If this is a story about redemption, I guess I should start with my kids.
There are four types of divorce. Amicable divorce, where the marriage does nothing more than fade into dusk like a sunset. Mutual, no flaming emotion - lack of emotion is the reason for the marriage dissolving in the first place. There's contentious divorce, where one party just can't let go, even after the other has packed her bags, walked out the door. The papers become a tether, the final break in a one-sided bond. There's volatile divorce, where there is so much hatred that even after it's over, the fighting never really stops. You've just stepped outside to do it. And then there's my divorce, so sick and twisted I can blog about it. Where both people swing between absolute detest and false hope of a better tomorrow. Where the marriage turns on itself, every intimate moment and personal detail is just another bullet in the chamber. The divorce papers are a vague, false threat, a sobering reality, a terrible implosion that sucked my whole world into a hateful void, in that order.
Add children to any of these, and the volatility multiplies exponentially. I know best. No matter who "I" am. And like my dad always said during his divorce and consequent custody battles, "He who has the kids has the power."
Since when is marriage and parenting about power?
As soon as you step into court.
I love my children, absolutely. Entirely, unequivocally. I have made more sacrifices and endured more pain than is humanly reasonable to those without children. But if you have kids, you understand.
Mommy, do "martyr" and "mother" rhyme?
We love our children because they are a part of us. We don't have children, we receive them. An ethereal gift from our own bodies.
So what happens when we lose ourselves? If our children are a part of us, a reflection, what happens when we can no longer stand ourselves?
Or worse, the other parent? The other part of the proverbial minor-dependent puzzle?
Which brings me to this:
My son said something all together too profound for 7am this morning. He didn't mean to; he's two and a half. But it hit me. Out of nowhere. A six car pileup on an otherwise sunny and uneventful morning.
"Mommy, I'm not Daddy. I'm _____."
This child is the spitting image of his father. He has his mannerisms, his temper, his name. Everything about him is shaped into his father's image. And he's difficult. Painfully difficult.
Moreso since I finally separated from his father.
He's not daddy. He's him. And I am supposed to love him, unconditionally. And I do. But I don't like him.
I know why he said it. He knows he's named for his father, his sister and neighborhood kids tell him this. He wants to assert himself. He needs to be separate. Is it just his name? Or does he sense I struggle to give him his own identity? Does he feel stuck in the crossfire, by something that he can't even control? His own birthright?
This is supposed to be simple. We don't love each other, we hate each other. We can't be in the same room, let alone the same household. Our marriage didn't dissolve. It burst into flames.
But here I am, left to solely support my band of children and run my household. Boo-boo kisser, personal chef, nurse, cheerleader, personal care assistant, chauffeur, referee. I knew he wouldn't help as soon as he left. I had to get rid of him regardless. I knew what I was doing. So why am I still angry.
On the surface, it's a., b., c., d. Love, marriage, children, not necessarily in that order. Fights, tears, someone moves out. Now we have to move on. I shoulder this responsibility, I bear this cross, because my ex never could. There's the martyr again. Oh well. But it's so much more. It's the end of an era, it's a lifetime of regret, of wasted time, money and resources. It's the death of my girlhood dreams and romantic fantasies, it's the hard reality of what SINGLE MOM means. It's the birth of distrust of men, the slight glimmer of hope that there's someone out there who gets me. Who I get. Someone not tethered to me by children we have in common or a stupid piece of paper of a semi-convenient living situation. The hope for love.
The other day, I let my daughter have a "sleep over" of sorts in her room with her brother. We try not to talk about their father because he is not a presence. But you can never forget. She tells me, "This is so cool, mom. Daddy would never let us do this."
Well, I'm not daddy. I'm me.
There are four types of divorce. Amicable divorce, where the marriage does nothing more than fade into dusk like a sunset. Mutual, no flaming emotion - lack of emotion is the reason for the marriage dissolving in the first place. There's contentious divorce, where one party just can't let go, even after the other has packed her bags, walked out the door. The papers become a tether, the final break in a one-sided bond. There's volatile divorce, where there is so much hatred that even after it's over, the fighting never really stops. You've just stepped outside to do it. And then there's my divorce, so sick and twisted I can blog about it. Where both people swing between absolute detest and false hope of a better tomorrow. Where the marriage turns on itself, every intimate moment and personal detail is just another bullet in the chamber. The divorce papers are a vague, false threat, a sobering reality, a terrible implosion that sucked my whole world into a hateful void, in that order.
Add children to any of these, and the volatility multiplies exponentially. I know best. No matter who "I" am. And like my dad always said during his divorce and consequent custody battles, "He who has the kids has the power."
Since when is marriage and parenting about power?
As soon as you step into court.
I love my children, absolutely. Entirely, unequivocally. I have made more sacrifices and endured more pain than is humanly reasonable to those without children. But if you have kids, you understand.
Mommy, do "martyr" and "mother" rhyme?
We love our children because they are a part of us. We don't have children, we receive them. An ethereal gift from our own bodies.
So what happens when we lose ourselves? If our children are a part of us, a reflection, what happens when we can no longer stand ourselves?
Or worse, the other parent? The other part of the proverbial minor-dependent puzzle?
Which brings me to this:
My son said something all together too profound for 7am this morning. He didn't mean to; he's two and a half. But it hit me. Out of nowhere. A six car pileup on an otherwise sunny and uneventful morning.
"Mommy, I'm not Daddy. I'm _____."
This child is the spitting image of his father. He has his mannerisms, his temper, his name. Everything about him is shaped into his father's image. And he's difficult. Painfully difficult.
Moreso since I finally separated from his father.
He's not daddy. He's him. And I am supposed to love him, unconditionally. And I do. But I don't like him.
I know why he said it. He knows he's named for his father, his sister and neighborhood kids tell him this. He wants to assert himself. He needs to be separate. Is it just his name? Or does he sense I struggle to give him his own identity? Does he feel stuck in the crossfire, by something that he can't even control? His own birthright?
This is supposed to be simple. We don't love each other, we hate each other. We can't be in the same room, let alone the same household. Our marriage didn't dissolve. It burst into flames.
But here I am, left to solely support my band of children and run my household. Boo-boo kisser, personal chef, nurse, cheerleader, personal care assistant, chauffeur, referee. I knew he wouldn't help as soon as he left. I had to get rid of him regardless. I knew what I was doing. So why am I still angry.
On the surface, it's a., b., c., d. Love, marriage, children, not necessarily in that order. Fights, tears, someone moves out. Now we have to move on. I shoulder this responsibility, I bear this cross, because my ex never could. There's the martyr again. Oh well. But it's so much more. It's the end of an era, it's a lifetime of regret, of wasted time, money and resources. It's the death of my girlhood dreams and romantic fantasies, it's the hard reality of what SINGLE MOM means. It's the birth of distrust of men, the slight glimmer of hope that there's someone out there who gets me. Who I get. Someone not tethered to me by children we have in common or a stupid piece of paper of a semi-convenient living situation. The hope for love.
The other day, I let my daughter have a "sleep over" of sorts in her room with her brother. We try not to talk about their father because he is not a presence. But you can never forget. She tells me, "This is so cool, mom. Daddy would never let us do this."
Well, I'm not daddy. I'm me.
Aw kaaate, this blog was supposed to make me LOL, not sob :(
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