I’m afraid to write it down, as though by acknowledging it, drawing attention to it, making figurative eye contact with it, will make it disappear.
My children, my teenager and my pre-teen, still want me around. And not just around to provide snacks and drive them places. But actually around. And in public, too.
There’s a tweet that circulated a while ago that punches mothers in the belly by reminding us that there’s a last time you’ll pick up your child. And there are one million tear-jerking poems on the same subject. And what’s worse is that like so many finales that life throws at us, we won’t realize the last time is the last time, so we don’t even notice it. We’re not even given the option of holding the moment and etching it into our mind’s eye.
While I got a lump in my throat thinking about it, I refuse to cry. There are a lot of “last times” in motherhood. There’s a last time your child asks for help wiping his bum, and you don’t see anyone sobbing about that.
And what’s so great about picking up a kid, anyway? They’re all sharp elbows and knees by the time we put them down for the last time.
No, not all ‘last times’ are sad. And while I can’t pick up my biggest child anymore, I can get him to help me reach the high shelves and move the living room furniture, so there’s a bright side.
But there are a couple of ‘last times’ I will cry over. One is the bedtime routine, including the tucking in. I get up way earlier than they do these days, and throughout the summer my youngest took to tucking me in occassionally as a result. The other is the last walk to school. I figured it was coming. In fact, I figured I’d gone on the last walk to school at the end of Grade 5. But last week when Grade 6 arrived there he was, my 11-year-old, waiting by the door telling me to hurry up or we’d be late.
“Oh! Yup, I’m coming,” I shouted as I raced down the stairs, afraid to make a big deal about it, afraid that he’d suddenly realize he’s too old to walk with me, or that I’m too embarrassing, or my shoes are too noisy, or that I talk too loudly and about the wrong things.
I tiptoed around him like I might a racoon that I’m trying to tame; desperate not to seem too eager, or to move too quickly, or to act too excited.
And so off we went, walking in the sunshine, chatting like a whole summer hadn’t just passed, as though he’s not the oldest kid in his school this year, as though I’m not having the best morning I’ve had in months and feeling slightly intoxicated and giddy at being unexpectedly included.
They still want me around and I’m not sure why.
When I took them back to school shopping at the mall, I asked if they wanted me to leave them alone and show up later with my credit card. They looked at me sideways.
“No. We can shop with you.”
Certainly, kids still need their parents, but I expected them to drift away. I expected them to treat me like they treat their coats in winter and pretend I don’t exist.
Whatever is happening, it’s a surprise and a joy. I’m managing, somehow, to be both parent and friend and I’m clinging to it all while trying not to look too desperate, giving away my hand.
When this school year ends, when he stops about 100 metres from the field, turns, says, “goodbye mom, love you,” and runs toward his friends I’ll know it’s the last time.
I see it coming.
And I’ll cry the whole way home, gutted but grateful that I snuck another year in.
I’ve learned a lot throughout this process. I’ve learned by sharing my journey with others, by asking awkward and overly personal questions, but mostly by fumbling through blindly.
Divorce isn’t really polite dinner conversation. We talk about weddings and babies. We talk about weather, gas prices and mortgage rates. We don’t talk about divorce. And if we do, it’s usually to retell a horror story. We gossip about the couple we know who spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on lawyers. We talk about custody battles and no-contact orders.
Occasionally, we talk about the “happy” divorces, where everyone remains friends and blended families take vacations and selfies together. I’ll be honest, those stories confuse me the most.
But we don’t often hear about ordinary divorces.
Just your average divorce
Yes, I’ve learned a lot about ending a marriage in the past three years, and I’ve happily shared what I’ve learned with friends and acquaintances who have dropped into my inbox asking for advice. I am a firm believer that the more we talk about the hard things, and the more we remove the stigma around the hard things, the more we can help one another through the hard things.
Should divorce be so difficult?
Just recently someone commented to me that divorce is too easy these days. Nobody sticks it out anymore, she said, everyone just throws in the towel at the first sign of trouble.
Of course I disagreed. For starters, divorce rates have been steadily dropping in Canada since 1991. But more to the point, why should getting a divorce be hard? Why should we make it so expensive and complicated that only the most affluent and educated can afford to walk away? Simplifying the divorce process isn’t going to cause happy couples to throw in the towel, but it might just provide a light at the end of the tunnel for those who are struggling.
Advice for those first scary days
No matter what anyone says, divorce isn’t ‘easy.’ Emotionally, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Now that I’ve done it here’s my best advice for those in the thick of it, or for those who are just about to walk down that lonely path:
Reach out to friends. If you feel safe to do so, tell your colleagues what’s happening. Accept help when it’s offered and ask for it when it’s not (this was almost impossible for me).
Look after yourself. Eat. Drink (water). Go for a walk, and above all sleep. If you need to take medication to get to sleep, take it. That’s what it was made for, and there’s no shame in it.
Talk to your kids early. Be honest, but don’t overshare, and don’t give them false hope.
Get your banking sorted out.
Get a lawyer, or better yet (if things are amicable, which they were in my case) find a lawyer/mediator and draft a joint separation agreement. It means halving the cost. Sure, maybe you don’t care if your ex has to pay a fortune for a divorce, but wouldn’t you rather their money be spent on your kids rather than on lawyers?
Take your time. Everything gets easier with time. It’s easier to be pragmatic when you’re not sobbing. It’s easier to discuss splitting pensions and divvying up debt after you’ve remembered how to sleep again.
It might be tempting, but try not to use the divorce process to get back at someone for hurting you; life will sort itself out
Before you make any decisions, ask yourself, “is this best for the kids?” And if you answer that honestly, you’ll probably come out at the right place.
When you’re ready, and again, if it’s amicable and uncontested, consider filing for a joint divorce using BC’s Online Divorce Assistant. This process was fast and inexpensive. With a printer, a scanner, some patience and a single trip to the court registry, we completed our divorce for under $500.
I made it sound easy, didn’t I? It’s not. My ex-husband and I are both university educated, we’re both skilled project managers, and we encountered no language or other accessibility barriers. By unspoken accord we actively attempted to make our divorce as simple as possible, and yet it was still the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Keep talking
I still love a good love story.
What I’ve also learned about divorce is that there will always be judgment associated with it. So if you do decide to talk about your situation, be prepared. People make a lot of assumptions when they hear about a couple separating or divorcing. Over the past three years I’ve heard just about everything, and I’m still talking because I remember being lost and hopeless and so profoundly grateful to those who reached out and talked me through the worst of it.
Obviously I drove. He walked from wherever he lived but the place we agreed to meet was on the opposite side of the city from my house so walking was out of the question.
But more importantly, how did I get here? To this little cafe on a Saturday afternoon ready to meet a man with whom I’d been texting for the better part of a week?
And why?
Is it out of a sense of obligation? Is it to check a box? One of those “must-accomplish-all-of-these-tasks-to-be-considered-a-complete-person” lists that I subscribe to unconsciously? Do I believe that I am only whole if a man finds me worthy of taking up his free time?
Is it out of loneliness? Curiosity, maybe?
However I ended up here, here I sit waiting for the stranger to walk in as anxiety makes waves in my stomach. My expectations are moderate to low; I hope he looks enough like his photos that I recognize him when he arrives.
I do. I smile and stand up. We share a brief hug. He speaks and his voice is nothing like how I imagined or hoped it might be. It lifts slightly as he says my name like he’s also nervous which should be endearing but for whatever reason just makes me more uncomfortable. We go up to the counter to order coffee and as I place my order he pulls a money clip out of his coat pocket. In his hand is at least $1,000 and I’m confused and amused by this bizarre flex. I giggle to myself out of surprise, which I assume he hears, and then I offer to pay, but he lifts his eyebrows and insists. The total came to $8.
It’s taken seven minutes for me to know there will be no second date but I’m here now for at least an hour. I have a coffee in front of me and it’s in a ceramic cup rather than a portable paper one. Forever an optimist, I’m determined to at least get a story from this experience. The money clip was a great start. I wonder what else he’s got up his sleeve?
He’s relaxing into his seat and has taken off his wool toque, his vest, and has unwound a scarf. The third chair at our table is piled high with his extra layers. Under the vest is a thick grey cardigan with big brown buttons–the kind you’d imagine an emotionally detached grandfather wearing while sitting alone in his study smoking a pipe, sipping whiskey and imploring you with his steely eyes to get to the damn point, which I never seem to.
He’s tall, this man across from me. But I watch his hands as he settles into his chair and holds the tiny cappuccino cup between his fingers. I always watch hands. I didn’t know hands were important to me, or when they became important to me, but they are. His nails are clean and trimmed, but I know I don’t want those hands in my hair, on my face, or anywhere else.
As I watch his perfectly fine fingers that he’ll be keeping to himself move his cup up to his bearded face and back down to the bright red saucer on which it’s nested, he gifts me with his story.
I may never find out why I’m here but I do learn how he arrived in this place, what his childhood was like, and how much he hates the city I call home. I find out how he spends his days, which are mostly devoid of obligation thanks to a sudden mid-life, pandemic-fuelled decision to quit his successful career, sell his business and embark on the second half of his life by pursuing his passions, which include a return to school and a focus on his writing. I learn of his bouts with depression and marvel inwardly at how much this man appears to have, and yet how empty and alone he still feels on the inside.
In listening to his story I swell with gratitude for my own general sense of lightheartedness; depression is such a heavy load to carry and those who carry it without being crushed have a strength I admire.
I both love and hate this part of dating, how it both fascinates and exhausts me. It reminds me of what I enjoyed the most about being a journalist, about how I could show up with a notebook and a pen and ask people what I really want to know:
“Why?”
“But how?”
“What then?”
“And what happens next?”
As he talks his shoulders relax and he gains a lightness. Meanwhile, as I absorb his story I become heavier. Perhaps I’ve gifted him a little bit of optimism. I hope so.
By the time he pauses and asks for my story my coffee is gone and I am depleted. I’ve got a headache. I need a nap. I want to go home and sink into a hot bath with a good book. I look down at my watch and tell him how glad I am to have met him, which is true, and how grateful I am for his story, which I am.
And so we stand and walk toward the door. This time there’s no hug, only a wave and a “thanks again” before a cold gust of wind pushes me toward my car, toward its heated seats and its silence and away from what is not meant to be.
It’s been awhile since I was “in love,” to be honest. But I’ve dabbled in falling in love–in catching those first heady feelings you get after a few dates that don’t go sideways, or that aren’t spent intentionally ignoring the red flags that so often show up in the periphery.
And oh my gosh does it feel good!
This isn’t love, love, certainly, or at least not the kind that would have you make bold commitments or pronouncements. This isn’t the kind of love that you’d call up on your hardest day, or the kind that sits with you through an ugly cry. This isn’t love born of time, trust and certainty, and it’s not the kind of love that you’re even ready to talk about; you know it’s probably fleeting and so this is the kind of love that doesn’t get a name. It’s the kind we whisper about only to ourselves; the kind we tuck in at night, and wake up smiling about in the morning.
Is there another word for this? We could call it a “crush” but we’re grown ups now. Is it OK to call this a kind of love, too?
Surely, we can’t call what this is “love,” not when I use that same word to describe how I feel about my children. The love I feel for them is endless and life altering. The love I feel for them is heart-making and heartbreaking and so intense it’s terrifying. It’s the kind that keeps me up at night, that makes me wring my hands; it’s the kind that grounds me, makes me who I am and keeps me striving to do better, be better and want more.
Surely what I’ve been dabbling in lately is not love. Not as defined by those terms. The kind of love that I’ve been courting is fun and light. It’s smooth and it sparkles. It gives me funny stories to tell my friends over lunch, it gives me new experiences and new perspectives. And it doesn’t take much in return.
While we use the word “love” to describe the thunder-cracking moment in a movie that confirms a deep romantic connection, we also use it liberally. I love cheese, for example. And fresh pineapple. I love the satisfying release you feel when pulling a carrot out of the garden, or the way it feels to sink your hands into a bucket of bird seed.
But I also love connection. I’m hardwired for it, as most of us are.
And even these small bits of love are bold, and a bit frightening.
They’re not scary because they might ruin you, but because they expose you. You’re out there. You’re living. You’re trying. You’re going to screw up and overthink and second guess. You’re going to be not enough for some folks and too much for others. You’re going to get passed over and passed by just like any brave adventurer.
But it’s addictive, this bravery. The more you risk, the more you want to keep risking. The more you introduce yourself to others, the more you learn about yourself–about who you are, what you want, what you like and what you have absolutely zero interest in: Nope. No sir. Hard pass.
Staying home and staying safe suddenly feels boring. Where’s the story in that?
Love. We reserve this word and gift it to those who have walked through hoops and jumped over obstacles with us and for us.
But I love the process of love and loving. I love the learning that comes with it. The knowing and the failing. I even love the short love stories; the places your imagination jumps to, the futures that will never take shape but are nice to think about for a brief fantastical moment all the same.
And what I love most about this love is when you step out and step forward onto a stone that’s unsteady due to distance or disconnection or just plain old bad timing, there are familiar loving hands that reach out to grab you before (and sometimes moments after) you fall in the muck and get all wet and weedy.
And what do we call that act? That act of saving you from a face plant, or from behaving like too much of an idiot?
We call that love, too.
It’s our word, and it’s free to use. Whether we tuck it in close, say it too soon or too loudly, give it away too early or hang on until it’s too late, it’s really just a string of four letters that together wouldn’t even make a Wordle.
I want to apologize for all the things I said when I didn’t know any better.
When I was trying to get pregnant, and failing, a part of me died inside every time someone asked when we were planning to have kids. I wanted to shout from the rooftops that I was trying really, really hard, or tell people that I cried in my car sometimes when I watched moms wobbling under the weight of their growing bellies toddle into the grocery store.
And in those moments I learned never to ask a woman that question.
Years later I’d meet folks who never felt compelled to have kids. They didn’t feel the same urge that I felt, and they cringed inwardly (sometimes outwardly) when asked: “So, when are you going to make me a grandma,” as though none of their other achievements had meaning if they didn’t also procreate.
Thanks to those people I learned never to approach that question by assuming parenthood was everyone’s end game.
Parking our biases
We all thrust our biases on those around us — if I naturally gravitate to the idea of motherhood, then I assume you must also. If I love being a wife, love coming home to my spouse every day, and am unable to imagine a life without him, then I assume you want that, too, and so I might ask you: “Are you seeing anyone interesting? Do you have a boyfriend yet?”
What we fail to recognize is that when we’re shoving our own limited world views down the throats of others they experience that interaction very differently than we intend — as pity.
ingredients for a ‘happy’ life
For the longest time I was on the ‘right’ cultural trajectory. I had the career, the house, the spouse, the kids. If our Western culture compiled a recipe for happiness, I had all the main ingredients.
And I was happy, for a bit. But even with all the necessary ingredients, everything started to sour.
Single is actually a beautiful thing to be
I’ve learned that there are worse things than being single. What’s worse? Being in a relationship in which there’s no trust and no security. Being in a relationship that requires walking on eggshells, or sneaking glances at text messages. Single is better than feeling like you have to hide or change part of yourself to make it work, and that no matter how successful or beautiful you make yourself, you’ll never be quite enough. Single is better than knowing that no number of delicious meals prepared, family vacations planned, or Instagram-worthy photos taken will work to fix all the broken things.
Being single is easy, and believe it or not, some of us choose to be single, sometimes forever, or sometimes for just a little while.
So when someone says: “It’s going to be OK! You’re beautiful and young! You’ll find someone special, and you’ll be so happy,” I cringe and suddenly feel as though I have to defend myself and my situation. Suddenly, I feel pitiable.
When we assume people can’t be happy without a partner we’re doing them a disservice. I’ve never been happier, and I don’t know how to convince you otherwise, or even if I should bother trying. I know blogging about it won’t work, because there are those who will read this and still shake their heads and whisper: “Aww, that’s sad. Pretty girl. I hope she finds someone soon.” Adding insult to injury, they’ll respond with a “caring” reaction or throw a hug emoji in the comment section.
But it was worth a shot at least, because honestly I’m fine.
Just a little while ago I was helping a friend move and I stumbled upon the book, Happiness is a Warm Puppy, by Charles M. Schulz.
And it got me thinking (as all good books do), about what happiness looks like to me, and if it’s very different at all from what happiness looks like to you, or to anyone for that matter.
Happiness is a warm blanket, and a warm puppy; happiness is finding someone you like at the front door.
But happiness is also the first sip of hot coffee after the kids have gone to school.
Happiness is finding someone who looks really grouchy and making them laugh whether they like it or not.
Happiness is having some juicy news to share and a good friend to share it with.
Happiness is waking up, rolling over, and realizing you still have hours left to sleep.
Happiness is a concert ticket.
Happiness is realizing that you can have a crush on someone again after you thought for sure that part of you had been pummeled to smithereens.
Happiness is a hot lunch day.
Happiness is stepping on a barely frozen puddle on your morning walk and hearing that loud “crunch” under your boot.
Happiness is finding someone who looks really grouchy and making them laugh whether they like it or not.
Happiness is a really yummy bottle of wine that only costs $12.
Happiness is watching your clumsy dog catch the ball mid-air; extra happiness is when other people see it, too.
Happiness is when your son takes the garbage to the dumpster without being asked.
Happiness is finding a song with the perfect beat that makes you run faster than usual.
Happiness is watching snow fall for the first time all year knowing that you’ve got a warm blanket, a warm puppy, a cozy bed, and snow tires.
Happiness is overhearing someone say something nice about you when they don’t realize you’re in the room.
Happiness is being missed.
Happiness is bravely telling someone how you feel and having them reply: “Me, too!”
Happiness is waving to the elderly lady in her kitchen window as you walk by with your dog every morning.
Happiness is reading a good book and realizing it’s the first one in a series.
But this week all I really wanted was a dude with a big shiny toolbox to take up space in my life.
The mental fog that took over during my separation has lifted. I don’t miss my marriage, and I sure as heck don’t want it back. But then I needed new snow tires, my car started leaking oil, and my washing machine broke.
Using a friend’s connections I got a great deal on snow tires and felt like I was winning. I booked my car in for maintenance, and it doesn’t appear the problem is a difficult one to fix, but the washing machine?
The washing machine brought me to my knees.
One sunny Sunday afternoon it filled with water and then just quit, and to be honest I wanted to do the same thing, except, of course, subbing out water for wine.
I checked the breaker, unplugged the machine, plugged it back in. I moved things around, and bailed out some of the water. Next, I called my dad who lives 300 kilometres away.
“Jeez, Danna, I’m not sure,” he said, before asking me to try all of the things I had already tried.
And then I called my friend’s boyfriend–the handiest guy I know apart from my dad. He showed up. Tried all of the things that I tried and a few more, then turned to me and said, “sorry, looks like you’re going to need a real repair guy.”
And he left, and I had the biggest, longest sob I’ve had in months.
I wasn’t crying about my washer. I wasn’t crying about the money it would cost to fix. I wasn’t even crying about my half clean sheets.
I was crying because it was just me. There was nobody with whom to commiserate. There was no one to take this one crummy thing off my plate and deal with it so I wouldn’t have to.
I am solely responsible for making all of the decisions, and it’s amazing, but it also SUCKS!
I get it. In the grand scheme of things these are not big problems. They’re actually super small problems with super simple solutions. A repair guy showed up within 24 hours and within 10 minutes of his arrival my washing machine was cranking away.
(And yeah, the repair man is happily married. I asked.)
Truth is, I tackle MUCH bigger problems every single day, and do so without even thinking about it.
But dammit that washing machine spun me, and I feel like a crummy feminist for saying so out loud.
Thanksgiving is my favourite holiday. Like most things, though, this year I’ll be celebrating slightly differently.
Instead of piling into my childhood home with my brother and sister and their spouses and children, I’ll be spending the holiday with friends, hiking, laughing, and eating great food, while my kiddos spend the weekend with their dad and his girlfriend.
Funny, then, that change, growth, and the clarity that comes on the other side of it is what I’m most thankful for this year.
A long list
I’m grateful for soul-filling moments that become frozen in time. Just a few nights ago I convinced my son to come for a run with me. It was a short run — hardly worth the effort from an exercise point of view — but at the end of our run he spotted a patch of dry leaves, grabbed a handful and let them crumble between his fingers.
“You’ve got to try this, mom! It feels SO GOOD!”
And so I did. And we stood there, four steps away from the car and for five solid minutes, crumbling leaves in our fingers and covering our shoes in leaf dust. Our cheeks were pink, our hands smelled like fall, and I’ll never drive by that spot without smiling.
I am thankful for my body, for the way it moves without pain (most days), and for how strong and reliable it is. I’m thankful for the scars that remind me that yes, in fact, I heal.
I’m thankful for all of the things I didn’t say, the secrets I didn’t spill, and the gossip I didn’t repeat. I’m thankful for the texts I scripted in anger and deleted, and for the ones I received, read, and left ‘seen’ and unresponded to.
I’m thankful for remote work and videoconferencing, and for the side conversations that go on behind the meetings.
I’m thankful for all of the times over the past year that I’ve screwed up. I know there will be so many more screw ups in future, but at least those ones are behind me.
I’m thankful for the relationships that haven’t worked out, for the roads not taken, and for the lessons that saying goodbye have taught me about myself and the kind of person I want to be.
More than anything, though, I’m thankful for the relationships that have worked out. For the friendships that are richer now than they’ve ever been. I’m thankful for the life-long bonds, and also for the brand new folks that show up unexpectedly. I’m thankful for the relationships that start off as a few shared gifs in a work chat and an eye roll here or there, and then before you know it, you can’t imagine a day without that bit of connection.
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