whAt ShoUld i CalL hIm???

This is a candid post about what’s going on in my life right now.

It’s been interesting to me, since Father Luke moved to Portland, seeing how people react to him.

It’s not easy adjusting, introducing a man to your children, worrying about how they will receive him or how he will receive them. I was worried how the kids would deal with having him around. Originally, after he moved to Portland, we had decided we wouldn’t introduce them for a very long time. Months or a year. But eventually I couldn’t hold off introducing them. I knew they would hit it off, and they did. The kids know who their Dad is, and they love him. But they know they also have Father Luke, and that’s a different sort of love all together.

The children have never had a hard time calling him Father Luke. For the older ones it’s Father Luke. For the younger ones it’s more like Pah WOOK, or Fadder WOOK. Fadder WOOK come HERE!

It’s interesting introducing your boyfriend as Father Luke. Mostly, I just make the introduction and let him take it from there. There’s usually a remark… ‘So you’re a priest? What church are you with?’ Or people will ask me as an aside, ‘What should I call him?’ Usually I say, ‘Well, I call him Father Luke, but you can call him whatever you’d like. Or maybe you should ask him what he would like to be called.’

Then, as my mind is apt to do… it starts wandering. Why do people have such a hard time calling him Father Luke? Sometimes it’s even met with open hostility, there is a tone of accusation that comes along with the questions. But why should it be any different than calling someone by their name? Or a nickname? If someone has a preference for what they be called, is it really putting yourself out so much to just call that person what they would like to be called?

For those who want to know the whys, he is always very patient.

But anyways.

I call him Father Luke. There are a couple of nicknames I have… but those are usually saved for private.

Another issue I have faced, since separating from my husband, are those who assume that I left Chris for Father Luke, which I didn’t. My marriage was over a long time ago. Neither of us had been happy for years. But we have, on a couple of different occasions, been confronted by someone who wants me to understand this or this or this or my ex should or would or could feel this way because I left him for Father Luke, which apparently justifies all sorts of things. It’s a nifty excuse. But it just isn’t true.

I left Chris because our marriage was over.

Then there are those who assume that it can never work. Those who may have encountered Father Luke over the internet and cannot believe in any way shape or form that there is even a remote possibility that he could be good to me. But in reality, he treats me like a princess. He does dishes. He helps fold laundry. He takes the garbage out of the garbage can and takes the can to the curb. He fixes me chicken soup and banana muffins from scratch when I am sick. He not only tolerates, but loves my four screaming, whining, running, jumping, coughing, giggling, snotty, sweet little kids.

There is really something to be said for a man who not only tolerates, but really actively loves another man’s children.

That alone tells me that my Mom would have loved him.

And all the things he does for me every day are not even a consideration. He does them because it’s who he is. He does them without expecting anything in return. He does them because he is a good man.

And good men are very, very rare anymore.

Which isn’t to say we don’t have our share of struggles. But as the Bright Eyes song goes: ‘I’d rather be working for a paycheck then waiting to win the lottery…’

who is jeniffer wills?

a sample of what people search when they search for me. my favorite is ‘absolut cunt’ vodka.

Search
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jenifer wills blog
“absolut cunt” vodka
who is jeniffer wills?
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wonder what will happen to my name when the divorce is final and maybe i’m not jenifer.wills anymore.

I’m a Lucky Woman

There are a few (very few) good people in this world who love and care for me.

My sister, Michelle and my brothers Pat and Shawn.  My siblings are the best.  ever.

Father Luke.  Tireless.  Loyal. Patient. Irreplaceable.

Without them, I would not have survived the last two months.

In this world, there is nothing more important than love.

That is the only thing I know for sure.

I Hate Today.

Fucking Hell

It’s starts as soon as I open my eyes, because there’s no way I’ll ever beat them out of bed.  They’re staring at me, waiting for me to gain consciousness so they can begin with a barrage of needs.  First thing is cereal.  Or waffles.  Or bagel with cream cheese.  And after everyone has breakfast there will begin a new shift of needs.  Foremost, to go outside, which is okay but I’ll need to be out there too.  Who will do the breakfast dishes?  I’ll do those when I come back in.  But since I’ve left my husband, there’s a wealth of new work imperative to our survival.  I have a billion different papers to file.  The state has a wait list for people like me to be added to the ‘Parents as Scholars’ program. I have to dig up all this information, but access to a printer is nowhere to be found.  If I want to use one publicly, I’ll need to take five children with me.  Aside from that, to get pre-school scholarship so I can afford to have someone watch the kids, there is another set of papers and information to be found.  We’re far away from the city right now, I need to find a way to get back into the city.  That means I need child support.  More paperwork to file.  Another chorus of hunger pains begins.  It’s lunchtime already?  I haven’t gotten to the breakfast dishes.  Time to make lunch for five kids.  I step outside to watch the kids and there is a new problem with the neighborhood girls, who are some weird version of Springer Jr. out here.  One girl is yelling to the other that she thinks she’s ‘all that’ but she isn’t.  My daughter, Lola, who is three is watching all this wide eyed learning the wrong way to be a little girl and thinking it’s the right way.  This will have to be corrected, but right now Jack is covered from head to toe in mud about five feet away from me.  My kids are still recovering from lice.  Sometime today I have to find time to check for nits.  Aside from the kids there are other people, important to me, who need my assistance.  I try to find an hour to do that, and have screwed it up within fifteen minutes.  Sad thing is I don’t even know what I did, but somehow I’ve managed to offend them so badly they don’t want to speak to me again.  I’ve been dizzy all day.  I don’t know why.  And I’m tired as all hell.  I cannot remember when was the last time someone asked me if I need help with all this stuff I’m trying to get done or how I’m doing.  But I do know I’m falling shorter and shorter and shorter of making everyone happy.  It’s time to make dinner.  I sit down instead and decided to close my eyes for five minutes.  Two minutes in, someone needs juice.  Okay.  I’m up again.  Where’s the rest of the children?  The girls outside are about to fist fight again.  The kids want to know why their dad hasn’t called.  I don’t know.  I encourage them to call him.  He doesn’t answer.  They ask if they are going to see him this weekend.  I don’t know.  I need to go grocery shopping.  I’m almost out of everything.  Every thing.  Have you ever been grocery shopping with four children?  Jack’s fallen off his skateboard.  There is a monster sized bump on his head.  Why am I so dizzy?  It’s past dinner.  Oh my god when was the last time I changed the twins’ diapers?  I really need to potty train them.  They need jammies.  I put them on, but Lola doesn’t like hers.  She doesn’t want these pants.  My neck hurts.  My shoulders are sore.  I’ve heard that sometimes people have massages.  I want to lay down.  I want someone to love me.

Remembering My Mom

Last night I dreamed of my mom. Those of you who know me, know my mom passed about eleven years ago, when she was only fifty.

In the dream she was cooking a large dinner for what appeared to be a dinner party, or a holiday. As the dinner was being presented, the people being served were complaining about this or that. I grew concerned about whether or not she was okay and went into the kitchen to see if I could help.

There she was. My mom. Exactly as my mom should be. Her curly hair was a little disheveled, her beautiful, soft skin, her eyebrows so perfectly plucked. I said to her, ‘Don’t you just get a burning livid feeling in your stomach?’ She said, as if so happy someone understood, ‘Yes!’ And she moved to embrace me. And she embraced me and it felt so good. And I thought, of course I understand now Mom, I understand so many things I never did before I had four children. And she was my friend.

People ask me if it was hard to lose her at such a young age. She was fifty and I was twenty five. Yes, yes of course it was. It was terrible to lose her. It was terrible to get the telephone call from my sister telling me she had finally passed away. I said that stupid thing people always say, ‘Oh, but I just talked to her yesterday.’ You’d think, as a writer, I could come up with something better.

She was no longer suffering, but my suffering had just begun.

There are the things I miss now. I miss being able to call her on the telephone and just talk. I miss listening to her crank up the television at the beginning of every Blazers game when they were introducing the players as she clapped and cheered. I miss the softness of her hair. I miss her laugh and the way she would take the rings off my fingers when I would visit and slip them on her own, keeping them for herself. I miss that I cannot call someone and say, ‘Mom, when I was a kid did I do this or that?’ because one of my kids is doing this or that. I miss being able to ask for her advice, and the infuriating way she would always play devil’s advocate. I miss my mom. I miss the person I could always fall back on, could always trust. I miss the one person in the world who would never, no way, abandon me or give up on me. I miss the one person in the world who could always find the good in me.

Maybe those are selfish reasons for missing someone. But I’ve never gotten over the fact that she was taken too young. That someone else could have been taken in her place. That here was a woman who was entirely good and fiercely loving.

My mom was the glue to our family. She was the sun that the four of her children orbited.

I look at us all now, and we’re just sort of drifting, looking for someone to replace her.

The problem is, she is irreplaceable.