Crocodile Tears

For now, the DIL family, complete with their litigious manuevering, is sliding neatly into the same psychic compartments with the Welfare Nulls and Lawsuit Lotto players on the estranged branch of my family tree. The diffs feel pretty trite in the chaos of this cyclone of greif and sorrow. Go Mr and/or Mrs Rightie Right. May your wisdom reap what it sows. All that be yours to sort. Healing hopes for all. No exceptions. I hope your bottom feeding lawyer loves you enough to be there for you after the money runs out. I will salute your legal mandates to the letter. Nay a letter more, nor less, with all DUE respect.

The crocodile tears I caught myself wearing yesterday are mine to sort. The psycho puppet show in my head is clamouring noisily that these are the fears and poisins which must be sorted to proceed with emotional integrity.

Giving up my dreams of a life of my own for a second parenting/housewoofer career isnae a small thing. I weathered the first parenting/housewoofer career with the potentials of reclaiming my wandering ways and science dreams here, now, in my silver years. The silly notion that the work-a-holic I call, "The Love of My Life" might join me seemed worth a shot, even after he grew his projected retirement hobby into an LLC before he actually retired from his first career. Co-parenting with a one-job work-a-holic was challenging enough. A two-job work-a-holic? ? ? Sometimes love isnae enough. Yea, he took a leave of absence to handle this crisis, but I amnae quite trusting he willnae convert to his executive remote control habits once the crisis is far enough settled to force him to face his own loss and heartache in this tragedy. I amnae quite trusting, but we have come a long way in our relationship since the first parenting go-round. Yes, his work-a-holic stripes remain even bigger than his charming social skills, but he's still studying and learning. There is hope and even empirical evidence. Who knows. . . Maybe one day he will even grow enough to let me tell my own stories. For now, I'm mostly okay with letting him tell my stories. I donae much trust people who believe second-hand stories, anyway. Hubs and I have long established protocols for my silent wandering away when I no longer recognize myself within his telling of my stories.

In the first parenting go-round, I was young enough to have a genuine shot at a life after motherhood, even with the young-at-heart trend of inflated "New 20's." In this go-round, I may commit unlicesened cosmetic surgery on some youthenizer's face off if *they* try to tell me that 70 is the new 20. Adopting 3 young children at age 65 with no support from the mid-generation is downright daunting. By the time the adoption procedure completes, I will probably bee 66 or 67. Has the lord worked greater miracles than getting a "New 20" welfare null out of bed to do what needs doing? I'm feeling the dream from long ago when the Cecil de Mille sky intoned, "Parting the Red Sea was child's play next to parting the bloody fields between estranged family members." Still, I wonder with tearful grief, which of my sons died first. I havenae found the courage to check with the nieces and nephews raised by my welfare null siblings. Ditto for the mind-boggling number of cousins on the other side of the parental estrangement divide. Blood is thicker than water and even harder to wash off after it has been allowed to coagulate for decades.

Sorting. . .

For now, last night ended with peaceful harmonies between the five of us and this morning's meditation is humming to contented sleep breathing. Stepping small, praying big and holding the love sacred.