How Does It Feel?

On Tuesday morning the phone rang and my attorney said, simply, "You're divorced!" The judge had signed my petition and my divorce had been granted. Since then I've been asked over and over again: "how do you feel?" My immediate answer was "kinda relieved, kinda weird..." I couldn't really put my finger on how it felt.

But I've had a few days to process now - talking to friends, reading back on my old journals and blog posts, generally thinking. So I'm gonna tell you how it feels.

There are certain events in life that are of epic importance yet are not celebrated or even marked - at least not in the Western world. There are three that immediately come to mind: losing ones virginity, becoming pregnant, and getting divorced. If you've done any of these things, then you know how it feels.

Remember the day after the first time you had sex? Wondering if people could "tell." Or how about the first trimester of pregnancy when you carried around a little secret that no one could see or feel but you? And then there's divorce. A piece of paper signed by a judge; the news delivered with a phone call. Kind of a vacant hole in the face of a major transition, don't you think?

So how to "celebrate" or at least mark the moment? A lot of people asked if I was gonna go get drunk ... (which I did) or have a party (at the bar). Though fun, neither seems sufficient. Maybe I've not "processed" or thought through this enough to find a way to properly honor the event. It deserves a ritual or a yearly memorial. Something.

I'm looking.

The House Across the Street

My house has a big window in the living room that looks east. In between the buildings I can see the Berkeley Hills which I find calming. Directly across the street is a lovely home with wisteria growing down the front stairs (left). I find it a source of intrigue and, recently, some sad nostalgia.

When I first moved in, almost a year ago, the neighbors in that house introduced themselves. Two school age girls, their dad and a male roommate. Their mom lived elsewhere.

We haven't talked much over the months but my "view" has made it clear that the girls live there only half time. Sometimes, during drop-off, mom and dad talked, or argued, on the sidewalk. The girls would disappear into the house. Moments like these would make me turn from the window, uncomfortable. Seeing something meant to be private. And so familiar.


Then, last month, there began a series of trucks coming to the house. Boxes and boxes of things being moved. On and off for weeks. Then, Memorial Day weekend, there was a big push. Suddenly mom, dad, roommate, kids and friends were working together to move everything out. It seemed an awkward collaboration where each was on their best behavior. Smiling extra wide.

Yesterday, bringing out the garbage, I had an opportunity to ask my neighbor if he was moving. "yes yes. I'm moving in with my girlfriend in Marin. Since the divorce, four years ago, I cannot afford this house."

WHUMP.

Like a time warp I'm brought back two years, three then four....

We lived in a classic Berkeley bungalow. Nine hundred square feet with a finished garage I used as an office. It worked well for many years. Then there was Moses (the dog), Joseph (first born) and finally, baby Maia, It became a squeeze. We considered selling and buying a new house - and even put an (unsuccessful) offer on one. Eventually, my husband, the architect, convinced me that he could add a second story to our existing house for under $100 grand. He introduced me to the contractor who would do the work. And so, the decision was made - we'd build up. Go.

We emptied the house and moved to a rental (oh how simple those 9 words are, the process was SO MUCH more, but I won't bore your here.) Construction began. When they ripped off the roof I was visiting my parents in San Diego and a friend sent me a picture. I gasped when I saw it. There was no turning back now.

Construction went on for 10 months during which time we plowed through two contractors and countless subcontractors. (yet another story) Eventually, my husband took over as GC and pieced together the work. It would save money, he said. But the reality was (is) that he is an architect and NOT a GC. And an architect who is given charge of his own project's construction is a dangerous proposition.

Needless to say we went waaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy over budget. More than $250g over budget. The house (left) was basically beautiful (if finished quickly) but the situation itself was a disaster.

We scrambled to pay our new humongous mortgage just as the economy was sinking and our business were struggling. Our families were generous and helped us so we lived there for two years... and then I decided to end the marriage. It seemed sudden to everyone but me.

I moved into the garage, sleeping on an air bed and we struggled to find solutions as to how we might "save" the house.... could one of us live in it with a roommate? Could we rent out the garage as an office? None of the "solutions" came close to being able to cover the mortgage. There was no choice but to sell.

We were lucky. Even in the down economy we received four offers with one at sixty grand over asking and no contingencies. Done. HE and I secured our individual apartments and settled into being single parents.... (hahaha - that makes it sound so easy, doesn't it?)

Now, looking out the window has become like gazing in the mirror - a reflection of the pain of divorce, financial struggles, and finally, moving on (or out, as the case may be.)

I wonder who will buy the house across the street. I'm thinking it'll be a young couple, babe in arms. Maybe a dog. I'll bring them champagne and cookies and wish them the best. The window will cease being a portal to the past and, instead, a promise for a future.... at least for now.

Making My Bed

I'm still not divorced and Sunday was my eleven year wedding anniversary.

Back in the day I'd be greeted on May 23 with a humongous bouquet of flowers - delivered to the front door. Nice, right?

It never failed to irritate me. WHY spend a $100 on flowers (that would die) and delivery when you live with me in the SAME house? What a massive waste of funds. Furthermore, floral delivery indicated that little to no time or effort was put into the gift. It was always a disappointment and it's probably jaded me forever.

Of course, THIS is "the day" NOW, and the anniversary was forgotten until the memory (upon looking at the date) assaulted me on Sunday morning... The wedding itself was beautiful. A sunny May day in Tilden Park's Brazillian Room. The band was great. Everyone danced. I hear the food was good, but I didn't have any because I spent half the night in the bathroom puking.

OK, maybe that's an exaggeration. It wasn't HALF the night. It about 45 minutes. And it happened after I was lifted up in a chair and flung around the dance floor like a giant beach ball. My girlfriend held my hair back as I heaved over the toilet. Somehow my dress stayed clean.

I tried very hard to keep the marriage together. Telling myself often, "I've made my bed, I must lay in it." It was absurd to think that I'd end what appeared to be the perfect success story (marriage, house, kids, businesses, etc etc). But it was all an APPEARANCE. A face for the world.

It wasn't until I EMBRACED the absurd - the end - that I was able to get out of the proverbial bed and start anew.

So, yea, my linens aren't silk and satin, but they ARE 100% cotton, the bed is ALL MINE - and I can make it any way I like.

The Groove is Good

The combination of Joe's 8am school bell and my lack of morning humor can add up to potential meltdowns, so it's no suprise that the most difficult days of the week for me are Wednesday, Thursday and Friday - the days the kids wake up here and I have to get them out the door by 7:45. Ugh.

In the old days, before we were separated, David - who likes to rise with the sun - would run the dog and take Joe to school. I'd stay home and have a leisurely coffee while Maia ate breakfast. Her preschool had a more flexible start time so we'd stroll in around 9:00.

Oh times have changed.

Getting two kids out the door is a challenge and I've discussed some of the strategies I use for coping in previous blog posts. But it's gotten easier. And this week, it was really easy. Like almost FUN easy. Everything was just smooth - like a well oiled machine. And I tell you, when the morning goes well,  it makes for better day all around. And a better day means a relaxing evening. And that, in short, is how this week has been.

We're in the groove and it's really good.

Two Phases of Understanding

Tonight, while tucking the kids in, we were chatting, as usual. Maia was having a hard time settling into bed. She said (whined), "oh... Mommy, when I'm with Daddy I miss you and when I'm with you I miss Daddy. I want you BOTH." Maia is 4. Her dad and I have been separated since she was two and a half so she doesn't really remember the four of us as a unit. But she DOES understand - and tonight was able to put into words of the first time - that she loves us both and wants us together. This comprehension of the nature of divorce is new and self-learned. It makes me sad. It would make me sadder if Joe didn't respond the way he did.

The 9 year old - who has always maintained his hatred of the divorce and its inane wrongness - said to his little sister, "divorce may not be happy for me or for you, but mommy is happier and that makes me glad."

Holy. F*cking. Sh*t.

My boy just forgave me. Not that I need to be forgiven. But if he WAS blaming me (and given that his dad told him that the I left the family on my own accord, I believe he did blame me) then he just then, in that moment, that sentence - that lesson to his sister - forgave me. He showed such immense empathy and compassion that I could do nothing but break down in tears and tell him thank you. He understood the significance because he hugged me tight and told me he loved me.

That boy of mine.
He is an old soul and I admire him.
We're gonna be ok. And Maia is damn lucky to have such and awesome big brother.

Who's Confused?

I'm angry.
Pissed.

All my life I've had male friends. PLATONIC male friends. But now, I've been told, that these guys are, in fact, out to jump my bones. Furthermore, I am "confusing [my] children" by having single PLATONIC males as friends.

On the other hand, the father of my children insists he is "exemplifying the importance of the family unit" by having group sleepovers with his girlfriend and her son. Yes, the two adults sleep in the same bed. Yes there is, what my daughter calls, "kissy kissy" between them. And this is a good example for my children. Right? RIGHT?

Honestly - I don't think either is bad. I believe that it's important the kids see us friendly with all types of people. Young, old, rich, poor, black, white, abled, disabled, gay, straight, divorced, single, widowed, female or MALE. They should see that men and women can be friends OUTSIDE the bedroom (*kissy kissy*). My gosh, my son's best friend is a little girl. I hope they are friends forever.

I'm not in a "kissy kissy" relationship right now - at least not one that I care to share with my children. The guys we hang out with were there BEFORE the end of my marriage. LONG before. They were ALREADY enmeshed in the lives of my kids. NOT seeing them would be weird. For all of us.

It baffles me that people don't understand this.
It pisses me off.

But I said that already.

Racing From One Weekend to the Next

There are a gazillion ways to arrange custody when divorcing. For us, a 50/50 arrangement was a given so we started from there. Because we have a little-one (Maia) we decided that a full week without seeing one or the other of us would be hard for her so that figured largely into the equation. In the end we came up with the following schedule: I have the kids every Monday and Tuesday. They are with their dad every Wednesday and Thursday. We switch off every other Friday and Saturday, and switch again every other Sunday.

So far the arrangement has worked for us (with minor tweaks and adjustments here and there to accommodate their dad's teaching schedule).

But it takes a lot of adjusting.

As it works out, every other week I drop the children off at school on Wednesday morning and don't see them again until 4 pm on Sunday. Five days.

When the 5 o'clock hour comes on Wednesday, the first day without them, I'm at a loss. I suddenly don't have to jump in my car and "play pickup kids." He's doing it. I can't pin down how this feels but the closest thing to describe it is anxiety. A pulsing in my veins, wringing of my hands, twiddling of my thumbs... What to do?

On Thursday evening it gets easier. By Friday, at 5, I'm lonely. Saturday rolls around and my objective is to get the house ready for them - laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping - so that on Sunday I can sit in my favorite chair and enjoy the New York Times with cup of coffee while KFOG plays the Acoustic Morning program on the radio. By the time they arrive at 4, I'm relaxed and excited to see them.

Until they arrive.

And I'm suddenly shocked into the reality of motherhood. Almost immediate whining, and requests for food, or gum or juice; quarrels between the two of them; very loud voices; screaming, crying, tantrums, defiance, anger, exhaustion. Wow. Mommying is hard work. Especially when you do it alone.

Monday morning, getting up in time to get to school by 8. I rise at 6 - try to get a half hour of time alone with my coffee before waking them at 6:30 to start getting ready for school. This morning hour is perhaps the most challenging of the day. Never mind me - I need to get two children dressed, washed up and fed in addition to making boxed lunches and tending to Moses the Dog. We leave the house at 7:50 and drive across town to Joe's school where we drop him off and then take off back across town (tracing where we've just been and passing our house) to Maia's preschool. Once there the ritual is that we spend about 10 minutes playing or reading together and then she "pushes me out the door" and I'm off on my own. An immediate sense of relief and freedom.

It seems to be one or the other - extreme stress or loneliness - I've not yet found a common ground. A place where one or the other is satisfying and fulfilling. Instead, one just seems like a race to get to the other. I'm constantly running and never winning.

When does this end?

One Week Each July

Last Saturday I woke at 5 am to take my kids and their dad to the airport for the "Kesler Vacation." Every year, for the last decade my (ex)husband's family - two brothers, a sister and their respective spouses and their parents - have taken a vacation for a week in July.

In 2000 year we took an Alaskan cruise. I was pregnant with Joe, and sick throughout the trip. It was our first time traveling as a group and we were all getting used to each other. The scenery was beautiful. The ride (to me anyway) was a wreck.

Over the years we met-up at some wonderful places - Whitefish, Montana; Kauai, Hawaii; Kiawa Island, S. Carolina; The Delaware Beaches; San Diego, California .... With each vacation the family grew. Children were born, cousins were created, relationships between in-laws were forged. Watching the children grow and play together was beautiful and priceless.

Last year they went to Lake Tahoe. It was the beginning of the end of my marriage and I decided to stay home. This year, they are at Lake Lur in North Carolina. They are telling me that it's beautiful and they are having a wonderful time.

While they've been gone I've been keeping myself busy looking for a new house (my lease ends 8/1); cleaning; and cranking on a ton of work projects. I've been extremely productive and pro-active (including finding a home, but that will be a separate blog post).

When I imagine the kids on Lake Lur, with their cousins and grandparents, aunts and uncles and all the love that is surrounding them I feel great joy. They are very lucky to have such a wonderful family. I'm saddened that I will not be able to follow the growth of my (ex) nieces and nephews who I still love. It is one of the lesser-known, lesser-spoken drawbacks of divorce; a reminder that there are always more people involved and effected than the couple themselves.

So now the week is coming to an end. I retrieve them from the airport the day after tomorrow. I can't wait to see them and hear all their stories and squeeze them and hug them and kiss them all over. :-) I'm very happy that they have this opportunity to spend time with their paternal family; but I'm overjoyed to have them home.

Remembering the Garbage

Friday mornings, at around 6am, the garbage truck comes rumbling down the street. Not long after that the sound of crashing tins and breaking glass preclude the arrival of the city recycling service. In the past the noise was little more than a disturbance, lulling me out of sleep at about the time my alarm was going off anyway.

For the last 10 years my husband has been in charge of trash day. Prior to that, I lived in apartments with communal bins. No one had to DO anything-we dumped our bags in and the city took care of it. It's different now. For the first time EVER I am responsible for remembering to bring the garbage to the curb.

My newest residence is in a duplex. If I don't bring the trash and recycling out on Thursday night I awake on Friday morning with a panicked start - hearing the trucks, knowing that unless I jump out of bed and run outside in my pajamas and bare feet I'm doomed to a week of overflowing stinky garbage. It's not a pleasant way to start the day. Furthermore, failing at the chore results in a seven-day stint of unreasonable self-deprecation: cursing myself every time I try to stuff yet another bulging bag into the the bin. The waste becomes a symbol of my failed marriage, struggling career and the parenting snafus I FORGOT TO TAKE CARE OF!! Is it any wonder that my life is a mess? And so it goes until the week passes and another garbage day arrives.

On the other hand, REMEMBERING the garbage on Thursday nights has become an opportunity to pat myself on the back. In this way, the mundane chore has morphed into a celebration of my newly single status. Rolling the bins to the curb, in the dark cold of the night, makes me feel strangely satisfied: I've taken control of the trash and in doing so have reined in my failures and set them out neatly on the curb for someone else to dispose of.

Eventually, I assume, the Thursday night garbage ritual will become more automated - completed without thought or intention. I look forward to that time: when the rubbish is just rotten food, empty wine bottles and coffee grounds. But for now, this weekly accumulation of trash represents the mess I've created. Remembering to dispose of it brings me one step closer to cleaning everything up.

... and so it begins ...

... on so many levels.

Uprooting oneself from a home of 10 years is difficult under any circumstances.
Looking back it all seems ridiculous. What were we thinking? What was I thinking?
Living the American dream? Not if its a nightmare.
Laying in the bed you've made? Not if your being strangled by the covers.

So now here I am.
Alive.
Seeing the absurd.
Embracing it.
Reporting it.
To you.