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Firstly, I just went in and edited my last post after being told it was confusing. I re-read it. You’re right. Now, maybe, it is better.
More importantly, however, as I continue my attempt to be your complete clearinghouse of all contemporary divorce literature with a liberal bent, I recommend an essay, Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off, by humorist Sandra Tsing Loh, in the current issue of The Atlantic.
Let me get you started, and then you’ll need to click over for yourself:
Sadly, and much to my horror, I am divorcing. This was a 20-year partnership. My husband is a good man, though he did travel 20 weeks a year for work. I am a 47-year-old woman whose commitment to monogamy, at the very end, came unglued. This turn of events was a surprise. I don’t generally even enjoy men; I had an entirely manageable life and planned to go to my grave taking with me, as I do most nights to my bed, a glass of merlot and a good book. Cataclysmically changed, I disclosed everything. We cried, we rent our hair, we bewailed the fate of our children. And yet at the end of the day—literally during a five o’clock counseling appointment, as the golden late-afternoon sunlight spilled over the wall of Balinese masks—when given the final choice by our longtime family therapist, who stands in as our shaman, mother, or priest, I realized … no. Heart-shattering as this moment was—a gravestone sunk down on two decades of history—I would not be able to replace the romantic memory of my fellow transgressor with the more suitable image of my husband, which is what it would take in modern-therapy terms to knit our family’s domestic construct back together. In women’s-magazine parlance, I did not have the strength to “work on” falling in love again in my marriage. And as Laura Kipnis railed in Against Love, and as everyone knows, Good relationships take work.
Which is not to say I’m against work. Indeed, what also came out that afternoon were the many tasks I—like so many other working/co-parenting/married mothers—have been doing for so many years and tearfully declared I would continue doing. I can pick up our girls from school every day; I can feed them dinner and kiss their noses and tell them stories; I can take them to their doctor and dentist appointments; I can earn my half—sometimes more—of the money; I can pay the bills; I can refinance the house at the best possible interest rate; I can drive my husband to the airport; in his absence, I can sort his mail; I can be home to let the plumber in on Thursday between nine and three, and I can wait for the cable guy; I can make dinner conversation with any family member; I can ask friendly questions about anybody’s day; I can administer hugs as needed to children, adults, dogs, cats; I can empty the litter box; I can stir wet food into dry.
Which is to say I can work at a career and child care and joint homeownership and even platonic male-female friendship. However, in this cluttered forest of my 40s, what I cannot authentically reconjure is the ancient dream of brides, even with the Oprah fluffery of weekly “date nights,” when gauzy candlelight obscures the messy house, child talk is nixed and silky lingerie donned, so the two of you can look into each other’s eyes and feel that “spark” again. Do you see? Given my staggering working mother’s to-do list, I cannot take on yet another arduous home- and self-improvement project, that of rekindling our romance. Sobered by this failure as a mother—which is to say, my failure as a wife—I’ve since begun a journey of reading, thinking, and listening to what’s going on in other 21st-century American families. And along the way, I’ve begun to wonder, what with all the abject and swallowed misery: Why do we still insist on marriage? Sure, it made sense to agrarian families before 1900, when to farm the land, one needed two spouses, grandparents, and a raft of children. But now that we have white-collar work and washing machines, and our life expectancy has shot from 47 to 77, isn’t the idea of lifelong marriage obsolete?
I’m tempted to give my mother-in-law the marriage certificate, my ring, and the dress – humble as it was – for inclusion in her remarkable display: “A Marriage Dissolved but Ongoing In This House.” These artifacts might find their only use in further illustrating our once entwined life, as portrayed in image after image hung or propped in house. There we are on the mantle in Maine, Alex leaning against me. On the wall by the dining room table, we’re captured in all of our tight nerves on our wedding day. The fridge has me after Bea’s birth, flushed with love, and another of Alex in the park with Bea the day before Thomas’ birth. In a plexi frame on the bureau in the guest room, we’re posed with our dog, who is now decrepit. Along the stairwell, we stand in a tux and long black gown at his sister’s wedding, more dressed up and posh than ever before or since. I was the tall blonde shiksa that day; what an unexpected delight.
We are everywhere – courting, engaged, married, expecting, with children. We are mid 20s. We are 30. We are approaching 40. We are a year ago. We are in Israel, France, California, Seattle, Maine, Iowa. We are very much WE, still “us.”
There is no image of us coming apart, though I looked for telltale signs, the photo that gave a hint of things to come. I couldn’t find it. Only sadness at seeing us reproduced so many times when now I want to stand in my own frame, with only my children as points of reference.
Northern Lights
I had a dream the other night – long and detailed. It concerned my oldest friend who no longer liked me and was also dying of cancer. Then a very ornate, newly opened hotel with a festivity in full swing. I ended up sitting next to the architect. He was kind – very kind. We were drawn to each other. All night, we kept finding each other, even though we were trying not to. Then, during dessert, I was seated next to him and a handsome – not pretty but very kind-faced – woman. His wife. It turned out that he’d sewn the dress she was wearing. It had exceptionally detailed embroidery on it. I was amazed; it was as beautiful as the building he’d designed, and I loved him even more for it. I was sad but was pleased to know how happy he was with this woman.
It was so hard to wake up – away from my kind architect, away from such beauty. Truly, I had to force myself awake after ten hours of sleep.
A friend in a difficult marriage described the other day the act of sitting in the late afternoon and sharing a cup of tea with a contractor who is working on her house and has become a friend. They shared news of their days. They talked about the president’s speech. About kids. About the weather. “It was such a good reminder,” said my friend, “of what a relationship is supposed to look like – and how much mine doesn’t.”
I remember years ago in Seattle when I was ending an especially dysfunctional relationship with a guy who was my polar opposite – bleach-dyed hair, heavily tattooed, skinny jeans and old Converse sneakers. A dear old friend with whom I’d had an on-again-off-again physical relationship came to visit me for a few days. We spent an afternoon at the beach, walking and talking. We went for pizza and then a movie – the Tom Stoppard one about Hamlet’s friends. When we got home near midnight, the Northern Lights were dancing over my house. We went upstairs, got in bed and curled together, reading and sharing snippets of sections that we liked. It was the best reminder I could have asked for as to why I needed to leave the tattooed boy. It was a beacon of what I truly wanted.
After a week or more of consciously working on my anger toward Alex. After reading and meeting and thinking about the f%$^&ed up debt between us – I mean literal debt – and how to proceed in a way that is perhaps not Fair but gets me, ultimately, what I want (the kids and the house). After what seemed like a very nice lunch with Alex, two days before his departure, during which we very calmly figured out the basics of the divorce and custody. After all that, I found he’s been lying to me about his involvement with our former babysitter, a 27-year old dancer. I know that I shouldn’t care, that his personal life is his now. But he’s lied to me so many times over the years, about everything from returning library books to credit card debt, that it really rankled. And I doubt there’s a 42-year old wife out there who is charmed by the thought that her recent partner is now between the sheet with a body that is 15 years younger. It’s just hard not to get Ego get in the way.
I have the day alone and am trying to figure out what to do with myself and how best to assuage my fuming.
This seems as apropos to the new year as it does to life after the end of a marriage:
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language and next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.”
p.s. New Year’s Resolution #1: Don’t watch any more movies with bad, predictable romantic plot lines that derail all of your plans to be strong in solitude. Shit. What a waste of Hilary Swank and Kathy Bates.
So, I went out last night with two wonderful women. (Echoes of the earlier-in-the-week conversation: “I’m less and less impressed by men. Especially when you know how many amazing women there are out there.”) They are both divorced. The one – who has an amazing Buddhist practice, just WOW was all I could think as she described it; I so crave something similar – was talking about how many people she knows right now going through separation/divorce. Indeed, there does seem to be an epidemic. “I watch them and see the pain and know how awful it is,” she said, “but I also know that once you get through it you are so strong, you come out glowing. You can do anything after you’ve been through that.”
The other woman, this lovely 50-something Pre-Rapheaellite scholar with three grown kids and a budding career, said that though kids were “scarred” by divorce, they could be just as hardy and curious, just as good and wise as those who haven’t gone through it. And we all have things that scar us. “If divorce, just the possibility of it, is in the air of a house, that’s as damaging – perhaps more so – than the thing itself.”
Looking out at this very grey rainy December 27th, as I cook soup and bake cakes for my mom’s birthday, I am suddenly looking forward to the new year. I have Reiki and therapy and a massage this week, which is a bit much but also feels like a way to ramp things up so I can run and fly into 2009.
I’d love to know what your hopes, fears, dreams are for this year. My biggest fear is around money and being able to keep the house. But the hopes are just starting to tip the scale of the fears.
Well, so much for my luck with Newsweek’s embedding tool. Here’s the link to the very sweet video essay (I’m mixed on whether those two words should really be allowed side by side) by a 14-year old Brooklynite who has grown up living equally in both parents’ homes, ten blocks apart. She says that though her parents probably had to pretend to like each other in the beginning, but today they are among each other’s best friends.
I continue to believe that divorce can and should be done differently, and that there’s a whole group of people out there who fly under the usual radar of acrimony and deceit, and who yearn for models of “good” divorces. As I wrote to Alex’s mother tonight, it appears to be possible for two people to continue to parent really well together, despite not being each other’s ideal partner.
I had a somewhat comical, bittersweet vision of this through the kids tonight when they were playing at the sand table during a therapy session. Bea pointed to her winged goddess and said she was the queen, and that Thomas’ “Scorpion” warrior was the king. “But they’re divorced,” said Thomas. “Oh, right,” said Bea, pausing for only a moment to come up with a solution: “They don’t get along any more, but they go drink tea and coffee together, because that’s what divorced people do.”
The “not get along” part pinged my heart, but the fact that she has parents who even in her pretend world can still sip caffeine together felt pretty good.
I took a wreath to my father’s grave this weekend. He’s been dead for two and a half years, but there are moments when I think, “Did I really have a father?” This is not to downplay him, for he was a huge part of my life, my first love – as one friend aptly put it. I admired him and am amazed and gratified by the number of people who still go out of their way in a movie line or the grocery store to come over and tell me how much they liked and respected him (one of the bonuses of living in the town where you grew up). And yet, he’s become a gauzy image, a mirage. He’s there and not at all there. The trick of memory.
Yesterday at the hardware store, I was way in back between pipes and door insulation when I had a flashback of Alex and me in a hardware store in Seattle, circa mid-90s, neither of us quite knowing what we needed, both of us figuring hardware out together – just as we figured out Christmas tree shopping and risotto making. We figured out a lot together. I started to well up with tears there in the piping aisle because I was suddenly taken by how long ago that was. How terribly long. And how I hardly remember that Alex, can hardly approach the girl I was then. It was all gauzy and vague. Something that had happened, maybe, in a dream.
Doing the elliptical machine at the gym and talking with a friend yesterday…
“I just keep talking to so many people who are unhappy in their marriages. Not sort of unhappy but deeply unhappy. I don’t think they even hear how unhappy they are, they’re so used to it. I’ve really been ruminating lately on why so many people stay in a marriage and others leave. I know there are a lot of people who would have stayed in my marriage, who would have thought, ‘It’s not so bad.’ or’…for the kids’ sake.’”
“Well, it’s the path of least resistance. It’s familiar. Not only is the person and the habits you have with him or her familiar, but the institution itself is familiar – we see it everywhere, in movies and books – it’s a known quantity, even in its unhappy version.”
“I think people are just scared of being alone. I am scared of being lonely but not of being alone. It’s figuring out how to do one without the other. But I wish some of these people, people who I really love, would hear themselves and get out of something that isn’t feeding their soul.”
“I guess what it really comes down to is what you think marriage is for. What is its purpose. I don’t mean this to sound glib, but is it to divvy up The Work of life? Is it to care for children? Is it about loyalty at all costs? Or, is it a way to reach enlightenment; can a relationships help us learn more about ourselves and the world? If it’s the latter–and I don’t think many people think this way–then when it’s no longer doing that — feeding the soul, as you say — then perhaps it’s time to move on.”
“I think a lot of people see that as discarding the partner or the marriage as though you’d discard a sweater. But it doesn’t need to be that way. Can’t we maturely look at each other and say, ‘I still have a lot of love for you, but this is no longer helping me on my path, and I don’t think it’s helping you on yours.’? Bottom line, that’s how I feel about Alex and I think he’d say the same.”
“We hear a lot about child development,” said my friend, who is a therapist and works mainly with kids, “But there’s not much about adult development, and yet we’re all developing, it doesn’t stop when you’re eighteen; so of course we’re going to develop at different stages and at different speeds, and it may sometimes – even often – be really hard to stay in a marriage that involves different stages of development.”
Amen. If only all the world’s problems could be figured out over a half hour talk on the elliptical.
I just returned from the Magic Kingdom where I was rather aware of my single parent status, as well as by how much more exhausting it is to do a trip without a spouse. I was with the kids 24/7. Along the way, I did a random survey of people’s hands. I’d say 99% of all adults at Disney are sporting wedding bands. I saw several Promise Keepers t-shirts and an “I’ll love my wife forever” tattoo, reminiscent of Other Guy’s; why people think clothing or ink will keep them faithful is beyond me.
Among the unbanded was our wonderfully red-headed waitress, Maureen, with her funky glasses and African frock. At 62, she has been in “food & beverage” her entire life and was about to go on her first vacation in nearly a decade. There was an impishly cute guy who could dance up and down ladders ala Donald O’Conner from MGM musicals. He looked like he’d be fun for a week or two and then lose his charm. There was a very sweet, 30-year old man named Motty from Botswana who was working at Disney for a year before going home to start his own safari company. He emailed me last night and told me that my husband had made “an unwise decision” and “would never meet a woman as interesting.” Part of the Magical act for the lonesome mama, or a nice guy? I think the latter.
The best guy at Disney, though, was Thomas, who kissed me about twenty times a day and called me Super Mama to anyone who would listen. One night while trying to fall asleep he whispered into the darkness: “Mama, did you have a happy life?” For a moment, I thought maybe I was dead and hearing voices, but after some back and forth, I figured out he was asking about my childhood.
“It was pretty good. I was mainly happy. But I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, so I was lonely a lot.”
He was quiet, then I felt his small hands hold my face and a very earnest voice say, “Oh, Mama, that makes me cry.” I touched his cheek, and, indeed, it was damp. Sweet, sweet boy. How I hope he’ll grow up with that tenderness intact.
I’ve already expressed to three people today – three of whom may even be reading this; HI women! – so I’m not sure what good it will do to say it once more – a hope for some sort of throwing it into the universe and letting it go, I guess. I’m just so angry with Alex for not having worked since May. He is doing a smidge of editing for someone, but basically hasn’t worked for six months. His excuse is that he’s leaving for Africa “any moment”, even though by now he should realize that this job just gets pushed back ad nauseum. He could be delivering pizzas, for pete’s sakes. He could have raked old people’s yards. Hell, he could have raked all of my yard! I’m not looking for big bucks from him on a short notice. But it’s a matter of self-respect. He has these two kids. What does it say to them? When we got together, we bought into the 50/50 plan of marriage and parenting, and he’s holding on strong to it. You pay half; I pay half. And he is paying around half, if paying from loans and credit cards counts. There’s something, though, simply in his actions that doesn’t feel 50/50. And knowing that he’ll have loans to repay that will limit his ability to pay for stuff for the kids. I get so angry. It recalls all of the anger I carried around for the last two years of the relationship. Yet expressing it to him does nothing. It doesn’t effect change, it only makes the climate between us unpleasant. So I try to stay calm, like an iced over lake. Calm and cool. And underneath: a volcano.
After reading the comments and emails about my sleepless, fretful night (thank you!), a word kept coming back to me: entropy. Not entirely sure of its meaning, I looked it up online (I’m embarrassed to admit that I don’t know the immediate whereabouts of my hard bound, real life dictionary; English major – who? me?). Here’s what I found: en·tro·py n 1. a measure of the disorder that exists in a system, 2. a measure of the energy in a system or process that is unavailable to do work.
There’s certainly a lot of disorder in my current system and, indeed, the fleas are just the material realization of the disorder that’s been building for years – a marriage unraveling like a sweater, patched here and there, but never completely mended. And I certainly have a very limited amount of energy to give to my overall system right now. What energy I do have is being used in its entirety to make PB&Js, vacuum up larvae, figure out a new online banking system, and call insurance companies to right the claims that went astray when I changed the kids and I to our own policy back in July. In other words, the Universe if finding multiple ways to use up my energy and there’s little left for reading a decent novel or working on my abs.
Commend yourself for what you do accomplish, one of you kindly offered, and so yesterday I did just that. Read the rest of this entry »
Last night, I drank a stiff cup of tea around 5:00 pm, thinking, “I have so much to do tonight.” Got the kids to sleep around 9:00, then came downstairs, and did I work on a writing project? Did I work on my bedroom or office, both of which badly need some attention? Did I pay bills or make a financial spreadsheet? Did I even read the novel that’s due tomorrow at the library?
No, I laid on the sofa and fretted. The fretting only grew worse as I realized that the cat, who was on my tummy, has fleas. “How will I cope with a parasite infestation on top of everything else?” I moaned. I worried about the friend who has been unfriendly toward me lately: What’s that about? I considered the house: Should we move? How will I pack and prepare it all on my own? What about the much-needed new roof? I ground my teeth while thinking about my mother’s health scare and worried on account of a friend of a friend with severe health problems.
Then I sunk down to the truly mundane: I felt out of whack that I’d already seen official holiday greetings up in two stores, and found it jarring that Amy Winehouse was singing about rehab over the loudspeaker of the grocery store. I don’t want to pick out egg noodles with an aura of heroin in the background. “What’s this world coming to?” I thought, then thought of my grandma, who always uses that phrase with a sigh of despair. She’s 90. Will she die soon, I worriedly wondered.
I got up and checked the dog’s
belly. Yup. Fleas, too. My shoulders dropped in despair. I went to bed and swore never to have late afternoon tea and good intentions again.
Back when it was still really hot out, I went to see a lawyer. One of my mom’s friends, a lawyer herself who is twice divorced, recommended this woman. “She is the best,” she said simply, adding that she’s won the best family law award for our state several times in a row. So I went. I was overwhelmed just going and felt nervous because I didn’t know what to ask. Like a kid at school, I felt I should be better prepared.
It turns out that she asked all the questions, writing everything down longhand on a legal pad. To many of my answers, especially regarding our lack of income or Alex’s plans to go to Africa, she nodded her head disparagingly, as though I told her that we subsist on garbage. “You have to get a job,” she intoned. The fact that I have about 5 freelance gigs at once clearly didn’t cut it with this woman. Given Alex’s poor earning powers in recent years, her mind was also rummaging through possibilities to locate a loop, find a time in his history when he was making more money and argue that that should be the bar from which we decide things. All I wanted was to understand what was going and what would happen in the months ahead as we proceeded with a divorce – something that can’t even occur when Alex is out of the country and thus is on perpetual hold. When I tried to ask, I got a very fast answer that floated well over my head and landed somewhere on the bookcase behind me. I might as well have asked my mechanic for a 30-second explanation of my exhaust system. Read the rest of this entry »
In honor of Blog Action Day on Poverty, a few statistics:
According to a study in the journal Pediatrics, 55% percent of children who live in single-parent, mother-only families are poor, compared with only 10% of children in two-parent families.
A Census Bureau demographer told the NY Times: Poor two-parent families were about twice as likely to break up as were two-parent families not in poverty.
And a Brookings Institute study found that women and children experience substantial financial declines upon divorce while divorced men’s relative income remains stable or even increases.
Given these somewhat bleak numbers — which I’m determined to prove wrong as I feel more financially responsible and driven out of marriage than I ever felt in it — it’s ever more important to support each other. Darkening days, literally and figuratively between winter and the economy, mean that anything we can do to lean on one another is good for our souls. As I go down the path of Experiments in Single Motherhood, I am thankful to the friends who prop me up. D brought me castor oil from Ireland – she said it would help my mood. C took me to hot yoga and M taught the kickass class. R has provided me a standing offer to watch my kids, which is worth tons in peace of mind. S has me over for Project Runway every week. H calls from the West Coast to see if I’m ok, and A listens from Indiana … and listens and listens. The women in my writing group read whatever I put in front of them. And my next door neighbor, J, comes over to fix things now and again.
“Leap and the net will appear,” said yesterday’s post. Indeed. The net is there in so many people and so many ways. We have to keep holding it up as a people, supporting one another AND electing people who will patch back the net that’s been destroyed. So vote. Take your friends leftovers and help them when they have painting projects. Watch each other’s kids and have parties for no reason. Give your friend a pedicure and accept a backrub from another one. Don’t forget: You are the net.
I’m learning slowly: Holding on hurts. Holding on makes me angry. “Let go and be free,” a friend told me in a dream a few years ago. I’m still figuring out what he meant.
Tonight, for the first time all summer, I was lying in the hammock that Alex put up for my birthday. It was dusk and Bea and Thomas were playing soccer. The white of Bea’s nightie and the light patches of the ball glowed as the sky came down. No more lightening bugs. Still a few diehard mosquitoes. The leaves on the big maple above, holding on to the last bit of green, spread above me.
“This is all I need,” I thought.
Then I spotted the little crabapple tree. Read the rest of this entry »
Let me start with an aside. I’m listening to old Joan Armatrading, specifically, this very moment, the song “Heaven”: “I want to be the sunshine when you’re down… I want to be the one you run to… Came into my life, made me think that I was really something…” Yadda Yadda. I’m melting. I’m crying. I really can’t listen to anything except maybe Sousa marches right now without feeling like a big old romantic abscess. Hold me. Touch me. Love me. Jesus, I might as well just start listening to Lionel Ritchie 24/7, with a little Bread thrown in when I really want to cry. (Bread – remember them?)
But what I’m sitting here thinking about –the part of my brain that is consumed by something other than the fantasy of a tall man showing up on my doorstep–is Bea’s Halloween costume. She wants to be Pippi Longstocking. I think this is a swell idea. Talk about a maverick! Pippi is the real deal. The strongest girl in the world, no less. It’s just the kind of moxie Bea needs right now. Read the rest of this entry »
I remember sitting with Alex on a windy day–a day so windy that it took down a major Interstate bridge in Seattle –as we watched the 1992 election results on our tiny black and white TV. Neighbors from our building joined us as the day moved toward night. None of us could believe it. We were drunk on surprise.
We’d all grown up with Reagan and then spooky Bush the Elder. Some of my earliest memories were of Watergate. I was the only kid in my first grade class who voted for McGovern. With the exception of the four-year blink known as Jimmy Carter, none of us had known a Democratic president. So all day, the wind howling, the electricity flickering, and lots of weather announcements trailing along the bottom of the TV screen, we watched the results coming in from across the country. It was pre-Internet. Pre-24-hour cable. Pre-red and blue. It was just the numbers and the three anchors. At the end of the day, Bill Clinton trumped it all, and our neighbor uncovered a bottle of champagne from his vegetable crisper. Ebullience never tasted so good.
Like our marriage, a lot has happened since then, much of it disheartening. But I’m finding it relieving to know that even as we grow impatient with each other over the minutiae of divorce, Alex sends me stuff like Sarah Silverman’s Schlep campaign. Or that when his absentee ballot showed up at the house the other day and the Dems called to make sure it was there, I a) put it in a safe place, and b) called to tell Alex about it. “Fill it out! Fill it out!” I cheered encouragingly into his cell phone. It was practically like being in love again – resolutely together.
In other words, through thick and thin, sickness and health, we’re still in the same camp. I’m not sure what we’ll talk about after the campaign. At the moment, McCain’s shenanigans and Palin’s every word are the backbone of our small talk–if you can call it small talk when two people are nearly shouting their disgruntlement and registering loud guffaws at the absurdity of it all.
Bottom line, I’d remarry Alex all over again rather than have Sarah Palin as president. Really. I’m sure of that.
p.s. If you’re lurking out there, leave a comment. A little camaraderie would be nice! 
me: I feel all of this anger since this recent financial f*%! up by the Outgoing Husband. Since I found out about it, I’ve been all clenched and angry. I don’t want to feel like this – I haven’t felt this way lately. In fact, I thought I was letting go of feeling like this.
therapist: Where do you feel it? What does it look like?
me: In my jaw. It’s tight, like metal. It reminds me of some combination of my dad [he was a class jaw grinder] and William F. Buckley.
therapist: What’s its job – this metal jaw?
me: To protect me and help me do “the right thing”, especially with regard to money. It’s directly in opposition to Alex’s laissez faire attitude about finances. He’s Jerry Garcia and I’m William F. Buckley. I don’t want to be William F. Buckley, but I don’t see much choice; someone has to keep us from going down the dark hole of utter indebtedness.
therapist: So the iron jaw has a worthy role, but what’s the drawback? Why don’t you like it? Read the rest of this entry »
