We laughed at first . . .

The following story is from Marie. 

"It was 6:30 in the morning, when I paused in the shower. I couldn't figure out what that sound was. Shampoo still in my hair, I turned off the water. Down stairs someone yells "Police! Put your hands up!" There's no time to run across the hallway to grab my robe. Quickly wrapping myself in a towel, I walk to the top of the stairs. "I'm coming down. My hands are up!" I descend the first couple of stairs and I can't count the number of police in the dark. They cuff me and take me outside into the apartment complex. My husband is already kneeling on the ground.

After searching the apartment, they take us back inside. I'm finally escorted back up stairs, and allowed to dress while being watched by two officers. They bring me back to my husband and sit me on the couch with him. I smile at him and he smiles back. We laugh a little bit. What a story we're going to have.

A crazy neighbor had called the cops on my sister just a couple of weeks before. We were going to have a much better story, we thought.

But it was only the beginning.

My husband was charged with “luring a minor for sexual exploitation”. I didn’t even know what that meant. No one would tell me anything. I was only able to speak with him for a moment after they questioned him and placed him under arrest. That night he called from jail, again we spoke briefly. I told him that I was going to love him no matter what. The next day I read about the arrest in the news. How was it that the reporter had more information than I did? I posted bail as quickly as I could. When I picked him up 3 days later, I saw that his wrists were bandaged. During the questioning the cops had lied to him, telling him how angry I was with him. The guards at the jail laughed at him when he said that I would bail him out. He was hopeless, so he tried to commit suicide.

Six months prior my husband had an online conversation with a cop posing as a minor. He never showed up to meet. But it didn’t matter, it was the conversation that was illegal.

He’s serving time in jail right now, after agreeing to a plea bargain. I made a commitment for better or for worse. And I do love and treasure him, I just never thought it would be like this."

In an update email from Marie:

 

"My husband has been out of jail for 2 months. It's been hard for him, but he found us a home church (some place without kids). Through that he found a job and a marriage counselor for us. But most importantly he shared his story with the group. He only shared the details with a few of the men, but it's the honesty that strikes me the most. He hid his problems with pornography and all the related issues for years. Finally he's being honest and I believe that if he can continue to be honest then we can heal and that there is hope. That's where we're at right now." 

Marie is at the beginning of a long journey we all recognize. But let's not predict where this story is going. I am tempted to jump to conclusions, as I'm sure many others are out there. However, Marie's husband is not my husband, so I can't say what kind of man he is nor how this will affect their marriage. This is Marie's life and her choices. God bless you, Marie. Be strong and wise. 

When your own life is the leading story

The following is a message I received by email from another woman who has gone through a very similar situation. She writes so well about something we will all understand:

"I think so many folks are inclined to think that stories like this only lie within the fringes of society, or are the makings of Jerry Springer spots.  It's so easy to flip on the news or read the paper and see the stories as distant, removed - the problems of all those "other people."  There really aren't words for the day when you find that your own life is the leading story on the 11 o'clock news and the front page of the newspaper. I don't have any friends that are divorced, much less have spouses or family members, or even distant acquaintances who have been convicted of felony crimes.  My husband and I were active in our community and church, good-standing members of society.  I find that my friends, family, and colleagues don't even know what to say and most have opted to simply ignore that anything has even happened.  It's as if even the mere reference to my husband will taint them in some foul, repulsive way.  To this day, I'm still greeted by many with looks of pity or masked sympathy, when I know that the unspoken question from so many is "how could she not have known? how could she have married such a monster?  what kind of issues does she have to have been attracted to someone like that?" I don't kid myself into thinking that people really don't make those kind of judgments. 

"I confide in you on these points not so much because I'm dwelling on what other people think, but because I find that other than through professional counseling, there is virtually no support for women in our circumstances. I'm not trying to play victim when I say that - I take full responsibility for who I married and chose to have children with.  I don't expect society to come running to my rescue.  But I do think it's helpful to connect with each other and others in similar circumstances from time to time. . . It's just comforting in some ways to know that there are others who have experienced similar experiences and truly understand the pain and trauma of something so devastating."

When I first received an email from this woman, I asked her if she would like to share on this blog. She declined, saying that she wasn't ready to talk about her story, but in that second email was also the message above. I thought it was worth sharing. If anyone else out there wants to share a message, you don't have to give personal details of your life story because sometimes a sympathetic message to others in your situation is enough.

My Friend

Last time I blogged – you know, right after I googled the name of a new friend only to find out that he had recently gotten out of prison for killing a cyclist while driving drunk - I was freaking out a little. Let me update you about that freak out and about my friend, the ex-con.

I shouldn’t call him an ex-con. It’s accurate, but I think he deserves something kinder, something that reflects the fact that he paid the debt that society asked him to pay and he is rebuilding his life . . . As you can see, I’ve decided not to condemn him in my personal sphere.

Sure, I freaked out about his past. It hurt me that someone I already had accepted as a friend had such a dark history. It angered me that he had so recklessly taken the life of another person. And it scared me that he was likely an alcoholic because it brings this question to my mind: Do I gravitate toward addicts, like my husband? It seems that some women are drawn into abusive relationships over and over. Am I drawn to charming, manipulative, selfish men? It is a scary, scary thought that will keep me out of the dating realm for a long time . . . but I digress. [Note, this man was never a romantic interest to me]

It took me a few weeks to really process this new discovery a la google. I avoided him in the meantime. I let the news stories I had read online percolate in my head. His mug shot. The angry and mournful comments from the community that stretched out below each article. I was angry right along with them. But there was one comment that softened my thoughts:

I knew this man 20 years ago … what a terrible shock. . . . As a cyclist, I share the outrage of the community and am confused by his lenient sentence. As the old friend of a talented, but self-destructive artist, I can’t help but be saddened by all the wasted potential that this event represents – a tragedy in the true sense. My thoughts and prayers are with the victim’s friends and family – though I’ll save a few for my old friend, too.

I was relieved to see that someone else - someone who knew him once - believed in his value, even if he had disappointed them. It gave me leeway to start believing my own intuition about him. I went about my life without making an attempt to think about him, but in the background I knew my brain was merging the man I had befriended with the cold facts I had learned.

Something else was happening in my brain. More and more each day, I admitted to myself that I was having a problem separating my new friendship from the lingering pain created by my husband. These two men are very different. My husband has not yet served his time or done anything to repay society. I pray he will reach that point someday. I pray that he will exit the correctional system and find a place in the community where he can be useful, accepted, and even find healthy friendships and loving relationships – not from me, mind you, but I do want that for him. So if I want that for the man who has created such damage in my life . . . then I think it is okay to help someone else accomplish those same goals. Or, at the very least, not hinder him.

I finally  made two big decisions. First, I decided that I didn’t want to be the kind of person that couldn’t forgive, especially when the offense didn’t involve me. From the legal perspective, my friend had done his time and even been released early for good behavior. Second, I decided that I would never haunt a friend of mine with their past. I won’t confront him about it or question his personal penance. After all, I don’t want my own past haunting me.

The decision I hadn’t made was whether or not I was going to continue a friendship with him. It was easy to avoid him, so I gave myself permission to take as long as I wanted with it.

One morning I was sitting at Starbucks, typing away at my email. At a table very close to me sat two women. They were trendy, polished ladies, each staring at their smart phones even while they talked to each other. I was trying to tune their voices out while I worked, but little bits would slip through. One of them was talking about a high school friend that she had reconnected with over facebook. I tuned her out for a moment until she said, “He’s been in prison for the last fifteen years!” That’s when I very actively started listening. She sounded offended at his past, of which all she seemed to know about was his incarceration, but not the reason for it.

Her friend sympathetically replied, “You unfriended him, right?”

“Oh yeah,” she said.

That burned me to the core. Neither of them had stopped to contemplate what his crime was or whether he had changed his ways. Neither of them thought about what he was trying to do with his life now or what kind of grace they could offer him. I felt so strongly offended by their quick condemnation that I almost told them what cold bitches I thought they were. Instead, I packed up my stuff and paid my friend a visit. e’sHhhHhhh

That visit was a delight. In his office, where we were chatting, I suddenly was very aware of all the clips of articles, poetry, and handwritten notes he had pinned to his wall. They had to do with faith, resilience, following one’s passion, being optimistic, and seeking peace. He’s in the business of helping people, so I had always thought those clippings were there to motivate others, but now I hope it reflects his own journey, as well. He was happy to see me and I was happy to see him. We talked away for an hour. It was nice. I was sure then that I can be his friend.

One last thing . . .

Yesterday, I was at Walmart in the auto garage to get a tire fixed and my overdue oil change done. The rough-looking men who work there usually make me feel like I need to keep a wide birth. When I act that way, they respond in kind. This time, though, I felt like I should treat each of them like a member of my family - dad, son, brother. We chatted and joked and laughed. As I left, the men all gave me a cheerful goodbye, just like I was a friend who always visits. I can’t help but feel like this new ability to befriend unknown - and somewhat threatening looking - people stemmed from the whole dilemma above. I think maybe all the crap I’ve gone through and all the damage I’ve suffered might actually make me a better person! Go figure.

A Happy Father's Day (except for . . . )

One would think that Father's Day would be a bummer around our household. I certainly thought it would. The week before, the daycare teacher told me that they were making something special for Father's Day and asked who Elise should make her gift for. I instructed her to make it for Grandpa (Jake's dad). I asked the teacher if that would be weird, but she said, "A lot of other kids don't have dads either." The idea that my kids aren't alone in their fatherless state is sadly comforting, but it still haunted me the rest of the week.

Understandably, Elise talked a lot about Daddy all week. She asked me again and again where he was and when he would come back. I used to tell her that he was on a trip or working. A while back she had commented on how long his "trip" had been, so I decided it was time to let the truth start creeping in. I told her that Daddy had gotten in trouble. I told her that he had made bad choices and because of those choices he couldn't come home. She parroted back something like, "Being in trouble means you can't come home . . ." I didn't want her to think that she would be banned from our home when she got in trouble next time, so I tried to clarify that it was only the kind of trouble that grown-ups can get into. She didn't care, she just wanted to know when he'd come home again. I told her that he was the only one who could make that happen by making good choices. She seemed to accept that and stopped worrying about it. I just wish I knew what she was thinking.

Anyhow, the week before Father's Day, Elise made up all sorts of sweet stories involving Daddy. She would tell me almost every day about things she did with her Daddy and absolutely none of them were true. But they were all happy stories, like how Daddy gave her a pet frog. I let her indulge in the stories because it made her happy, although I secretly worry that someday she'll think those are real memories and hold it against me for taking her away from such an awesome dad. If only she did have a dad that good.

Well, the weekend came. One of Jake's sisters brought her family to visit and we planned a big dinner on Sunday. I expected Jake's parents to be real downers because we just haven't gotten along well lately, but they really were fantastic. They came over to my house Friday evening just to help me inflate a kiddie pool. They didn't have a "shopping list" from Jake or any other motive to come over other than to help me - I almost cried with happiness! They even kept mention of Jake down to minimum all weekend, although they just had to brag about how great his wood carvings are. And on Father's Day there was just happiness among all the family.

It was a really good time and I am very thankful. It felt so good, in fact, that it made me think twice about keeping my divorce plans a secret from his family. I don't want to alienate them with this horrible surprise. I started thinking that I was probably being paranoid in thinking that Jake would ever try to hurt us. So that night I prayed that God would give me some reassuring dreams about this whole situation and set my mind at ease. Instead, I had really disturbing dreams in which I was living all alone in a very different life without my kids and without any purpose - depressing, but not scary. I started coming out of the dream, just enough to know that I was dreaming, but not quite awake. Then I heard a truly frightening sound that had me awake in an instant. It was the sound of someone walking through my house and into my bedroom. My eyes flew open and my heart was pounding in my throat. I stared at the foot of my bed a few long moments, trying to see who was standing there because I knew - I KNEW - that someone was there. Not having any better idea, I decided to turn on the light and face the intruder. No one was there. I was really scared the rest of that night. I was scared the next day, too. I don't have any weird notions that it was a foretelling of the future or even a sign from God, despite the prayer that led to it. It was just enough for me to have my subconscious reaffirm its fears.

So, the weekend as a whole was truly wonderful, except for that night. I will keep my plans to move as stealthily as possible toward this divorce. Simultaneously, I will try to indulge in the family love that really does exist here and hope that those ties are lasting.

Playing "Shower" - Part 2

At the same time I created my blog post about the "shower" game, I also posted this on Facebook:

"I think an older kid was trying to play an inappropriate game with my 3yo. I asked my daughter not to play that game anymore, but she seemed defensive. How do you explain this stuff to a little kid? She was hardly willing to tell me about the game, probably because she realizes I disapprove. How do I help her understand that I'm trying to help?"

I made it non-specific to place or people involved on purpose. I got several responses from my friends that are not part of our community.

The next morning, as I dropped off my kids at daycare, I went straight to the director to talk to her. A member of the daycare's board was also waiting for me. I was happily surprised thinking, "Wow, they're taking this seriously." But no, she was just there to explain to me how my facebook post could have damaged the daycare's reputation and endangered the children involved. Ugh.

I was horribly offended, of course. They seemed more concerned by my facebook post than the possibility that children were engaging in sex play. We argued a while over the facebook crap. She said that I signed an agreement with the daycare that I would take all problems to the director first. I told her my facebook post wasn't about the daycare, it was about me trying to talk to my child. "Do I have to ask the director's permission every time I post a parenting concern on facebook?"

"Of course not!" she said. But then she continued to compare what I did to a hospital employee breaking the HIPPA (sp?) privacy act. The more I think about, the more that pisses me off because I am NOT their employee and I broke no code of privacy! Grrrr.

She also explained that the comments following the post jumped to conclusions, which could make parents start to think that there is a real predator at our daycare. I'll let you all read the comments below and see if any are inappropriately scary (because I think they are dead-on appropriate).

In the end, I did apologize simply because we live in a small community, so any local parents reading my post could reasonably guess where this incident occurred.

And then we were finally able to steer the conversation back to how the daycare will handle this issue. Let me say that I really like the director and I do trust that she will work to prevent any sex play. The board member is also a woman I generally like, but I hope the director ignores her assertions that "It was probably all just innocent!" Well, it might be innocent, but it could easily start sliding toward the dangerous.

I had the bitter taste of politics in my mouth the rest of the day.

The following are the comments following my post:

From an old high school friend and mother of 2: " that's a tough one. at 3, not sure if I had to have a talk with K-, but we did have the "it's your body" talk and "no one can touch you" type things. but we've been lucky"

From me: "We've talked a lot about body parts and how we don't let others touch us. This game involved pretending to take a shower, including pretending to undress and wash, in a secluded area. When I told Elise that I didn't like that game because I don't want her taking her clothes off with other kids she said, "It was just pretend!" I told her that sometimes pretend stuff becomes real stuff. Then I suggested that we find her better friends to play with and she said, "Yeah, friends that don't want to take clothes off." I practically screamed HALLELUJAH!"

From a college friend and mom of an infant:" i swear that is one of my biggest nervous-ness-es (how's that for a word?) of parenthood.... figuring out the best way to address personal privacy, without going overboard. i would much rather have a girl that is ready to kick some a** for people getting too "friendly", than a girl who is in any kind of trouble and afraid to talk to me."

From a teacher and mother: "Evie, if they were acting secretive it can only be because the older child told them to keep it a secret. I'd be more worried about that child than how you handled it with Elise. It sounds like you handled that perfectly. If you can, you should share your concern with the other child's parents. Sometimes if a child initiates that kind of play with younger children (especially when they stress the secretive nature of the activity which indicates that they know that the activity is inappropriate) it can be an indicator that the child is working out some issues of their own. Many of the children that abuse younger kids have been abused themselves. You might stress to Elise that she needs to play where you can see her at all times. What a frightening incident!"

From a mother of grown children and wife of a teacher: "I agree with [above] and have the opinion that a three year old is too mentally and emotionally immature to plays out of sight unless she is with family or friends that you know extremely well and completely trust"

 From another mother of 2: "sounds like you did the right thing. and making it about talking instead of getting in trouble is ALWAYS the way to go." 

Finally, from me: "When I wrote this post, I intentionally left out details about the location and children involved. It was not my intention to scare any local parents. I was only trying to get some ideas on how to talk to my daughter about the situation. I want it to be clear that the organization in charge of the place where this occurred is taking the appropriate steps with care and concern for everyone involved. My family will happily frequent this location in the future because of how well they are handling it."

Ugh.   



  

Playing "Shower"

My kids go to a great daycare. I feel very comfortable with the teaching style of the teachers. I'm even more happy with the very open layout of the facility. If there is a door, there is a big window in it. There are multiple teachers in the facility, constantly rotating classrooms, and there are parents coming and going at all times. The visibility helps set my mind at ease that there will be no funny business. Basically, I don't have to worry about sexual abuse.

However, when I picked up my kids today, I noticed two older girls, around 7 years old, coming out of a bathroom stall together whispering. I let the daycare worker know before I left.

At home, I asked Elise if she ever played with Casey, one of the girls I saw. She said yes and I proceeded to gently ask her what kind of things they did together. The more detail I asked for, the less Elise seemed willing to tell me. Finally, I asked her where they played and one of the places she listed was the "shower". I don't recall seeing a shower in the stall, so I asked her where the shower was and she said it was with the bathrooms. I asked her what they did in there and she said they took off their clothes to wash themselves. She quickly followed that with, "It's just pretend, Mom!"

I hugged her and asked her not to play in the shower with Casey anymore.

I feel rather sick about this. I'm not sure what to do. I guess I'm going to explain this to the daycare staff. At the least, I don't want Elise playing with Casey any more. I'm leaning toward asking them to have a talk with Casey about the inappropriateness of her play. I'm more than a little concerned why Casey came up with this game . . . What do you all think?

Sick Family, Sick Dog

After that phone call with Jake, I didn't talk to him for more than a week and intended that to last longer. Life went on. He called me a few times and I let it go to voicemail. I realized that I could request a "no contact" situation again, but I kinda liked that he knew that I was ignoring him. Immature? Sure, but I think I deserve to be the one in control for a while - visibly in control. Jake's parents came over a few times for supper. They brought the food. I never asked who cooked the food and they never said, but I'm sure we all know. If I didn't really need a break from cooking I would have complained.

Everything was going pretty well until Sabrina got sick. I took a day off work. Then I got sick and spent the whole weekend on the sofa plus took another day off work. Then Elise got sick and I took three days off work. Altogether I worked 25 hours in two weeks. Paying the bills is going to be tight this month

In the midst of all our own sickness, I noticed that our dog, Barkey, was not looking so good. I took him to the vet only to find out that he was suffering from complications due to cancer. The vet said there was really no treatment that would improve his situation and it was already quite advanced, so he recommended euthanasia. It was a tough week, trying to plan our dog's last moments. I had it planned so that I would take Barkey over to my in-law's house while the kids were at daycare so that Jake and I could both be with Barkey as he died. I truly believe that it's a blessing to be with someone as they die, so it was important to me to be there with Barkey. Unfortunately, that was the day Elise vomited at daycare, so I had to stay home with her. I gave Barkey a big hug and watched him ride off, never to come home again.

I let down my guard during the whole Barkey situation and talked to Jake in person a few times. We both cried and sobbed while making arrangements. He made a motion to hug me, but I snapped, "I don't want to hug you!" He really started crying then. I felt like a monster.

On Friday, I received a letter from Jake. It mostly reminisced about Barkey. He had added a drawing of a punch-tin design to replace a missing window in our china hutch. The design featured a pair of love birds. My letter back to him started with "I don't want love birds in the hutch. Do you understand how mad I am at you? There may be no coming back from this. "  I didn't rant much more in the letter - not that I didn't want to, but I didn't have the energy.

I decided to throw an odd request into the letter. I asked him to give the names of all his victims to the court. He'll think it's a crazy idea and refuse to do it, I'm sure. I just explained that I couldn't support him or have any kind of relationship with him as long as I know that there are other victims out there who have yet to press charges. If he could sacrifice his future by giving up those names I know I would sleep better at night for the sake of those victims, but also because I would finally know that Jake CAN do the right thing instead of the selfish thing. But since I doubt that he'll ever do that . . .

I'm starting to plan my move. I wanted to move to the city my parents live in, but the housing costs are ridiculous. So now I'm researching the city that my brother lives in, just two hours' drive from my parents. I'm excited to live near my own family and be in a place where no one knows my husband. But I'm already mourning this house and this community and the lifestyle we live here.

Who's paying for all of this?

Welcome to the end of another long week. Yet again, I am playing catch-up with laundry, dirty dishes, and a long "to do" list. On the bright side, one of my big chores today is to put together all of Jake's bills, statements, checkbooks, and whatever else he needs so that he can take care of them by himself (imagine that). I feel like I'm shedding old skin as I create the pile to send to him. The only problem is I don't know how I will get it to him. The last time he was living with his parents it was strongly recommended that I not use my in-laws as messengers. I could drop it off with his PO, but I didn't really like the results of that last time . . . So I think I'll mail it, which is so weird because they live just two miles away (in the country where there is only one house every mile, that isn't very far!). The post office is going to think I'm crazy.

I've had to explain the new situation with several friends and family recently, so I think maybe I need to explain it here. Jake is out on bail for the current case against him (sexual assault against a minor). Last year's case (attempted sexual assault against a minor) ended with a sentence of 90 days in jail OR one year work release, either option being followed by ten years of sexual offender probation. He chose work release because it allows him to be out of jail twelve hours each day to earn an income. When he was arrested on the new charges, he was only a few months into his first sentence. Obviously, to be jailed for new charges meant that he couldn't exercise the work release option, so it reverted to a regular jail sentence. His first jail sentence is therefore served and all that is left is the ten years of probation. If you followed all that, you get a gold star!

His bail terms now are identical to his probation terms with the added security of an electric ankle monitor. Probation for a sex offender is much more intense than for any regular convict. I would even consider the probation to be more of a punishment than the jail-time. He is not allowed any contact with minors. He has VERY limited places he is allowed to go, approved by his PO and TP, and supposedly monitored by the anklet. I believe he has to call the local sheriff every time he arrives at a new location, too. He will attend treatment with a specially trained sex offender treatment provider (TP). He will have monthly "maintenance" polygraphs to make sure he is obeying the terms of his probation. He will also have one big "sex history" polygraph to set the foundation for his treatment and ensure that he hasn't done anything illegal. In preparation for the sex history polygraph he has to disclose all of his sexual activities (yes, I said ALL, legal and illegal from his entire life). That disclosure can be used in new investigations against him, which is likely how they found the accuser of the new charges.

Did I miss anything? The probation is pretty daunting, right? Well, eventually, a sex offender can work toward contact with his kids and other minor family members, if those people are receptive to it. And after a few years, with really good behavior, an offender can petition to be removed for the sex offender registry. So there is hope to someday lead a normal life. The problem is that the probation is very stringent for the sake of public safety and holds so much stigma that, in my mind at least, it adds more stress to the already injured psyche of the sex offender. More stress equals higher chances of offending. From what I can see, it's a lose-lose situation for the offender and our society. In fact, the legal system seems full of lose-lose situations. I don't know the answers, but I sure wish someone did.

Speaking of losing battles, the legal system is a financial trap for offenders and their families. After Jake's sentencing, when he was promptly jailed as part of his sentence, a bill arrived at his parents' house from the court. When I got a look at it, I was appalled. They sent Jake a bill for court, jail, and estimated probation costs that totaled more than $10,000 with a message at the bottom along the lines of "If you don't start making payments immediately, we will start adding fines." Um, they did realize that the man they were billing was in jail, right? That he wouldn't receive the bill? What a trap! So, of course, his dad started paying the bill. Then we found out that they don't actually supply anything for inmates beyond a set of clothes and food. Shoes, toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant, and anything else must be purchased by the inmate. How do they purchase these things? Their families put money in an account with atrocious processing fees or it goes on some mysterious bill that will likely be sent to their home with an absurd message like above.

I can't wait to see the bill for the electric ankle monitor!

While I'm on the topic of money, let me explain how bonds work. Jake's bail was set at $100,000. If someone wanted to pay bail, they could give the court the full amount as a sort of assurance that Jake would appear in court without fail. At the end of a trial (and someone can correct me if I'm over simplifying this), the full bail amount will be returned to whoever it came from. Most people can't afford to set bail, so that's where a bondsman comes in. To get Jake's bail, his grandma paid 10% of the bail amount to a bondsman. The bondsman then posted the full bail to the court and now the burden is on the bondsman to assure that Jake goes to court. At the end of the trial, the bondsman will get all his money back AND he will keep the 10% that grandma paid him as a fee for services. Except for the occasional hiring of bounty hunters for those people who do flee, the bondsman gig is pretty cush!

Anyhow, Jake finally did get out on bail yesterday. I have more to say about that, but all this explaining now has me burnt out. I'll try to write more tomorrow. Back to laundry!

Weekend Blogger

As the title suggests, I think I will now become a weekend blogger. Working a full week just does not allow for any extracurricular activities. In fact, I barely have time to cook supper and clean the kitchen each night before it's bedtime. I had the day off today (Good Friday) and I almost screamed when I opened the bedroom door this morning because the house was so disgusting. Toys, dirty clothes, and other clutter covered the living room floor. The dining table was piled with unopened mail from the week. And the few loads of clothes I had managed to wash during the week were still in the basket getting wrinkled. I feel like a whining wimp saying these things because I know there are moms that handle multiple jobs and still keep the house clean, but that's just me. So I spent all day cleaning and you can hardly tell - mostly because the kids "helped" with everything.

I've already decided that weekend blogging sucks because during the week I had so many things to blog about, but I've now forgotten half of them.

Ah yes, I wanted to tell you all that I have lingering guilt over my last post about my friend who returned to her unfaithful husband. She called me the next day and, as I saw her name appear on my phone, I was prepared to give her a piece of my mind. But the instant she greeted me and I heard the happiness in her voice, I lost all my nerve. This may be a huge risk that will end in disaster, but I can tell she really wants to give it a chance. Who am I to judge her? Her situation is different from mine. Her husband is not a sex addict or a child molester. I don't even know their situation well enough to know if he has cheated more than once. Maybe there is real hope for them. Maybe a few years from now he'll have tears in his eyes as he explains to his son that cheating on the one you love is the biggest mistake you could ever make. Maybe they'll have a long, beautiful marriage. One can only hope, right?

I, however, will only have weird relationships for the rest of my days - either with a man who is sexually disturbed and can't ever be a part of my life as a normal spouse again due to restrictions of the law, or with someone else who will have to help raise the children of that sexually disturbed man, which will definitely be awkward. (By the way, one of my great character flaws is that I try to think too far ahead.)

I don't know if I've ever mentioned before that I write a column. It's very local, small time. It's a funny thing to be a columnist because I'm never surprised when complete strangers know who I am. For instance, my new office mate knew me from my column before we worked together. In my column, I recently revealed that my husband is not in the picture any more. For a full year, I had carefully concealed it, but it was getting too hard. Besides, most people had connected the front-page articles with Jake's mugshot to the columnist in the middle of the paper anyhow, so I figured I wasn't really going to reveal anything shocking . . . But in the last few weeks I have been amazed at the number of people who have NOT connected me to Jake. They must just flip to the columns without really reading the front page. Or maybe they don't think too much about two people having the same last name. Well, anyhow, my office-mate Sandra (who is very cool) is one of those people who haven't made the connection. I realized this one day when I stuck my foot in my mouth. A customer walking through our office heard my name and stopped to say, "Aren't you . . ." She looked so serious that I thought she was going to connect me with Jake, but then she smiled and continued, "the one who writes that column?"

Like an idiot, I replied, "Yes! I'm glad that's where you know me from!" She gave me a questioning look and I quickly said, "Oh, just joking." She nodded and waved good-bye, but my coworker continued to look at me strangely for a few more moments.

You know, I've skated along the last year and few months without a lot of social damage from this whole affair. Outside of his job, Jake wasn't very involved in our community and people hardly saw us together. That turned out to be a blessing for me because people who just know my face and my first name don't usually make the connection. For those that did make the connection, they've been completely charitable in their consideration of me as a person independent of my husband's wrongs. I grew quite comfortable with this situation and thought that I had grown past the fear of his crimes hurting my reputation. But now I'm feeling the fear because in two weeks he'll appear for a court hearing and, like clockwork, our local paper will print an update of his case on the front page with his mugshot and our last name in bold capital letters. Will everyone at work suddenly realize who I'm married to? Will they whisper behind my back? Will they treat me like a leper? I wonder if I should forewarn my boss. Would that help at all or just guarantee awkwardness?

One more story: I was at a thrift store yesterday and was juggling Sabrina alongside several shirts on hangers as I headed toward the fitting room. A woman noticed me struggling and offered to hold Sabrina while I tried on clothes. I said no thank you. She replied, "You can trust me, I'm a social worker." I repeated my answered as I tried not to make a face at her. You see, having a sex offender as a husband invites Social Services into your life, and not in a good way. I would have loved to tell her that her title only lowers my trust for her, but I didn't (because I'm nice). But really, isn't that a stupid thing to say. You know who else says, "You can trust me . . . " KIDNAPPERS!

. . . and sex offenders . . . and cheating husbands . . . 

Oh wait, I've got one more thing and then I'm done for the next week. Jake called today. Until today he hasn't called unless I've invited him to, which I've only done once. I answered, thinking it might be an emergency or something. He just wanted to talk. I did my best at giving him the I'm-not-that-interested-in talking-to-you attitude, but it's not like I hung up or anything. It just left me wondering about my boundaries. Obviously, they aren't very strong. The biggest problem is that I want to talk to him. I want to have him in my life. I struggle with the idea that this man I love to talk to is also the person who has hurt me the most. I know that I can't trust him, but I don't feel it in my heart. Damn it, just answering that phone made me feel like an idiotic. I think I'll have to tell him in my next letter that I'm not ready for phone calls. I may convince myself some days that I'm not a mess, but I really really am.

Now, let's all go celebrate the season of rebirth! Even in my un-Christianly spirituality, I love Easter and all it represents. I can't help it because it means hope. Hope that stems from nasty, dark death scenarios must be the best kind, right?

Getting a Job

I have a graduate degree in science and I'm a successful grant writer and columnist. I'm tech-savvy, have great customer service skills, and make good first impressions (on future employers, at least). So aren't you dying to know what my cool new job I got with my stunning resume? I'm a temporary, part-time, office assistant. I file. All. Day. Long.

I'm really happy to have this job - no joke! Back in my single days - before I had kids and before the economy tanked - I had never gone to a job interview and not been offered the job. No wait, a restaurant wouldn't hire me as a waitress one summer because I didn't have any waiting experience. But other than that, I've NEVER been turned down for a job after the interview. So why did I get turned down after three different job interviews before I got this current position? I have a few theories. First, I live in a small rural town. They don't have a lot of high-paying science or writing jobs for me to apply to, so I applied to everything and anything. Second, I'm over-qualified for every job I applied for, which employers don't seem to like. Third, I was competing with at least ten other over-qualified people for each job. My conclusion is that it's not me, it's the job market. Right now, the economy is down which has pushed good people out of jobs and pushing otherwise non-workers back into them out of financial desperation. Now everyone is competing for meager pickings.

It was difficult to apply for jobs that I didn't really want at wages that were dismally below what I need. But Jake really left me in a financial bind. I put off serious job-seeking for a year and scraped by on miraculous tax refunds and gifts of money from anonymous donors at church. Right at the beginning of the year, I decided to take a serious stab at building a writing career. I really threw myself into it and felt like I was starting to understand the writing world when Jake was arrested again. It took away all my confidence. At least when he was on probation there was a chance that he could help with the bills. But with him in jail, I'm the sole bread-winner and my "writing career" wasn't ready for that pressure. So I applied for every job under the sun and finally got one.

All last week, I filed my little heart out! I have multiple paper cuts on each finger. My children went to daycare full time, but they seem to be handling it well. I must have made a good impression while I was tucked away in the filing room that they've nicknamed "the dungeon" because they invited me to work more hours in the coming weeks. I get to set my own schedule, so I'm thinking of working four full days filing and one part day writing. Maybe I won't have to drop my writing dreams after all . . .

In case you're wondering if my spouse's ugly situation is the reason I didn't get some of those jobs, I don't think so. As far as I know, only one employer knew about my family history and I'm confidant they didn't hold it against me because they're my church. My supervisor and all my peers at this new job commute into our town every day and don't read our paper, so they are blissfully unaware. I'm sure they will figure it out in a few months, but by then I hope they know me well enough to only think less of him and not me. What a sad way to face the world, right?

Are you going to stay?

That is the question everyone seems to be asking me since the paper came out today with Jake's mugshot on the front. I saw the paper while I was at the bank asking for an application. Good timing. Would you like to hire me? Oh look, that's my husband!  I actually sat down, right there in the bank waiting room and read the story. I don't think anyone noticed me. Then I laid the paper down face first. I would have liked to throw it away, but it wasn't mine to toss.

But back to the topic. Am I leaving? I don't know. Everyone who cares about me is saying, "It's time to go." I heard this a lot last year and I kept saying, "Not yet. There's still a chance he'll get probation and be able to be a part of the family." And he got work release, which is almost the same thing, but it's gone again now. Now it's more likely that he'll go the prison for a very long time. So it seems I'm on my own.

Jake's own mother told me to just sell the house. That makes me so sad because it is my home. I love this house. I don't want to give it up, but I can't afford the mortgage without Jake's help. But actually, I can't even sell the house because it is in his name.

Even without the mortgage to worry about, we have massive credit card debt (spending was his other addiction). I'm in trouble and I can't see the light yet. The other day, I was obsessively going through my financial options and I figured that I would have to make $16 per hour to pay all the bills (and that was after I used my emergency money to pay down our highest credit card bill and then froze most of the other credit cards). We live in a rural area where most of the jobs that I can apply for would pay $9 maybe. Just to clarify for the sake of my pride, I have a graduate degree, but I would have to move to the jobs that would use it.

So I guess these are my options: stay and sink in the mire of debt or go somewhere else to stay afloat. It sounds like an easy choice, right? But what about the community I have come to love? What about my support system that I have here? Those won't move with me.

Despite my reluctance to move, I see the writing on the wall, so I've started to pack. Well, actually, I'm continuing the packing I started. I'll pack his stuff first and then mine. Hopefully, I'll be ready to go when the time comes.

Going to Church

I talk to God a lot. I'm attempting to raise my children so that they will have a sense of faith. At the very least, I want them to know (really, down-deep KNOW) that God is ever-present. I want them to have someone to go to when everything seems wrong in the world - like I had at the beginning of last year.

I go to church on a regular basis. I like going to church. It's kinda weird, actually, because I'm not technically Christian. I go to a Christian church and I go through the motions, but if you were to ask me if I have accepted Jesus Christ as my savior (as my pastor has done) I would very openly tell you that I haven't. I say it openly, but with a little hesitation because I know this paints me in a poor light for some. I am suddenly seen as a soul to save or a heathen. But I'm not going to church to make a mockery of the religion. I'm going out of respect. I dress nicely. I listen and contemplate. I participate. And I leave the door open in my heart and mind just in case Jesus comes by for a talk.

The part about dressing nicely may sound unimportant, but to me it has significance. I used to go to church in the same clothes I wore every day. Actually, I may have looked especially casual on Sundays because I believed that God didn't care what my clothes look like, so I might as well be comfy! I still believe that God doesn't care what I wear, but now I care about it.

You see, last year I spent so many stressful mornings preparing myself to look nice in front of a judge that "dressing-up" came to mean something awful to me. The last time I got ready for court my daughter told me I looked beautiful, but I looked in the mirror with only loathing. I reminded myself that I had to look nice out of respect for the judge. I found myself hating that I was using my special clothes for such an ugly occasion. But it's not like you used them for anything else, I thought. Then I was surprised by that thought. I really didn't use those nice clothes for anything else. Why not? What else would I use them for? Church. That's it, from now on I will dress nicely when I go to church. I will enjoy my nice clothes in a place of love and fellowship. 

It still may seem weird to you, but I enjoy it. And it turns out that I have LOTS of nice clothes. I'm surprised by it all and I think the people at church are, too.

But forget about clothes. I enjoy church and God. I think everyone should take more pleasure in both. I would happily give testimony that both of those, along with my loving family, kept me alive last year. I want my kids to have that kind of life raft.

And I want them to read Eat Pray Love. But that's for another post on another day.

Run-in

Yesterday, my mother and I went to Walmart. I'm recovering from a respiratory flu, so I got tired before the shopping was done. I took my girls, Elise and Sabrina, to the little arcade area where I could rest while Elise looked at all the big games. Elise found another little girl to play with who looked just a little younger than her. They were pretty cute, looking at all the arcade games and pushing buttons like something would happen without inserting money. The other little girl even asked Elise to hold her teddy bear while she explored a game.

The mother of that girl was sitting a few feet away from me. I would have guessed that she was my age. She was blonde and pretty.

She said, "You're Pruett's wife, right?"

I nodded. I was thrown off by the question. What a weird way to identify a person. I was about to ask how we knew each other when she said, "He was my teacher."

"Oh." That was all I could say. Then she got up and left.

She seemed so genuinely friendly. I couldn't decide if she knew about all the drama. Some people don't, you know? They don't read the paper and they run in different enough circles that they have completely missed everything. It messes with my sense of reality to the point that I've considered carrying the newspaper clipping of his sentencing around to show people like that. I know that sounds somewhat disturbed, which is why I don't do it.

After she left, I continued to sit there, thinking of things I could have said to her, like, "Did he ever hit on you? Did you know he was having inappropriate relations with students? Did he ever ask you to come over while I was out of town?" Or even just simply, "Was he a good teacher?"