An Inconvenient Truth

It was 1978 when I abandoned the asymmetric warfare of marriage.

Reveling in my post-divorce autonomy, I drank martinis, read every book condemned by the Legion of Decency and fantasized about conversations — and occasionally sex — with George Carlin, Nora Ephron and Machiavelli.

Eventually though, Jiminy Cricket had his way with me and I faced the shameful truth that while I was busy making up for a phase I had skipped, my children had become an under-served population — a rude awakening that sent me on a walk of shame not unlike Cersei Lannister’s. So, in a misguided effort to reverse the harm I had done, I became a room mother. (Another time I should have thought twice.)

I read Charlotte’s Web to first-graders while they picked their noses, I drew happy faces on scores of “How I Spent My Summer Vacation” essays and I drove too many 10-year olds on field trips no sane person could dream up. But that’s not all. I coached my daughter’s soccer team (or was it volleyball?). I scheduled weekly 1:1 time with each of my kids in my Daytimer. I even delivered a hot McDonalds lunch to my son at middle school… once. And just to round things out, I took up meditation, a sporadic practice that initially soothed me but ultimately drove me into a frenzied attempt to find my true self.

I read Eckhart Tolle, desperately tried to see what was written behind my eyelids and hammered friends and family with my newfound mantra, “All is well. All will be well.” To which my teen-age daughter replied, “Mom, I think you mean “All is hell. All will be hell.”

Regrettably for all concerned, my re-mothering efforts did not persist as long as they should have (more about that later) and my ascent into spiritualism came to an abrupt and ignominious end one hot, humid summer afternoon when my neighbor found me in the garden meditating with a flyswatter in my hand.

Wise Ask: What is your inconvenient truth? Have you ever said it out loud?
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