Every time I think I’ve had one of the hardest days of my life, or hit the biggest speedbump, I can be sure that there is another larger, bumpier and sharper one up ahead.  It’s good to have this mindset because life is definitely a journey, and it’s not always smooth. 

Ever heard of collaborative divorce?  Now you have. 

Mike and I had our first meeting with a “divorce coach” this morning.  If we proceed down the collaborative path, she will be our main point of contact.  Involved in the collaborative process will be a child specialist, a financial analyst, and two lawyers trained in the collaborative approach.

I could go into the details of how it’s supposed to work, but I’m really quite raw and very tired from this morning and I don’t feel like it.  If you’re curious you can read all about it at the link above.  One thing I came away from the meeting with:  if divorce is a shit sundae, collaborative divorce is a scoop of ice cream with shit sprinkles.  It puts the family first, especially the kids, and contractually binds you to negotiate the terms of the divorce in the most reasonable way possible.  There were a lot of tears during the meeting.  There’s nothing like saying the words outloud to make reality set in and force you to face what you may have been avoiding.  It was not easy and it was more than a little bit heart-wrenching, but we took that first step and it was a doozy.

Someone once remarked to me that ending a relationship is a series of tiny steps.  The doubt in your head, the acknowledgement of issues between you, the first vocalization that something is not right - they are all tiny steps in one direction.  Sometimes they can be repaired and turned back.  Sometimes they can’t. 

After all the head shaking and confused looks we’ve gotten after explanation how we are doing our separation, it was very validating to be commended by the divorce coach. She commended us for truly putting the kids first even though she can tell we are both suffering from our living situation.  For those who aren’t aware, the girls stay put in our house and the parental units rotate in and out of it.  We rent a small room about 25 minutes away from here where we stay on alternating weeks.  It is difficult even at its best; for Mike who hates change in any shape or form, it’s incredibly difficult.  She also told us that if the kids are still not acting out in school, we are doing something right.  The Child Specialist will help us to determine how they are actually doing and suggest therapists for them if it comes to that.  In the meantime we try to be open with them, answer the questions we are asked, and reassure them that we love the hell out of them. 

Divorce is a terribly sad thing, no matter what.  Mike and I still remain calm and mostly quiet with each other.  It makes it worse.  Neither of us seems to want to fight about things - at least not yet - and that makes it worse. There is no anger to propel me forward.  I’m sure there will be on his side, sooner rather than later, but I just have a large empty hole of sadness and it makes me want to take very long naps. 

This whole process will be draining, financially and emotionally.  It adds another layer of guilt onto a sandwich that is already piled precariously high with guilt meat and mustard and shamed lettuce and pickles.  This process is going to be expensive.  The divorce coach and child specialist run around $175/hour.  The lawyers require retainers.  If we both end up with a divorce coach instead of using one, it will be twice as much.  The financial analyst takes a retainer too. Emotionally the costs are not countable, at least not now.  We fumble toward some resolution, mostly in the dark, trying not to fall down.

I’m sitting here staring at would could be possibly the biggest pile of clean yet unfolded laundry I’ve ever seen.  What do I do when confronted with laundry?  I blog. 

I also had to go to Walmart today.  I couldn’t believe how easy it is to shop there - at 8.30 in the morning.  I had almost escaped without any Walmart experiences (you know, like seeing a child beaten in the toy aisle, a baby running around barefoot in a dirty diaper, really fat people in spandex - you get the picture) when while checking out, I caught sight of a woman pushing a child in a shopping cart.  The little girl was cute and probably about 3 years old.  And what was she eating for breakfast?  The breakfast of champions:  a Coke.  A regular Coke in a plastic bottle.  Okay first of all, hello caffeine - what 3 year old needs it?  Second of all - well, I don’t even need to discuss the nutritional value of a Coke for a toddler.  My head said, “Don’t Judge!” but it was too late.  I can never escape Walmart without finding SOMETHING or SOMEONE to judge. 

Mike is spending the week out of the house. I made it through last week.  It was odd that the only horrible night I had was during the week.  I think that had more to do with recovering from what could be described as the world’s most intense 12 hour stomach flu (the house was nicknamed “The Vomitorium” because with the exception of Mike, we all had it).  Every time I’m sick, I have one bad day during recovery where I just am depressed and cranky.  I was dreading the weekend and while I missed the girls a bunch, I was very busy.  I also spent a lot of time working on the room, hanging curtains and bringing pieces of furniture back so that the room feels less like a place to crash and sleep and more like a place to hang out.  I also met the downstairs tenant.  Her name is Kristine and she’s fun, nice, and we have a lot in common.  She was kind enough to invite me to a movie with another friend of hers, who made delicious tilapia and acted like it was no big deal that a complete stranger was horning in on her evening with Kristine. 

This week, I’m enjoying being back home with the girls.  I’m not enjoying the housework but as Ethan Hawke said, “Reality Bites”. 

Today is the first day of the “official” separation.  Thanks primarily to Dan and Nicole, I was able to move the basic furniture into the room we will alternate using on our “off” weeks away from the girls.  It is surreal sitting here on a familiar bed in a completely different location.  I’ve done what I can to make it feel like home, but it’s weird - beyond weird, really - to know that my children are sleeping and breathing and living without me for the few hours I am not there.  It hurts in a raw way.  Hearing the words “divorce” from Lily’s mouth is also surreal, and I always have to take a deep breath before answering her questions.  Most of the time, I have no answers, and most of the time, she is satisfied with that. 

Today, my iGoogle page presented me with this quote:

Writing gives you the illusion of control, and then you realize it’s just an illusion, that people are going to bring their own stuff into it.
-David Sedaris

David Sedaris is an amazing writer, and one I adore, so I am immediately assuming it’s 100% true.  It has been for me.

With that in mind, my family will read this post a certain way.  If Mike’s family reads here (and I have no idea if they do or don’t), they will read it differently.  My friends will read it and either truly agree or disagree, or they won’t be able to help the judgment in their heads.  I get it.  I’ve been there. 

Saturday, some truly wonderful people are going to help me move a few pieces of furniture out of the house.  Mike will be in Pennsylvania visiting a friend. 

It’s a long story, but I know someone through the Twitterverse (ironically I have completely stopped tweeting, but that’s another story) who has been going through a separation. He has a young son.  One afternoon we met up at a play area and let our kids go at it.  While they beaned each other in the heads with balls and made the walls vibrate with their loudness (mine, not his), we talked briefly about what we were both going through.  Other than a scheduled group ski trip at the end of this month, we haven’t seen each other since and I wouldn’t call us friends.  We are acquaintances.  However, he was familiar enough with my situation to know that I had tried to lease an apartment near our house, but cannot afford to actually move into it. 

He called me a week or two ago and said he was going to be renting a room out in his house.  I checked it out - it’s a room.  Nothing fancy.  But it’s cheap, and he eventually agreed, after meeting Mike, to let us switch off weeks.  Mike will stay with the girls one week, I will stay with them the next.  Whoever is not in the house will be in the rented room.  I’ll still see the girls every day as I am on mom-duty every afternoon, and I can’t imagine going that long without at least a couple of evening visits.  As for how Mike will handle it, I don’t know.

We had a very raw counseling session this week.  I know that things are going to get worse before they get better, but I have been unwilling to deal with it.  I am finally at the point, and I think he is too, where we know we need to face it and separate for real and see what happens.  I assume we’ll continue going to marriage counseling, but it’s as fun as getting my bikini line epilated.  I look forward to it about that much.  I will say that I learn more in that single hour than I do in an entire week.  At home, Mike will avoid telling me the full truth about things, but in counseling, they come flying out faster than I can absorb them.  Individual therapy is always hard, but I see now why so many couples bail on marriage counseling after a few visits.  A root canal (and Mike can vouch for this, having gone through it recently) is faster, cheaper, and a lot more fun. 

We sat the girls down tonight.  It went the same as it did back in the beginning, when we told them we were separating.  I mentioned that during my on weeks, Daddy would still come see them a couple of times, maybe for dinner.  True to Arden’s form, she said, “Um, can I pick where we go?  Cuz I want to go to McDonald’s.”  Lily asked if one of us is moving out permanently (meaning she thought one of us was going to disappear forever), and we reassured her that is not the case.  Then she scampered off to make whistling sounds through a straw shaped like a pumpkin. 

This is not to say that on Saturday when I begin dismantling our guest room bed, they aren’t going to freak out.  They will want to know why, again, they will want to see the place, they will not get it until it actually starts.  Having been through this in our earlier stages, I know that the questions are just beginning and we are totally not off the hook. 

The guilt I feel is often overwhelming.  I want a lobotomy, I want to forget, I want to reverse time.  I want to change who I am, what I want, how I think.  None of those things seem to be available for purchase, so I am firmly stuck in the present that I have created by speaking the words that have been growing in my brain for a very long time.  No one says it directly, but many people want to wish it away. Hell, I do too.  This isn’t fun for anyone. 

So people will read this in the way they want to.  Some will blame it on the big bad wolf, bipolar.  Some will say I’m flat out crazy.  Others will think that I have everything they want and can’t I just be satisfied, dammit?  Others will understand, having walked in my shoes.  Some will tell me they are proud that we’ve spent so much time working, and congratulate us for taking the separation step for real so we can get some answers.  Some are disappointed with Mike, many are disappointed with me.  I’ve never intended to tell both sides of the story.  I haven’t even written mine, because it’s not important. 

No matter what happens, I will always be able to say I worked hard, I tried everything, and whatever decision we come to, I will eventually be okay with it. 

We survived, which is about all that could be expected.  The kids on the other hand stayed blissfully unaware (I think) of the tension and weirdness, and spent a lot of time screaming Santa’s name, gorging on sugar, running through the house and driving everyone nuts with the strange grunting noises their new Zhu Zhu Pets make.  Thanks a lot, Santa! 

Despite there being only 4 adults and 2 very small children, my mother made enough food to feed the entire neighborhood.  She can’t help it.  After years of cooking for large groups of family and friends, she doesn’t know any other way.  Mike got me a Kindle, which simultaneously thrilled me and made me feel horribly guilty.  We weren’t supposed to be exchanging gifts.  I kept up my end of the bargain; he ignored his.  I did get the customary lump of coal in my stocking (and seriously, there is no double entendre there), but this year I probably deserved it. 

Mike and the girls spent about equal time with his family and mine.  They loved being with their cousins ad they loved the attention they got from my parents.  The family spoiled them rotten which was good because we cut way back on gifts this year.  Santa also seemed to be on a budget, that jolly old cheapskate. Lily only complained once about not receiving the Nintendo DS-I she requested while on the lap of Short Pump Santa; I suggested that girls under age 8 weren’t allowed those because Santa thought they were too young. She blew my carefully crafted scenario out of the water by stating, “Mom, half the girls in my class have them and most got them for Christmas LAST year, which would mean they were only 6.”  Duh, Mom!  Idiot. 

Unfortunately right after Christmas Mike got some bad news which isn’t fit for public consumption.  He’d already been having a hard time with the holidays; this about pushed him over the edge.  We talked a bit tonight about the things we can both control and the things we can’t.  It was one of the most frank conversations we’ve had since this whole mess began and although it was unpleasant, we both were being honest and we were both calm.  I’m grateful for those two things. 

It seems anti-holiday to feel so sad this year.  It’s cliche to state the obvious:  holidays are hard unless everything in your life is perfect.  Each year I’m reminded that I don’t get to see my brother and niece; that my other brother and sister-in-law are really far away; that my sister is also really far away (just not as far away as Hawaii).  There is always a tinge of sadness around the holidays, because the days of being able to get everyone together just doesn’t happen anymore.  We all have our own lives and responsibilities, but I miss my family.  Add to this the faux separation Mike and I have been living and the looming “real” separation, work and financial issues, and general all-around sadness over our lives and you have one dark Christmas.  I managed to squash all my crap down inside and covered it with a layer of mocha brownies.  Mike didn’t fare as well, so we lived in alternate universes for the duration.  I am usually the world’s worst PollyAna.  I did a great job this time.  When I focused on the joy in my children, it was easier.  When my dad thanked the surgeon who fixed his aneurysm and allowed him to live yet another year, it made it much better too (he’s usually cursing the surgeon for keeping him on this earth).  I took a couple of long baths, a nap on Christmas day, and ate my weight in food.  I attempted to care for myself insomuch as I could.

On a happier note, I got some great pictures over Christmas Eve and Day.  My dad really liked Gracie and found the sweet spot on her back to scratch.  After that, she couldn’t get enough of him and he of her, unless she breathed on him.  I would say that Gracie’s breath is almost as horrific as Delilah’s, and that’s saying a lot.  Thankfully we are all used to dealing with dog breath and we managed just fine. 

I was very glad to see Gracie getting used to the kids.  She rarely barks at them and only freaks out if they accidentally run in her general direction or screech in her ears.  Even then, she only seems partially interested in eating them, and then, only to shut them up.  Because she was up for so many hours, and she is used to sleeping 22 of 24 hours a day, she fell asleep on Christmas night and was completely sacked out on the couch.  Mike was sitting on the floor, and leaned over the give her a kiss on the head.  He scared the hell out of her, and she reacted by snapping.  Unfortunately his eyebrow and forehead got the brunt of it.  Man, facial lacerations bleed profusely (side note:  I didn’t pass out!).  He has a small cut in his eyebrow and a puncture wound on his forehead.  He looks like he was in a bar fight but with less bruising.  He never blamed Gracie or got mad at her - it was totally his fault, just like when Sara’s dog Parker bit me.  It’s hard remembering that not all dogs are as dopey and dense as Thora, who would probably lick a rabid raccoon instead of attacking it.  Gracie had serious doggie guilt after and spent close to an hour with her head on Mike’s lap, licking his face whenever he let her. 

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate, and Happy Festivus for the restovus.  I’m frankly glad it’s over.  One more major holidayic hurdle and we’re home free til Valentine’s Day.