a blended life

Help usually comes in small pieces, especially with scripture reading. Which I am a big fan of and don’t talk about much.  Here’s something I just found from Marvin J Ashton (old white guy from a long time ago but still said some true, valid things): … Greatness is best measured by how well an individual responds to the happenings in life that appear to be totally unfair, unreasonable, and undeserved. … I’m going to remember this tomorrow when I know my beautiful, orange firecracker daughter will be a birthday party that should never be and while my tween is begging me to go to Times Square to see the new Hershey World, but really I just want to stay in bed and feel hysterical that I’m in this situation and don’t even have a job yet. 

I already don’t want to blog tomorrow but I feel like August 25 should be acknowledged. I’m doing this post in bullet points because everyone is talking me out of using real bullets, though I think we all agree that the impact of this day felt like a death.  • It’s the day Jacob first took me to court for custody—except I didn’t think he was actually trying to get custody because his claim was so far fetched and ridiculous.  • He lies to the judge and said I’d been served but refused to accept the papers. I challenged him and the judge set a new date for the hearing, requiring him to produce evidence that he served the papers.  • We were supposed to have another hearing that afternoon for child support. He went to the judge and asked to be excused.  • He texted me after running out of the courthouse saying he couldn’t make the support hearing (how convenient) and that he was at the birth of his twins.  • I thought he was talking about some patient he was working...

The last leg of our big, scary exodus back into the Big Apple happened on Tuesday when the Relocube* showed up.  *Relocube: very handy 6X7 pod that fit every thing I love dearly, like a steam mop and Instant Pot.  The bishop arranged for two guys to help unload. It was another example of me thinking I can handle it on my own but in the end being very grateful for the extra hands, especially since my back was a tad wobbly toward the end.        Side note— one of the guys kept making unintentionally funny comments like “The Wells (family in our ward) are so brave for living by the cemetery since their apartment is probably haunted.” And “I can take the heavy boxes. I’m Mexican.”  Are we happy to have our stuff? Extremely. I’ve had to accept help from ward members, family and even anonymous givers to get this place looking like a family could live here. And guess what? We LOVE it.  It’s ours. It’s home.  It’s the first time in my WHOLE LIFE that...

I flew back to Utah last week to sort through every item of crap that I own and decide if it was worth keeping. It’s either the coolest thing I’ve ever done or the worst. I realized how much stuff is kept purely because it’s still in working order and I don’t like filling up landfills. I realized how I can immediately know within seconds if I really love something or not—-a skill I honed in Miami when I read Marie Kondo.  I really love my steam mop. I don’t love camping chairs.  My sister and her family donated hours of sweaty, hard, messy labor to this effort of clearing out a storage unit and sorting through my girls stuff at my uncle’s house. I was moved to tears several times by their tremendous service. It was one of the most touching acts of love I’ve received. I hope they always know how deeply grateful I am.  (I don’t have pictures but they exist and I’ll share when I get them) Me and Lucy flew to NYC today and met the other two girls at the airport, who were flyi...

Wanna hear something sad?  Lucy hates change.  When I broke my legs I had a very clear thought that it a blessing—it was allowing me to stay home with my baby and do nothing but hold her (because I couldn’t do anything else) for days and weeks on end. She just had surgery and I just lost my job at the stupid charter school. We needed each other. She needed her first year to be on my chest and in my lap. Because her second year would be tumultuous and scary and terrifying, spending random weeks with her dad and his new circus, starting daycare and being thrown around like a toy. I can’t even make myself remember this without getting physically ill. When she was with me, I held her in clingy, obsessive way that made people look sideways. I kept her in my bed all night, I carried her up and down stairs and read hours of books on the floor. What if she developed an attachment disorder? What if she didn’t learn to trust and later developed a personality disorder or had serious beha...

I moved in. All by myself. With a borrowed van, a scrambled load of ikea kitchen items, a rolled up 70lb bed and craigslist frame, plus suitcases. And a car seat I might never use again.  They had the place professionally cleaned but it’s obvious they lived in a war zone by how damaged the walls are. I don’t care if my sentences end in a preposition, ok? So I’m home now. My home where the landlord ignores me and I don’t have to answer the doorbell if I don’t want to. <— preposition  My home where I can walk around in my underwears and laugh too long at bad jokes.  And I feel profound gratitude to be in a place that I truly consider my own private space, where I can have weird food in the fridge and hang out at Coney Island until midnight without someone else wondering where I went. Also where I panic at all hours of the night because I have no freaking clue how I’ll pay rent in a few weeks.  Have mentioned how much I like my ward here? They have shown up this week...

Remember last year when Jacob suddenly moved out on the 4th while I was at a church bbq? And I’ve barely blogged since because I don’t even know how to deal?  Well, I’m back. I had to promise to come back so I could maintain sole physical custody but no one thought he would take the deal. But so far he’s taken the deal and I’m back. In Brooklyn.  And I went to my church bbq yesterday. Partly because Rawle was making Guyana jerk chicken (people, it is SO good) and partly to be intentional about healing. Me and the girls called it ‘Abandon-versary’. They’re with my mom in Vancouver so she had to spend the day listening to the story over and over. Sorry, Mom.  Anyway, I went. And almost the exact same food was served with almost the exact same people. It felt like home. My people, my Guyana chicken (I ate probably six pieces) and my baggage. I reminded all my friends that I was observing Abandon-versary and we had a great talk. Mostly it was angry words of hate and plans to ...

I’m whole again. 

What I planned: Lay in bed Call my mom  Read Eat frosted mini wheats  Shower Hang out with girls Mourn, sob, grieve the absence of Lucy Throw fits of anger and rage Avoid church as much as possible  Go to bed as early as possible  What really happened: All of that EXCEPT avoid church and throw fits of anger and rage.  In fact, I don’t remember the last time I enjoyed Mother’s Day so much (even with the periods of deep worry, anger, and grief).   Leah wrote me a song. Hannah wrote a poem and made a ceramic plate in art. Church was unexpectedly lovely, even though I really wanted to show up with a chip on my shoulder and plot ways to skip Sunday school and relief society.  (Mother’s Day in a fancy pants ward means gourmet chocolates, a book, brunch in Primary with a cute plant and photo card, cookies and a bath bomb from YW. Plus I love my friends here and everyone is SO supportive and genuinely kind.) Someone encouraged me to apply at her private school...

He was supposed to bring her back today. He texted first thing this morning, saying he couldn’t afford a ticket and shouldn’t my family be chipping in more and no one respects his schedule. But I could skype her as much as I wanted.  This is good, everyone says. He’s hung himself. He’s in contempt of court now, something we’ve been trying to pin on him from the beginning. But he always gets away from it by a hair, a flimsy excuse or fast talking. He kept you from having Mother’s Day with your toddler.  I spend a tremendous amount of time figuring out people’s motives. I get paid to figure out why a kid acts out in school and offer mildly helpful suggestions. Jacob’s motives are typically transparent and selfish. And all about money.  But this is different. I felt a strong assurance that this was a deliberate attempt to sabotage Mother’s Day. And vindictive, oppositional protest against my court battles. He must know he’s lost primary custody.  So now I will wake up w...

Monday, April 30           Sonya emailed. She’s our new attorney, she says, and we should probably talk before the hearing on Thursday. {the entire family wets their pants with anxiety and confusion. New attorney? Maybe someone could have told us?} Tuesday, May 1           Sonya called. You have to move back, she says. You will never be granted a relocation by the court no matter how good your argument is. No matter how compliant he was when you left. You have to move back and put out the fire or you will lose custody forever. Don’t lose custody, Carrie. Focus on custody. Not on which state you live in.  Wednesday, May 2           Mom, me and Lucy meet in Brooklyn. I screwed up and flew us into different airports. I screwed up and got an shared Airbnb— meaning there were other people in the house and I slept in an air mattress with Lucy. No one slept. I screwed up and left my debit card at Chicago O’Hare. En...

Sometimes I want to talk about going to court. Mostly I want to forget it exists.  I have to go this week. I tried to get an adjournment until school was out because I’m out of leave, but that lasted a whopping 9 days. I don’t even know the full story—either Jacob made a big deal out Lucy’s medical needs and they granted him a sooner hearing, or the child advocate attorney is in a rush to get us back in court. Either way, no one cares about my job or my other kids or anything about my life. Including every single attorney.  Sometimes I’m so angry and hurt and shocked that I can’t speak full sentences or complete simple tasks. And sometimes the anxiety of wondering what will happen causes me to not speak full sentences or complete simple tasks.  And Hannah asked me why I always have my head in my hands. Leah pulled me aside and insisted that I order groceries online. Both are so angry and hurt that they struggle talking to people sometimes nd feel cheated out of a normal c...

I’ve missed you, Bloggy McBlogpants.  I realized today that I badly needed to complain about how Toddlerville is kicking my butt— but I had no one to talk to. {insert weepy violin music} And then I remembered I have been talking to my blog for ten years (WHAT) and its always been my go-to dumping ground for all things I can’t handle anymore.  But I feel disloyal, Bloggy, because I haven’t written about the sheer legal terror that has unfolded since December. And it feels wrong to just pick up writing without explicitly describing the nightmare we are ungracefully trying to navigate.  I can’t write about that stuff. I’m not ready, it’s still brewing with no end in sight and even retelling the events of the past month send me into a fit of PTSD. Followed by a depressing round of failure, hopeless ridden thoughts.  I asked for a break in court appearances. I asked for Lucy to not have to visit visit her dad until we get closer to the end of school. I can’t take days off...