Papers

So... the divorce papers came in last week.

Or maybe the week before. I'm not sure. I've lost track of time.

Whichever it is, they are here, and we are divorced.

Except for signing some certificate online. Which I can't seem to find. It's funny. I'm not a stupid person. But I follow the instructions, go to the place it says to go, and then it says "Fill Out NH DIv. FInal Certif. Form." And there is no such form on said page. I've looked.

And this is me. I'm not exactly unfamiliar with computers and the internet. What if I were a not-so-smart computer illiterate? If these little problems drive me insane, I imagine a lot of people must find this process a million times worse.

But yeah... I guess I can now officially consider myself divorced?

Weird.

Ch-ch--ch-changes...

This summer have been more relaxed than the rest of the year.

The reason? I'm letting go. I'm changing it up.

I let the boys take July off of karate. It sounds minor, but it is costly for 3 boys. Also, that's a lot of time that is usually spent at the dojo now spend here, at the house, making dinner, tidying up, and just talking to the boys about their day.

I stopped making the boys practice piano. Nate won't be taking piano in the fall - he's going to do the violin. Nick will be taking violin AND flute. Andy will still be doing piano - I still haven't worked out the details. But I haven't made him practice for weeks.  There's no fighting about it, no struggling to find time to do it.

Sometimes, when I'm having a particularly difficult day, I put on a TV show for us to watch during dinner. We watch an episode of Dr. Who, or part of a movie... once, an episode of Arrested Development. It seems so horrible, right? I mean, this goes against everything I've been taught, everything I believe. It's the HUGEST no-no. We're supposed to sit and talk and have healthy foods. Not eat grilled cheese while laughing about banana stands.  But somehow we aren't having a bad time. It seems to work.

Also, I don't cook dinners anymore. I used to make a THING every day. Steak or chicken, a vegetable... These days I'll cook a "dinner" a week. And then the rest of the time I'll make eggs, hot dogs, french toast. Or sandwiches, mac 'n cheese, a quick pasta. I cook broccoli in the microwave or put out carrot sticks. It's quicker. It's cheaper. We're good.

Sometimes, even though we're in a rush and have things we need to do, like sleep, we just stretch out on my bed and surf the net for Weird Al videos, or research Portal, or play silly computer games or look at old photos.

All this makes it sound like we just lounge about. But that's not true either. I used to see dinner as a line drawn in the day - after dinner, the day was done. Everything else had to be done beforehand. But twice I've given the boys dinner and then packed them in the car for errands. No place very exciting - once to CVS and once to Target. The reality is, I don't want the sitter to have to stay an extra hour just so I can pick up eggs and deodorant. Also, more time with boys. And who says we can't do these things? What is it that makes them so horrible?

It's OK. It can work. If I just relax about it and don't worry about it, life is going to be fine.

Who Am I... Really?

I think Divorce almost naturally leads to Identity crisis.

Maybe not so much divorce in and of itself, but in my case, it's being by myself with no kids. Weekends are rough. Week long vacations almost intolerable.

Because I don't remember what I used to do before, when it was just me. Back then I had a roommate, I was in my 20's. And now that I no longer have a husband, (or boyfriend) I no longer know what to do when I am with only myself. The friends I used to have are now also grown up, grown apart, moved away, and have their own partners and children.

Who am I?

I'm leaning toward re-inventing myself. And while that can be a very exciting prospect, it unfortunately leads me to some odd choices. Especially since I'm still a bit emotional and, at times, just plain sad.

The other day I hung out with my friend Betsy. Betsy lives up here, not too far away, but for some reason we only see each other once a year. This time I went to her house and brought stuff to make margaritas (not fancy ones. Cuervo and mix and ice.) It turns out I make strong margaritas. After two, I decided to join Betsy in smoking a cigarette.

I don't smoke. In college, I tried smoking when my friends did, and was the only one who did not pick up the habit. In fact, smoking made me feel ill. Which was good, because I was a singer. I still do sing, in the church choir. But the point is, I don't smoke. Never have. I spent years watching my friends try to quit, watching Steve try to quit, going through gums and patches and things...

But I did smoke with Betsy. I smoked a cigarette, and then I did it again. After two strong margaritas, though, so wait, because that's not so surprising.

A couple of days later, in the car, I found myself thinking about smoking. I thought that I could actually purchase my own pack of cigarettes and smoke them myself. At home. Alone. With just me. I thought about how this would make me feel, about how I could just do this thing, how there was nothing stopping me, how it was all so very possible. And I thought about how it would make me feel, what it would mean for the kind of person I could turn into...

I know. Pure craziness, right? I never once thought about how addicting smoking really is, or how horrible it would be for my lungs. I didn't think about cigarette butts or ash or the smoke clinging to my clothing and hair. I didn't think about how I can hardly afford shampoo these days, let along packs of cigarettes. I didn't think about the example it would be for my children. I didn't think of how it would affect them.

So... needless to say, I have not taken up smoking.

I have, however, given serious though to getting a tattoo. And also to chopping off my hair. These things are possible.

A Little Alone Time

18 months ago, I probably would have fallen at your feet if you had offered me a few hours without my kids.

I love my children. I love them more than my own self. I would walk to the ends of the earth for any of them. I just don't want to be around them every single moment of the day. Even when the boys were in school and I had no job (outside the home) it seemed that I kept myself busy with housework and volunteer work.

Life has changed significantly. Every other weekend (and one weeknight a week) the boys go off to Steve's house, and I am left alone in the house. I have no one to cook meals for, no one to put to bed, no one to dictate what goes on the television, and no one to try and describe a new Dr. Who Minecraft Mod while I'm busy braiding my hair and listening to music with adult lyrics.

Most of the time, when the boys are gone, I have the time scheduled. I have a meeting or a choir practice. The weekends I don't have the boys I clean the house and get to shop for groceries my myself. I teach myself how to use the rider-mower so that I can mow the meadow which used to be our lawn.

But sometimes, I find myself with nothing to do.

These are the moments I'm supposed to fill with leisure activities. Call up a friend! Read a book! Do the things I always said I wanted to but couldn't because kids were around. (For the record, most of these projects involve cleaning.)

A couple of weeks ago, Steve took the boys on vacation for an entire week.

No kids for an entire week.

This is a huge adjustment. Not just routine-wise, but because for the past ten years I have been defining who I was as a human being through my children. "Mother." I quit my job to stay home and be a "Mother." I stopped spending time with young single friends because I had a baby and I was a "Mother." The TV I watched, the music I listened to, even the clothing I wore changed - yes, because I was a bit older, but mostly because I was a parent. And let's not forget the fact that, after three boys, there are parts of my body that will simply never be the same.

So, who was I before that? Um... I dunno. I was a girl in my late 20s who liked to do the things that 20-somethings do. Now? Well... I don't know. I'm almost 40. I don't feel middle aged. I don't always make grown-up choices (I had three biscuits after dinner instead of one.) Who am I? Any given weekend I can't tell you what it is I even wish I were doing. What do I do for fun? Um...

I'm not going to lie. I can get rather down and depressed about it. I have my ways of dealing with it or distracting me from it, but they don't always come through.

So what did I do while the boys were on vacation?

The first night I was alone I took a bucket or warm water out to the deck and scrubbed away the green and yellow pollen buildup.  I got halfway through before I became so sad - this is what I was doing the night before a weekend? I cried. I cried so much I had to stop working and crawl upstairs into bed, where I remained for an entire day.

I have to be careful about the crying. It isn't always helpful - sometimes it is! But not always. Also, my eyes tend to puff up, and if I'm not careful I wake up with bags under my eyes. Most people might simply let this sort of thing pass, but I work with a very enthusiastic and well-meaning 25-year-old (born in '89) who is prone to being concerned about my well-being, and who is not beyond commenting on my appearance when I look less than my best.

I stayed in bed a whole day. Then the next day I got up and finished cleaning the porch. I did laundry. I cleared the clutter off the dining room table. I played piano a little bit. I wrote a little bit. I bugged people online a little bit. I managed to make it to the Library one day. I hung out with a friend and had some (Very) strong margaritas.

Still by the time they came home, I was more than ready to see them.

It will get better. Things will get easier, Eventually. I know this. In the meantime, though, these stretched with no boys hare hard.

Tuesday

Monday was long, right?

How could Tuesday top Monday? I mean, sure it's crazy and we've got a schedule that includes Karate, then Piano Lessons, and dinner in the car as I drive from one to the other.

Unless, of course, I get a text from the Babysitter saying "CALL ME ASAP!!!"

Given yesterday's fiasco with the baby and the phone, I would lean toward not freaking out. Until I read the next text.

"Gunther. Had a seizure. There's blood and I don't know what to do."

Gunther is a dog, people. A pet. A pet who, at 4am, decided to pee in the hallway despite being let out at 10:30pm, a good 2 hours later than usual. And at that moment I seriously wondered if it was time to consider putting him down. It's not like it was my 7-year-old child passing out.

But I rushed him to the vet.

And the vet looked at him and said "He seems fine." And the dog? He was acting fine. I knew he's actually had a seizure because Nate described it to me in great detail, and there was blood in his cone-of-shame, which was coming off tonight anyway. The blood was probably from biting his tongue while he was shaking.

The vet said sometimes dogs will have one seizure and then never have another. Or sometimes they start having them every few days, or every 30 minutes. We'll have to see. Unless we want the expensive bloodwork to start now. I opted to wait.

There was no karate. There was no piano. Instead we had our sandwiches at the table. I let the kids listen / watch  the beginning of Amadeus (after the suicide attempt) while they took a bath.

After the boys were in bed I realized that Andy had a concert tomorrow at 10am and that there was also an after school trip that the boys had to be at by 3pm, which was awkward and involved picking all three kids up early. (Because they don't let you pick up after 2:20. If you have to be someplace at 3:15, you need to get picked up an hour earlier. Even if it's down the street.)

Then I ate cheese and had a bowl of cereal.

Tomorrow will be better, right? It has to be.

Terrible Horrible No Good etc. Day

I had the worst day.

My kids say that all the time. "This is the worst day of my LIFE!" Usually this cry is in response to my taking away screen time. Or declaring that 3 hours is enough screen time. Or saying it's time to practice violin.

In any case, I laugh at the boy who says this because it's an over reaction.

I had the worst day.

Not the worst day of my life. But just, The Worst.

It involved an argument with Steve. In our driveway. In front of our children. Before work / school. So much fun, right? I don't often write about arguments with Steve, but you know, we are getting a divorce, and they do happen. I regret the fact that the argument took place, but not anything I said. Perhaps the timing. But not the substance. And I'm still angry.

The babysitter is ill and had to cancel for the 2nd day in a row. Actually, she asked me if we could play it by ear, but call me crazy, I'm not comfortable with that. I like to know who is going to pick up my child from school before I leave for work.

I showed up at work stressed and blotchy faced. My co-workers were in unusually high spirits. Not a good mesh.

Work was... work. I didn't bring my A game. At the end of the day my back had started hurting. I must have hurt something while working out, or those shoes I wore are not good for standing.

And there are other things. Stupid things. A guy I like basically let me know he wasn't interested. I was surprisingly let down for someone who didn't think she was all that interested. All this culminated in the realization that I simply liked the conversation because I've been lonely. Before Steve I had my friends. My friends are now far far away with their own families, and I find myself watching them all have mini-reunions through facebook photos and wondering how I'm no longer in touch. I don't even know how to make new friends.

Do I sound sorry enough for myself? What do you think? Could I whine a bit more? More of a nasal quality to the font?

By 9pm I was wiped. Exhausted. Sad. But oddly motivated to get back on my diet of healthy foods, to do yoga (for my back and flexibility) and to take life where I have it. It's like when the house gets messier and messier because you can't start the job of cleaning it, and then you finally snap. Only my life is the house. Which isn't to say that one of the things I'm motivated to do isn't fix up the house a bit. I'm all over it. I'm all over lots of things. I'm ready. Bring it.

Jenga and Ice Cream

I had a hard day at work, I told the boys.

Did you staple your fingers again? Andy asked.

My first week at work I actually stapled my fingers together. That happened. But not this week.

Nope, I said. It was just a hard day.

It was a good day at work, actually. I learned a lot of new things and was happy to learn them, but as things need to be completed by certain times the day wasn't very forgiving to my learning curve.

The first two weeks I went back to work, in January, I cried every single night. I was so tired, so overwhelmed. I felt incompetent at work. I felt out of control at home. The careful balance I'd created over the past 10 years of childcare and laundry, housework and homework, came crashing down like a Jenga tower with the wrong piece pulled from the bottom.

The thing about these block towers that come crashing down? They can always be rebuilt. Sure, the new tower won't be like the old tower. But maybe it'll be even better. Maybe you can build that extra part on the corner and expand the fortress walls... or rip the wallpaper down in the bathroom and pick a nice paint shade to brighten the place up a bit.

I keep having to remember that.

So, Thursday I had a hard day. It was crazy and frantic and I left wanting to do nothing but kick my shoes off and go to sleep. It was all I could think about when I picked the boys up from karate.

But then came the Ice Cream Social.

Every year the PTA has an Ice Cream Social at the school. Everyone is invited. The teachers and volunteers serve small bowls of ice cream and large bowls of toppings - gummy bears, sour patch kids, sprinkles, cherries, chocolate chips - they have chocolate syrup and whipped cream. Everything but nuts. No nuts.

Everyone goes to the Ice Cream Social. All students and their parents and their siblings and next year's kindergarteners and their families and siblings. The kids eat large bowls of sugar and go running around playing ball at the back of the gym or on the playground, and parents try to have conversation where they make themselves heard.

Last year we went to the Ice Cream Social, and it was not a good experience. Oh, I bet it was for the kids. I think the kids were fine. I think that they were too distracted by Ice Cream and Loud Craziness to notice anything was amiss. But for me, it was a defining factor in making the decision to proceed with divorce. Without going into too much detail, that night was the last straw. Now I don't usually make rash decisions, especially where my family and my children are concerned, so know there was plenty of thought that went into it before then. I'd weighed my options, I'd given thought to what I wanted, what I needed, what all the choices would mean.

And then came the Ice Cream Social.

Last straw. I heard the snap. I felt the pull of that Jenga piece and the wobble of the tower as it started to crash.

Thursday at karate the boys reminded me the Ice Cream Social was that night. And I'd promised them we'd go.

I was tired from working a new part of the job, overwhelmed with what I was going to do for dinner. Lonely. Missing my family, missing my friends. Making plans for the long weekend that didn't include cookouts and friends or trips to the beach, but laundry and vacuuming and putting screens in windows, and working number magic with finances to allow me to pay my bills, send the boys to summer camp, and buy a new car. I was in tears already with the lot of it.

And here comes the Ice Cream Social.

I cried.

I went.

I took the boys.

And it wasn't that bad. I mean, how can a bowl of 1 part ice cream 2 parts chocolate sauce 3 parts topping be bad? There's some good that comes out of that. And watching the boys scramble around for a few minutes in a large group of other boys? That's good, too. These are good moments.

And yes, I felt more out of place than ever, sitting there, trying to be a normal looking mom. Yes, I was tired from work and wanted to be home. And yes, I was and am still harboring resentment towards the school figureheads for certain interactions we've had this year. BEcause the principal wears those dresses and calls the children kiddos and smiles and nods at me while not outright saying anything but insinuating that my child might not be good enough. And also because for some reason I was seen as not good enough to work in this place.

But whatever.

Despite all of that, I survived. I ate my ice cream and then went home and went to sleep.

And the next day I woke up and the sun was shining. I worked out and make the boys breakfast (cereal) and got them to school and I was feeling pretty OK. Actually, I felt rather good and upbeat.

Because we move on. We pick up our Jenga blocks and we stack them again, one at a time. We go to build a different block tower, one with stronger walls and a better view and a hiding place for all the treasures we've collected.

It's Not a Comeback, It's a Return

OK, so I went away.

I went into hiding because I wished to live more secretly, to front only the essential stress of life, and see if I could not learn what life had to teach and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Or something. Thoreau said it better.

I took a break.

It was unintentional, at first, but after some thought I realized I actually still have a lot to say. I simply hadn't been saying any of it because it would LOOK BAD.

For a long time I've been writing this blog with some idea of how it would look from the outside. I didn't want to point fingers. I didn't want to hurt feelings. I didn't want to sound too depressed or too callous or too anything that might attract attention because then people would either ask questions or challenge me and I hate being challenged because that requires that I stand up for myself and stand behind my words. I am, quite often in fact, able to stand behind my words, but there are other times where I was just full of hot air caused by a condition called "Being A Passionate Human" and I have absolutely nothing to back me up and I have to admit I'm wrong. While I have no problem admitting I'm wrong, I really really hate confrontation and conflict.

For example, one time my FaceBook Friend Meg made some comment about the Red Sox and the Yankees. I don't usually comment willy nilly on FaceBook, and I especially try to stay away from anything to do with sports, but I made a comment on my friend's post which included the phrase "Yankees Suck." It was tongue in cheek, mostly, because as I said I don't follow sports and I also take exception to putting down another team on a regular basis as a way to cheer your team on.  (FYI - "Yankees Suck" is a phrase many red sox fans use to show their support for the Red Sox. I know, I don't get it either.

Anyway, my one little comment resulted in a huge tirade by some die-hard Yankees fan who cited many statistics in support of his view that the Yankees do NOT, in fact suck. And that the Red Sox might actually be the ones that suck. His comments were long and scathing, and when I tried explaining that I was kind of joking and that I didn't give a flying fig and finally that I didn't actually even understand the statistics he kept flinging out there, He refused to listen and kept ranting about how angry he was about people like me.

People like me.

Yeah.

So.

This happened probably two or three years ago and I still hesitate to comment on things beyond "Oh, your baby is so cute!" and "Happy Birthday!" and then I spend fifteen minutes debating over adding a line about having a piece of cake.

I hate confrontation.

You know what you can't have without confrontation?

A divorce.

So anyway, I've been thinking a lot. I've been thinking that this is one of the more interesting times in my life, and here I am, falling silent. What good does that do anyone?

I've been thinking that I don't really care about offending people anymore, or saying too much, or doing the wrong thing, because I'm not getting a second chance.

So I'm back. My posts may not be a lot more interesting. But I plan on giving this another go-round. I plan on being honest and putting it all out there and if people don't like it, they don't have to read it. It's not like this is the news or a newspaper.

It's ONLY the internet.

It's Electric

There have been many changes in my life over the past year. Some are obvious, blunt, and harsh. Others are softer, milder, and more subtle. Or simply waiting to be discovered.

Such as this little graph on my most recent bill from PSNH. Electricity. It's going down.

*By "going down" I was referring to how much I use. Not the cost. Which has not decreased as significantly as this graph might suggest. Which says to me it's all bunk and that the utility companies have us right where they want us. Unless we're willing to drop of the grid entirely. I could turn everything off except for emergencies and still end up paying $100 a month just for the possibility of turning on a lightbulb. Still, I am proud that we aren't using as much.

What's In Your Future?

I've been spending a lot of time thinking about this blog.


"Really?" you say. "Because you don't seem to spend an awful lot of time writing it any more!"

And you are right. I don't. I got distracted, and busy. I've started working - at a grown up job at a grown-up place. I can't write during the day, and when I come home I try to fit everything else in the world into the 2.5 hours I have with my kids - get them home from karate, feed them, make sure they do homework, practice piano or violin, bathe them, read to them, get them into bed.

After that I'm exhausted, but still I have a to-do list of issues I need to research, emails I need to return, things I need to do... It's backlogged because I make myself stop once it gets to be too close to 11pm so that I can sleep.

Only, depending on what I was just doing, sleep doesn't always come easily.

Time constraints aside, I'm not sure what to write about anymore. I don't want to write too much about work, because employers don't tend to like that sort of thing. I can't write about this divorce that I am consumed with because it involves another person who might not appreciate it and might take legal action. I'm speaking about my lawyer, although Steve might not like it either.

But I haven't given up. I'm still going to write. I'm still going to post when I can think of it, and when I have something to say. For the time being. Until the people viewing this blog trickles down to such a tiny little trickle and I don't feel like it any more.

So there.

That's my plan.

Birthday - Adult Version

It sounds racy, doesn't it?

It's not.

When you're a kid, you wait all year long for your birthday, and when it comes, when it finally, Finally gets there, it's all about you. Your age goes up. People sing to you. You get cards from elderly relatives, sometimes with cash. You get cake. You get a party. Maybe the party isn't even on your actual birthday, so you stretch the celebration over a number of days, like a large wedding, with overnight guests and a breakfast the next morning.

As you get older, you realize life doesn't stop for a birthday. Not even yours. You still have to go to school - oh, you might get to bring in treats to share, and that's special. But you still have to take the science test. You still have to go to gym.

As an adult, it's all turned around. You have to go to work and no one there cares that it's your birthday. There was a cake for it a week earlier, but no one knew it was for you because it was lumped in with all the other November birthdays. Maybe some co-workers are excited and take you out to lunch, or for drinks after. Maybe you even have a Margarita! That's special.

I wasn't looking forward to this birthday. As the only adult in the house, I was picturing a lot of what I usually do. You don't get to choose, when you're a mom. Kids need to get to violin at 7:30am. They still can't find their shoes. And even if you want eggs, they all want waffles. Cut up into little strips. Usually I could defer a lot of these requests to my spouse, who would also make some effort to recognize this special day.

Well, this was the first birthday since Steve moved out. 

I woke up to an empty house. Steve had the boys the night before. I knew he'd drop them off at 7:15 (remember, violin at 7:30, and I forgot to bring the violin when I dropped the boys off...) but I still had the morning to run. I played music while I make lunches (including a bag lunch for a field trip) and got school folders ready.

And then I hopped into the shower, thinking I'd have a couple of extra minutes to relax and soak. 

A few moments after seven, I head shouting. I had enough time to turn off the water and step onto the mat when the door burst open and in flew Andy, grinning, clutching a large gift bag. 

"Happy Birthday, Mom! You got presents!"

I stood on the bath mat, dripping wet, clutching a towel to my naked body.

"Thanks, Sweetie! I'm so happy! Can I have a minute to get dressed?"

It was a pretty good birthday, all things considered. I'll post later about what I got and the 3rd grade Veteran's Day concert. All you need to know for today is that all is wonderful.

What's In A Name?

The other day, in the car, one of the kids asked a question about a teenage friend of theirs.

"Why does he have one last name and his mom have another last name?"


I explained that their friend's mom gave her son her last name when he was born, but then when she got married, she changed her name so that she and her new husband had the same last name.

"Last names are funny things," I said. "Some people change their names when they get married and some people don't. And some people change their names back when they get a divorce."

I glanced in the rear-view to see what kind of reaction the boys would have to that.

There was a moment of silence while the concept sank in.

"Are you gonna change your name?"

Now, I already had the answer to this one in my back pocket, but I thought I'd feel it out. just in case.

"I don't know, what do you think?" I asked.

"But then we wouldn't have the same last name as you?"

"No. I would have my old last name and you would keep yours. What do you think?"

Well, it turned out there were three different schools of thought, and none of them were from who you'd expect. I'm not saying which kid had which reaction, but here they were.

One kid didn't care at all, either way.

One kid clung to me, as if changing my name would sever the bond between us.

One kid said he thought I should change my name back to my maiden name. And, to take it a step further, the boys should also change THEIR last names. It's a cool last name. Can we do that? Let's do that. And it was very important, and should be done as soon as possible. And why are you laughing, Mom?

I thought that changing my name when I got married would be a piece of cake. I would sign an official document, slip something in the mail, sprinkle it with fairy dust, and everything would be changed. I didn't picture standing in lines, paying change fees, spending the next eight years pointing to the stapled-in sheet on my passport (which I paid money for) which showed that I had changed my name just so they would let me on the plane / into the country. It was such a pain, in fact, that there are a couple of things I never changed at all. I still have a credit card in my maiden name. My AAA card, too. This would make things easier for me. If I were going to change it back.

But I don't think I am.

Long, long ago, when I had a job and co-workers, one of them explained how her mother chose her last name. She had been married three times, and had children with her second husband. When she divorced her second husband, she actually went and changed her last name... back to her second husband's last name. My friend explained that her mother had just wanted to have the same last name as her kids.

There are advantages to my maiden name. It's easier to spell. It's already written in a lot of my books. And I know plenty of mothers who do not have the same last name as their children. But still... I think I'll keep the one I have now. I can understand why that mother would want to have the same last name as her child. It's symbolic, sure. But it can mean a lot. And that one kid that clung to me? I want to stay as close to him as possible.

Schadenfreude

So, there is a lot of shame involved in getting a divorce.

There, I said it. I had to get it out there.

Maybe this isn't true for everyone. Maybe there are people out there who are secure enough, confident enough, self centered enough, to think all of the blame is on other people and that each decision they made was completely logical and 100% justified and correct. Maybe they are immune to blame. Maybe they don't even feel ashamed about anything.

I am not one of those people.

Because - and I'm going to speak in the 3rd person here because it is easier and also I'm generalizing - in many cases, when two people who love each other get married, there may be people - friends, family members, even acquaintances - who seem, well, less than thrilled with the chosen spouse. Maybe they have good reasons, but maybe they don't. In any case, the people getting married know it. It can't be hidden  from them, even if nothing is directly addressed. And for some reason - be it that they think the reasons are unjustified, or not important, or just plain surmountable - the couple get married anyway.

When the divorce happens, when you (switch to 2nd person) have to announce that you're getting a divorce, it's like a huge admission of failure. It's announcing to people who are close to you that you chose poorly, or that you failed in maintaining this relationship. In some cases it's a catch 22 - if you get a divorce too soon it's like you didn't try hard enough to save the marriage. But if you wait too long people wonder what you were thinking - get out!

In a lot of cases it might be letting people you know, people you've said "I'm fine, how are you?" to a few hundred times, know that you weren't fine. You were lying. You were pretending. You were doing what polite people do. And maybe the other person won't care, but it creates a sort of schism. Because now it's out on the open that you were being polite and insincere. And the other person either has to confront the fact that they were more invested in the interactions, or that they actually don't care about you enough to have it matter, which is awkward for them. So now it's just awkward.

What I fear most is people being mean about it. Not to my face, because most people are not cruel that way. I mean in their own minds. Human beings can be kind and compassionate. They can be generous and helpful. Most of the people I've spoken to have gone above and beyond to help me out. But humans also have that streak of nasty. We all do it. We all smirk when that celebrity gets arrested for DUI. And we all roll out eyes when That Person we know breaks up with his / her lover, again. It's horrible, just horrible, but it's not us. There's some thrill we get from gossip or misfortune that doesn't belong to us.

And we all have a need to be right, a need to have our beliefs justified. If you were against Obamacare, you were thrilled to hear the website was a mess. Because it makes you more right. It doesn't solve anything. And it doesn't really prove your point, but it might make you feel better.

Well, mixed in with all of this shame and disappointment I'm feeling, I think that, at least a few people, might be experiencing that slight feeling if I-was-right-ness. The told-ya-so instinct, you know? I have it. I've felt it. I have children. I experience this daily. Put on your jacket or you will be cold. If you play with sticks, someone will get hurt. Do your homework now or you'll have too much later. And when I turn out to be right I am frustrated, but there's always this zing of "Ha! I was right!"

It's such a petty thing to feel or think about. Most days I think I've put it behind me, but others I can't get it out of my head.

What Elephant?

I am getting a divorce.

I mentioned that here, on this blog. I didn't give any details, and probably won't, not the kind that you'd be looking for. But this event is central to my life right now, so there's no way I can avoid talking about it forever. So I will, in a round-about, non-specific way. The only issue I'm facing at this moment is where to start. I've put this off for so long that I now have quite a few observations to expound upon.

First of all, I feel as though I've been "getting a divorce" forever. Not counting all the heartache, inner deal-making, actual deal-making, the up-close picking apart and examination of certain emotions or thoughts, the outright dismissal of others..... not counting the months leading up to this actual decision, we have been in this process for over four months. I will save my tirade on "the system" for a later date. The end result is that I am caught somewhere in-between. I am still legally married. But I no longer live with my husband. Some people have known since June that our marriage was over, but others still do not, and each time I tell someone it's like picking the scab on a wound.

But it's healing. What I had often heard was that divorce can be a very liberating experience, and some women even declared it should be celebrated. Woohoo! Throw a party! While I find that to be inappropriate in this case, where young children are concerned, I have come to the point where I can see why people say it. There are still many things yet to be settled and determined. However, I am rediscovering myself in a new way. In many ways it sounds selfish, as though I just don't have to think about that other person anymore. But that isn't it.

See, I've always thought about myself within a certain context. I placed myself in a box, if you will. I climbed into it myself years ago when I got married, then got pregnant, then quit my job. We all have our little boxes we have created ourselves out of "can'ts" and "needs" and after awhile we forget that we chose our own limits...

Am I sounding like a bad self-help book? I'm sorry. I don't mean to.

What I'm getting at is that, when I was married, and even when we began this divorce process, I had the idea that there were so many things I couldn't do. Life was supposed to be hard and complicated and now, tragic. I was going to have to give up so many things, such as time spent with my kids. For some reason I feel much more confident in myself these days.

I promise tomorrow's post will be much less wishy-washy and more concrete.