Post-40 is the new post-30, I know, I know. But the only “post-” my body got the memo about is “post-partum.” There ain’t no turning the clock back on that one. The combination of babies and SSRIs and time has exacted its toll on this body. As a mama of daughters, of course of course of course I try to rock a good body attitude. I don’t hide the softness, with the girls. Flab, cellulite, wrinkles, veins, scars, sag—I tell them what they see is what they will get, someday. I tell them that this is part of growing up, that this is part of being a real woman at the beginning of her fifth decade on this planet.

I do all right, with them, but I can’t seem to keep that fab attitude across the board.
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I peer into the supermarket basket on my arm, straining to remember what other items I’ve written on the list I’ve forgotten to bring with me, as usual.

A can of garbanzo beans. A head of broccoli. Berry seltzer. Rice vinegar. Hot sauce. One red onion. A few lemons. A Diet Pepsi. One pint of Ben & Jerry’s Key Lime Pie ice cream.

Yup. Most decidedly single, I think.
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My mind staggers, trying to wake itself. I blink again and again and try to catch my breath. Again, I find myself sifting reality from dream rubble.

Another nightmare.

Enough, already, Mind.

*****

“What’s the worst nightmare you ever had?” S asks me the other night, at bedtime.

I contemplate her question. “That a hard one. I used to dream over and over of losing people I loved, chasing after them in dreams—”

I stop myself.

She gives me a quizzical look. “And?”

“The worst nightmares are when you wake up and realize that it’s already happened. That the people you love are already long gone.”

She nods. This seems to make sense to her.

*****

I would have told you there was no way in hell he and I could have become strangers like we are. He is long gone, in every way.

*****

Now my nightmares are without hope that I will catch up to anyone. In my dreams, I don’t bother to go looking for help, for the people I think should be there.

The latest nightmares: I am completely on my own, searching for a home. I am not homeless, but I am without home. I have something less than home: home-less.
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My goodness. What a week it’s been for marriage on the Left Coast. Laura Dern and Ben Harper. Christina Aguilera and Jordan Bratman. David Arquette and Courteney Cox. Welcome to the Singles’ Club, gang.

I don’t feel any more for them than I do for the usual suspects, the non-celeb couples breaking up. But I don’t feel any less for them, either. People are people. And nobody, nobody, nobody wants to find out that her ex-husband has blabbed on-air that she and said ex hadn’t had sex for four months before he got served by a waitress (intriguing move, Arquette—hang in there, Courteney, I hear the Seychelles are nice this time of year).
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Melancholy and I have maintained an uneasy truce, for a few months.

Then, yesterday, just like that—it edged a foot through the door.

All at once it washed over me. The familiar sense of missing…what?

Someone, something. I’m so familiar with missing what came before, I no longer recall exactly what it is that is gone.

*****

Yesterday: He has dropped off the girls’ autumn coats and jackets, unexpectedly. I hear his voice in the hall, hesitant, calling to us. When are we? For a moment, I forget, can’t say. Could be ten years ago. Could be today. Is today.

The girls run to him. “Daddy!”

I measure my steps carefully. I walk to him. I accept the bundle of pink and purple and magenta warmth. We speak politely, as we often do, for a few minutes. Then he must leave.

“Goodbye, Love,” he says to one daughter, kissing her head. I envy her, although I instantly deny the emotion, stamp it out. I struggle to recall if he ever called me this: “Love.” I was Sweetpea, Petunia, Honey. Wasn’t I?

It matters not a bit, not now.

This is what I marvel at over and over again: that something that mattered so much once can shift, transform, dissolve—then matter not at all.
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My ex and I have a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding our dating lives post-divorce.

It is not a policy that we discussed beforehand. It is not a policy that we discuss now. It simply is. At some point, it seems like it’s got to change. But for now, for better or for worse, this is where we are.

The girls, of course, carry information back and forth like pollinating bees. I know which names they have mentioned to him; I know which names they have mentioned to me. They speculate as much as I do. I can see them working it out in their heads: their parents will be with other people. Some grownup friends are just friends; some are friends with potential to become much more to Mommy and Daddy.
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I had a dream last week, much better than my usual dreams, which generally include

1) poor starving rodents

2) ex-loves I chase through mazes of dark rooms

3) dead relatives who stare at me skeptically but offer no helpful information, i.e., career advice, winning lottery numbers

But in last week’s dream, I hit the jackpot. Once I was LOST, baby, now I wuz FOUND.

Sawyer from “Lost” had finally found me. Sawyer, of the REEE-DICULOUS hot-tub-deep dimples, the knock-you-senseless bad-boy grin, the cocky confidence—and need I even mention his shirtless castaway appeal? Yah. Sawyer fought his way through the space-time-good-evil continuum to wind up in my brain. Mine! Me, of ample Polish rump and crooked bottom teeth and nose that officially fits into the “strong” category.

Oh, heavens, I love good dreams.
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MY ODE TO ONLINE DATING AS A SINGLE MOTHER OF A CERTAIN AGE

When the screen door detaches

from its hinges at night,

I muse on imperfect matches,

lid-less cookware, and flight.

Great-Granny said for each pot

a perfect lid awaits.

This particular cliche?

How it smarts! How it grates!

But Great-Gran had a throne:

a bar stool in West Philly.

When pure Irish marries pure English

the results can be silly.

Marriage wasn’t her thing.

I thought it was mine.

Now I am doubtful

all the damn time.

I asked my online posse

about online dating.

Here are their answers:

plenty for hating.
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“Oh my God,” I blurt out. “HOW DID I NEVER NOTICE? PA INGALLS IS SO SEXY!”

Two small round faces swivel from the TV and stare at me with a mix of bemusement and ewwwww.

“Seriously?” says my firstborn, a wise creature of eight, who already knows about the “sex” part of “sexy.” 

I rip my eyes away from Michael Landon’s sweaty, naked chest and his perfectly teary eyes as he prepares to shoot Jack the dog, who might have rabies—which would mean, of course, that Laura might have rabies, all because of that stupid raccoon.

I had not recalled Pa Ingalls having so many topless-with-suspenders scenes. I remember having a crush on Almanzo at some point, but Pa? Oh, my.

My children are still staring at me. This is a FAMILY SHOW, after all.

“Um. Did I say that out loud?”
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I’m really not the gal for perky holiday posts, I’m telling you. But this one isn’t half-bad, either, if I do say so myself.

Late on Christmas Eve, what to my wondering ears should I hear but the sound of SNARLING GLADIATOR CURS UNDER THE TREE as I attempted to get my wee lassies asleep. Turns out my old red dog broke a tooth (canine tooth, natch) on my other dog’s face. Spurting blood. Exposed root. Awful pain. This was not the plan. SANTA DOES NOT TAKE THE REINDEER TO THE VET ON CHRISTMAS EVE! 

These are the times when I miss being part of a marriage, because a marriage—when it works well, as ours once did—is a triage team.
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