I really liked him. She asked, “Do you think you guys will get married?”

I laughed and said, “No, I’m never getting married again.” I was totally serious and I truly believed it. Amy was so mad at me. “Why would you say that?” she asked with tears in her eyes.

“Because marriage is horrible,” I said. “I will never do that again.”



But as time passed, I began to realize that it was wrong for me to base my future decisions on my past relationships. Robby and I talked about marriage several times. I told him what I thought about marriage and he listened.

Then he said, “I understand why you feel that way, but you have to remember that we can’t base marriage off of our past experiences because those people we were married to weren’t capable of loving us back in a normal way. Those weren’t real marriages.”

Over time I began to understand what he was talking about. I began to open myself up to trusting him. When we first met, I wouldn’t accept his friend request on Facebook because I was afraid of letting him into my “bubble.” Now, I can’t imagine not hearing his voice on the phone first thing in the morning.





And I said, "Yes."



Robby asked me to marry him on Dec. 23^rd and I said, “yes!” The proposal was a complete surprise to me, but I had no hesitations—there was no doubt in my voice when I said “yes.”

Here is what happened…Apparently Robby had been planning the engagement since September. Somewhere along the way he decided to make it a Christmas proposal. His sister and his friends were involved in the planning and things just seemed to take off from there.

Robby described the proposal in his blog, so I will tell you my side of things. I was under the impression that Robby’s sister Mary wanted us to go have our picture taken with Santa while she was in town. It was supposed to be a surprise to Robby’s mom. This all seemed reasonable to me.

Robby told me that he and Veronica had some more shopping to finish and that he would drop off Jude and me at Target so they could finish shopping and then we would meet at 1:00 at Bass Pro Shop to have our photo taken with Santa. Robby’s mom called last minute and wanted to be a part of the photo, too. I believed every word. Again, this all seemed reasonable to me.



Mr. and Mrs. Claus were teary-eyed



Jude and I showed up at Bass Pro Shop and I saw that Mary and Robby’s mom were waiting for us. Robby’s best friend Dave was also there. Again, this all seems reasonable—no red flags.

We went into Bass Pro Shop and got in line to see Santa for our family photo which will now include Robby, Mary, his mom, Dave, Veronica, Jude, and me. We got our photo made and I walked over to pick up my purse that I placed near the exit.

“Hey, Kim, I have something for you,” said Mrs. Claus. I froze. She reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out a small box wrapped in red paper with a red bow—red is my favorite color.

She handed the gift to me and I looked at Robby who was standing beside Santa. My first thought was, “if this is a pair of earrings then I will hurt somebody.”

Santa said, “Come here and sit on my knee, Kim. Let’s see what is inside the box.”

I walked over and sat on Santa’s knee. My hands were trembling and I was not sure if I could open the box. Santa gave me a hand and held the wrapping paper so I could see what was inside the box.

I finally realized that Robby was on one knee at my side. “Kim, will you do me the honor of marrying me?” he asked with tears in his eyes.

I opened the box and saw the ring—it was perfect. I reached out and grabbed Robby’s face in my hands and held his face close to mine. “Yes, I will marry you.”

Perfect ring for the perfect proposal

At this point, we were all crying—especially Santa. “This is this sweetest thing I have ever seen,” Santa sobbed. I forgot about Robby and hugged Santa and told him to stop crying because he was making me cry even harder.

Then Mrs. Claus walked over and I noticed that she was also crying. “I’m so happy for you two,” she said.

I finally realized that everyone in the store was looking at us. They were smiling and some were crying. Veronica and Jude were standing with Mary and Robby’s mom and they were obviously happy. “I have a new family,” I thought to myself.

Then I noticed that two camera men from the local news stations were filming everything. And then it all hit me—Robby just asked me to marry him. And I said yes and I didn’t secretly regret it.

My first proposal was horrible and my first marriage was even worse. This proposal was perfect. This was the kind of proposal that all girls wish for. This was the kind of proposal that I deserved.

I never thought I would get married again. I always thought I would be the cool woman who was the swinging bachelorette in the group. I would never be tied down to one man—I would just go out on a lot of dates and have fun. I wanted to be that girl that all her friends envied because she had this carefree lifestyle. And as fun as that life could be, it was becoming a lonely existence.

But I decided to give love a second chance. I decided to trust someone again. I decided not to base my future decisions on past disappointments. But most importantly, I decided to love myself again. Thank you, Robby, for loving me back.



I am grateful

Okay, so it’s 3 days until Christmas and I just found out this morning that my parents are coming to my house for the holidays. This has been an ongoing saga for the past month—they say they are coming, then they are not, then they are… 

Mom and me Christmas morning 1980

They called Monday to confirm that they definitely are not coming because Mom has a cold. Mom doesn’t believe in going to the doctor so a cold can put her down for several months. Apparently a trip to the acupuncturist was the trick that cured her and she called this morning to tell my 11-year-old daughter, not me, that they are coming and that I need to stock up on vegetarian meals. Oh goodie.

I guess I should be furious over this constant back and forth and stringing me along during the holidays. But I’m not. I am just so grateful that I have so many wonderful blessings in my life this year. I refuse to complain.

A little over a week ago, I found out that an old childhood friend of mine was secretly going through a very tough ordeal. Her husband has been diagnosed with cancer. I don’t know all the details, but I know it’s very serious and there is a chance this could be their last Christmas together. It breaks my heart.

Christmas morning 2008

Every time I think about complaining about the chaos of trying to plan my holidays, I think about her and her small children and all the other families suffering this Christmas. And I know that I need to be grateful—I know that I do feel grateful.

I think about the last Christmas I spent with my ex in 2008. His depression had reached an all-time high. He was suicidal and out of control and I didn’t have a clue what to do. We were still living together in Colorado but he lived in the downstairs portion of the house and the children and I lived upstairs.

I decided to make the best of things and try to give the kids one last holiday with us together as a family. My ex had shown little interest in shopping for presents—he finally went to a yard sale and got the kids a few things. He didn’t help with decorations. He had made no plans to go to Texas to see our families. He was content to be left alone for the holidays.

The weeks leading up to Christmas had been stressful. Jude attended a private Montessori school a few days per week and he told me that another little boy at the school had molested him. I was horrified and I pulled him out of the school immediately. The owner of the school seemed as shocked as me--we cried about it together. To this day I don’t know what really happened at that school, but the school was in the news about 6 months later and shut down for another unrelated incident.

I tried to talk to my ex about the incident with Jude, but he was numb to the outside world. He told me that he had been thinking about killing himself. I called the VA to ask for help, but he denied the story. I felt like my world was crumbling around me. 

Christmas morning 2008

So, Christmas day arrived and the children woke up early ready to see what Santa had brought them. I went downstairs and woke up my ex and he came up and handed me a laptop for my present. All he said was, “Here, I got you this.” He walked around the living room while the kids opened their gifts. He helped Jude put some Legos together and then he said, “I’m going to go work on my Jeep for a while.”

I began cooking up our usual Christmas day feast with turkey, dressing, casseroles, bread, and desserts. I finished the meal around 2:00 and I opened the door to the driveway to tell my ex it was time to eat. But there was no sign of him. I assumed he went to the auto parts store, but I wasn’t sure if any were open.

As usual, he refused to answer his cellphone. At 6 p.m. I finally had the kids sit down and eat dinner with me. Veronica refused to eat until my ex came home. I told her we couldn’t wait any longer. She begged me to call 911 and report her daddy missing. “Mommy, please, he must be dead on the side of the road somewhere. Why wouldn’t he be here to eat with us on Christmas?” I told her that I thought he was just running some errands and that he would be home soon.

I finally got the children to bed around 8:30 that night and I called my mom to tell her what was going on. Despite my reassurance to Veronica, I also believed something had gone terribly wrong with my ex. I thought he had finally gone off to kill himself or got himself into a wreck somewhere.

Christmas 2011--visit from "Santa"

At 6:00 the next morning, my ex came stumbling in the front door. His eyes were barely open and smelled like beer. I came running into the room when I heard the door. “Where have you been?” I asked trying to remain calm.

“I’ve been out,” he said as he fell on the couch. “I went to a couple of strip clubs and got drunk if you really must know.” He laughed out loud and then fell to sleep.

I was speechless. How did this become my life? I went back to my bedroom to lie down and cry before the kids woke up. I prayed to God that I would never have another Christmas like this ever again.

I guess God heard my prayers that morning, because that has been the last really horrible Christmas I have had. Not knowing if your spouse is on the verge of death is a horrible feeling. Sometimes the curse of death is self-inflicted. Sometimes the curse of death is put upon you for no reason.

So, to my dear friend, I pray God hears your prayers, too. I’m praying for your husband the same way that so many people prayed for mine. I pray that God’s plan is to make your faith and your family stronger so that, like me, you never take a happy Christmas for granted.

Neighborhood vigilante

Apparently my newfound sense of self-confidence may end up getting me into trouble. I don’t consider myself a trouble maker, either. Unlike my boyfriend who tends to get kicked out of places, I like to fly under the radar and go unnoticed in a crowd.

But this week I did something that surprised me. I’m not ashamed of what I did—as a matter of fact, I’m pretty proud of myself.

We live in one of the older neighborhoods of Richmond Hill. It’s small and self-contained—only two streets and they come together in a loop near the back end and we are surrounded by a small creek and wooded tree line. My house is on the back end of the loop.

Jude and Veronica take the bus to and from school every day. Veronica rides the special ed bus to accommodate her wheelchair, so it stops at the end of my driveway each day to pick her up and drop her off. Jude has the option to walk down to the end of either side of our road to catch the bus. He chooses to ride his scooter or bike down to his friends’ house each morning so they can hang out and shoot some hoops while they wait for the bus.

The problem is that in order for Jude to get to his friends’ house he must go around a corner where some idiot planted a row of evergreen trees. Over the past few years these trees have grown a lot and now they completely block the view on either side of the curve. Every day one of the children in our neighborhood has a close call with oncoming traffic because drivers can’t see the children on the road until after they pass the trees.

About a month ago, a driver had to slam on her brakes in order to not hit Jude and his pals riding their bikes. I saw the entire incident unfold and for a brief moment, I thought my child was going to be killed by a speeding teenager.

The trees sit on a foreclosed property. So, I dialed the number on the realtor’s sign in the yard and spoke to the person in charge of selling the home for the bank. I explained the situation about the trees and she came to the house the next day and took pictures to send the bank. The bank’s response was, “We’ll think about it, but removing trees is expensive.”

Last week, I called the city and explained the situation. Their response was, “We don’t cut down trees in people’s yards.” So, I called someone else at City Hall. Their response was, “We don’t remove trees unless they are in danger of falling on power lines. And in that case, the electric company would take care of the trees.”

My response was, “What is your stance on paying for funerals of dead children?”

I hung up my phone and decided that I wasn’t going to wait for one of the children on my street to be hit by a car. My garage is filled with tree cutting devices—hand saws, axes, and clippers. With the weapon chosen, I decided to wait until dark and make my move on the trees.

On Wednesday night, I put the kids to bed. I washed the dishes, folded the laundry, and organized the mail. At 10:00, I sat down to watch an episode of Dexter. At the end of the show, I put on my boots, jacket, and gloves. I grabbed my flashlight and handsaw and walked down the street.

I’m not good at sneaking around so I was a nervous wreck. I kept thinking that I heard a car coming or someone walking up behind me. I crouched down on my knees and laid the flashlight on the ground so the light was focused on the base of the biggest tree. I began sawing through the wood like my life depended on it.

It seemed like the creak, creak, creak sound of the saw was going to wake up the neighborhood, but I began to calm down and focus on the task at hand. My arms were beginning to tire and I realized that I was being stupid for fearing someone would catch me in the act.

“I’m doing them a favor,” I thought. “This is the right thing to do and I should have done it months ago.”

I sat back on my heels and wiped the sweat that was running down into my eyes. “This is ridiculous,” I thought. “I’m coming back tomorrow and finishing the job during the day.”

I stuck my flashlight in my pocket and walked home with the saw in my hand. “I hope the cops don’t drive by right now.”

Yesterday afternoon I finally finished the job I started—I finished it in broad daylight and not a soul noticed. In the end, I cut down 3 trees and I stacked them in the driveway of the foreclosed home. I’m not sure if what I did was illegal, but I know it was the right thing to do.

On my way home, I stopped by my neighbor’s house and told her what I did. “Good for you,” she said. “I hate those trees.”

I guess we’ll never know if I saved any lives—I wasn’t willing to “wait and see” what would happen. I told Veronica and Jude what I did and explained to them why I did it. “I’m proud of you, Mom,” Veronica told me.

This morning, we got up to leave the house for Jude’s karate class and the kids noticed our neighbor’s had also cut down their trees in their front yard (completely unrelated to my trees). Jude’s eyes got big and said, “Whoa, Mom, did you do that, too?”

I laughed and said, “No, honey, my tree cutting days are over for now.”

Even though I shouldn’t need to cut down any more trees for a while, I hope I continue to remember that it is easy to “wait and see” if others around me are willing to step-up and do the right thing. It’s hard for me to step out of my comfort zone and do what I know is right. Doing the right thing is usually never easy, and I may end up getting into trouble for what I did. But I don’t regret a thing and I would cut down a hundred trees if that is what it takes to keep my children safe.

A Christmas miracle

Tomorrow is Veronica’s birthday. My ex phoned Veronica last weekend and told her that he is planning to visit her on her special day and stay through the holiday. As usually it’s news to me and I have no idea what the details of his visit will be. I’m trying very hard not to stress out.

I have mixed feelings about my ex's visits.

The children love to see him and it makes them happy to spend time with him. I love my children and I love to see them happy, so I am okay with that.

But my ex rolls into town and makes no plans. He doesn’t touch base with me to see when he can see the kids or make a schedule of days and times when he plans to see them. Everything is always up in the air and I am bombarded with “Mom, have you talked to Dad? Where is he staying? When we will see him? How long is he staying?” And I always have to answer, “I don’t know.”

I hate to see the disappointed looks on their faces.

My ex has always operated this way. I don’t understand it and I quit trying to understand it about a year ago. I used to break down and text him or email him and ask him what his plans were. The uncertainty of his arrival always made me very nervous for some reason. I also feared that the kids would get their feelings hurt by not seeing him, so I tried to do the planning and make things run smoothly.

Christmas miracle?

But I soon realized that it didn’t matter what I did. His visits seemed to go better when I just sat back and let him do the planning. And if we already have plans then I say, “Sorry, the kids are busy that day.” He’s always agreeable—it’s almost as if he’s fine with driving over a thousand miles to see them once or twice.

So when Veronica asked me this morning, “Is Dad coming to my party tomorrow?” I was able to honestly  tell her, “Honey, I haven’t spoken to your dad and I have no idea what his plans are.” And despite the disappointed look on her face, she seemed to be okay with that answer because she too has learned that you can’t make plans with my ex.

So, am I stressed about his visit? A little. Am I going to text him and find out his plans? Nope. Am I okay with that? Yep.

And do you know why? Because after all of these years, I can finally say with certainty that I have no guilt when it comes to making plans with my ex. If he doesn’t show up somewhere or these kids don’t get to see him as much as they want, then it’s not my fault—and I truly believe that. He cannot rule me through fear or guilt any more. I am the most confident in myself than I have ever been before in my life. And that, my friends, is my Christmas miracle this year.

Goodbye ring

Goodbye rings!

I would like to update you on my last post—I did get my license on Wednesday in Savannah. It turns out the Savannah DMV is a little more relaxed and they barely glanced at my “certified” divorce decree. So now I just have to keep practicing my new signature and getting used to my old name again. The transition has been very easy so far. It feels surprisingly natural.

After my trip to the DMV, I stopped off at a jewelry store and sold my wedding ring and band. I had put the rings on Craigslist earlier in the week and after random emails from people asking for my home address, wanting to mail me checks, and meet me in less than desirable locations, I opted for a safer approach. I also found it ironic to sell my ring on the same website where my ex-husband was finding “dates” when we were married.

I thought the sell would be easy. I quit wearing my wedding ring in May 2009 after my ex left. They have been in my jewelry box ever since. I thought about saving them for Veronica and I later thought about having them melted down and made into something else to give to Veronica and Jude. But I came to the belief that the symbol those rings once represented was long gone and there was no reason to pretend they were still a symbol of the love I shared with someone.

The man at the jewelry store examined the rings and made small talk with me. “This is a very old ring,” he said. “Yes it is,” I said. “I have no idea how old it is, but I really like the style and they just don’t make rings like that anymore.” He nodded and said, “You’re right and the diamond is in great shape and it is a very good quality.”

I didn’t tell him that my ex bought the ring in a pawnshop in Corpus Christi—I think he paid about $75 for it. But it was beautiful and it was the one I wanted and he was glad to get it for so cheap. He had actually entered the pawnshop in an effort to take a break from ring shopping and buy a used metal detector in hopes of finding some money or a lost ring on the beach. I saw the ring in the display case and I pointed at it and said, “That’s it. That’s the ring I want.”

He proposed the next day. It was lackluster at best. We were walking on the beach at night and he reached into his pocket and said, “You’re a pretty good girl and I don’t think I can do any better and I want you to spend the rest of your life with me.” I said yes and slipped the ring on my finger and watched the diamonds sparkle in the moonlight. And then I thought to myself, “Was that it? I want a do-over. I want something romantic. I wanted to be surprised and swept off my feet.” The memory of our engagement haunted me for a long time—I knew I deserved better than that.

Despite the fact that I hated the proposal, I loved that ring. I loved the way it felt on my finger. I loved the way the diamonds caught my eye when my hand rested on the top of the steering wheel when I was stopped at a red light. I loved the feeling that people knew I was married by looking at my left hand.

For almost 13 years, I kept that ring safe. I polished it and kept it clean. I put it on the shelf by the sink when I made biscuits from scratch. I hated having to take it off the last few months of my pregnancy. I locked it in my glove box when I went skiing so it wouldn’t slip off my cold hands and disappear in the snow forever.
For almost 13 years, I kept that ring close to me and I always knew where it was.

The man at the jewelry store offered me $200 cash and I said, “Sold.” I signed a piece of paper with my new name and stood up from the brown leather chair and shook his hand. I was feeling great until I looked down and saw my ring sitting in a black plastic bowl on his desk. My first instinct was to pick it up, but I remembered that it wasn’t my ring anymore. I sold it.

The chance to ever wear that ring again was gone forever. I would never get to pass it on to my daughter and she would never get to pass it on to her daughter. My son would not be able to use the diamonds to make a ring for his bride. Eventually I will probably forget what that ring looked like. Eventually I will forget what it felt like on my finger.

Something I have learned about divorce is that it is a constant grieving process that gets better over time but never seems to completely end. I have grieved the loss of my marriage, the loss of my relationships with the ex's brothers and my nieces and nephews, the loss of friends, and the loss of the life I thought I would live. Every so often something pops up and I realize that I will never see certain people, do certain things, or go certain places any more. And just when I think I am done grieving, something new pops up.

I always tell people that divorce gets easier—and it does—but sometimes I wonder if it is ever truly painless.

I know that getting rid of that ring was the right thing to do. I’m not sure what I will do with the money. But I do know that it is important to get rid of those sentimental and symbolic items from my past so that I can grieve them, move forward, and make room in my life for things that make me happy.

I'm not made that way

I like to think that I am a pretty relaxed person—someone who is slow to anger. Perhaps the cool person in the group. I never put a lot of thought into my laid-back approach to obstacles in my life until today. I had to ask myself, “Is it normal to be this accommodating?”

People usually ask me, “Doesn’t that make you mad? You seem so relaxed about everything falling down around you.”

I have to admit that I enjoy being known as the laid back type. But it is days like today that I realize that I walk a very fine line between cool and explosive.

Growing up in a family that is quick to over-react and freak out over the smallest details—milk left out of fridge all night was met with a loud “God Damnit!!!” from my mother in the morning. I learned at an early age that it was important for me to remain calm in order to bring everyone else around me closer to my end of the emotional spectrum.

When my brother Luke was shot in the eye with a paintball during the summer of 1997, it was me who tried to calm down my parents in the car on the way to the emergency room. “Doctors can fix all kinds of things these days. They do entire eye transplants with no problems,” I said with my casual authoritative tone. “They just did a hand transplant in Italy last month,” I chuckled.

By the time we reached my brother at the hospital, my parents had calmed down and began to discuss the situation like reasonable adults rather than resort to their usually yelling, hitting walls, and pulling hair. They were able to take care of my brother and make him feel safe.

Unfortunately people don’t think to console you when you are the strong one in the group. Everyone seems to flock to the person who needs the biggest hug. And while I’m always quick to admit that I am usually the strong one in the crowd, I would be lying if I didn’t confess that it would be nice to be the one who is allowed to fall apart every once in a while.

When I was a kid, I had to be strong for my parents. And now that I am an adult, I have to be strong for my kids. I guess it’s safe to say that I will never have the luxury to be the one who gets to fall apart emotionally. I will never get to “take to my bed” the way my parents did when I was little. I will never allow myself to scream obscenities and punch holes in the wall. I don’t feel like I’m missing much, but sometimes I wonder what it is like to just let it all out and fall apart. And I have on a few occasions let my anger out and yelled at someone, but then I just feel guilty about it—I don’t know why.

Today was one of those days when things just couldn’t come together for me. I got up early and sent the kids off to school. I jumped in my car and headed down to Hinesville to get my name changed back to my maiden name on my driver’s license. When we first moved to this area in 2003, we lived in Hinesville—home of Fort Stewart. We lived there for 3 years and I have nothing but bad blood with that place. I haven’t been back there in over 2 years and I am more than happy to spend an extra hour on the road to bypass that town every chance I have. Just to see the Hinesville city limit sign was physically painful to me.

But the driver’s license office in Hinesville is never crowded as opposed to the one in Savannah. Both offices are about 30 minutes away, so distance is not an issue either. So, I show up at the Hinesville DMV, walk right in, and sit down and fill out the paperwork and then the guy tells me that I do not have a certified copy of my divorce decree; I just have a regular copy. I need to “drive to the courthouse and get one and come back” he tells me. But the courthouse is an hour away and the only way to get there from Hinesville is to cut through Fort Stewart which I can’t since I don’t have a military ID any more.

“I’m sorry,” he says smiling. “That’s okay,” I smiled back. I gathered up my papers and left. I wasn't defeated, just frustrated a bit.

I decided to go home and call the courthouse before I drive the hour trip. My calls go unanswered for a while. Someone finally answers the phone and transfers me to a number that rings and rings and rings. After 30 minutes of calling, I check the internet again for more information, but there is nothing. I make one last call and finally someone answers. She tells me that I can go to my local office here in town and get a copy there. “Yes!” I think. I will get this done today after all.

I jumped back into my car and go to the local office and there are only 2 cars in the parking lot. “I just love small town Georgia,” I think to myself. I walked right in and told the clerk what I needed and she smiled at me and said, “No problem, you’re in the right place. Unfortunately, my printer is broken and it won’t be fixed until late this afternoon so you’ll have to come back later and let me help you then.”

I felt like I was on Candid Camera. “Okay, I’ll be sure to call before I come back,” I told her with a big smile on my face. “It’s no big deal,” I said to her as she apologized for the inconvenience. “That’s alright, it just wasn’t meant to happen today,” I said as I walked out.

I drove home, parked in my driveway, turned off my car, and sat there staring at my house. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I yelled. I really wanted to resign myself to the idea that “it’s no big deal,” but I just can’t. I’m furious inside.

I wanted to go back to Hinesville and tell the DMV worker that he is an asshole for not taking the papers I have as proof—no one would ever know and it’s obvious that I’m who I say I am. Just give me the stupid driver’s license already!

Then I want to go back to the local clerk’s office and tell her to find another printer ASAP instead of just sitting there playing Book Worm on her computer. Am I really supposed to believe that she can’t print out my file on another computer in the building?

But years of watching my parents and then my ex-husband act this way have taught me one thing—I never want to be that person who loses her cool in public or in front of my children. Maybe that forces me to appear weak or too laid-back to people around me, but I’m okay with that.

Sometimes life doesn’t hand you lemons—it throws them at you and laughs when it makes that “pow” sound on your head. And maybe I choose to just rub my head and say, “that’s okay, it’s really not a big deal that you hit me with that lemon.” And maybe I’m right or maybe I’m wrong. But it doesn’t really matter to me, because I would rather be the person responsible for calming everyone down—it’s the role I know and the one that I am comfortable with. I cannot even fight with myself on this one.