When It’s Time To Say Good-Bye

This year has been The Year Of The Split for several of my friends. In fact, each of the last couple of years has seen a few divorces among friends of mine. Just over two weeks ago, the divorce of another good friend of mine became final. Done. In the books.

Even when it’s the best decision for all involved, even when people divorce for all the right reasons, the process and the aftermath can be emotionally wrenching, especially when kids are involved. Will the kids ultimately be okay? Will they understand why this is happening? How terribly will they miss their non-custodial parent?  Will they blame themselves? What will they learn about relationships and commitment from this experience?

My parents divorced when I was two years old.  You might think I don’t remember anything from before the divorce, but I do.  I have foggy memories of being in our apartment in Miami, memories that my mom (who at first doubted I could remember something from so early) verified are accurate.  In other words, I was aware when the divorce happened, and I’ve lived as the child of divorced parents for almost all of my life.

For my friends who have gone through all of this in recent days, weeks and years, hopefully what I’m about to share will give you a measure of comfort.  What my parents’ divorce taught me is this:

1. The word “family” is fluid in its make-up.  My “live-in” family consisted of mom-dad-and-me, then mom-and-me, then mom-stepdad-me-and-stepsister and finally mom-stepdad-me-stepsister-and-cousin. My family, as a whole, includes the usual suspects as well as stepparents, stepsister, half-sisters, several step-grandparents and step-cousins and step-aunts and step-uncles. It’s mind-reeling in its complexity. My sister and I used to joke that new boyfriends should be given formal classes to learn who is who and how everyone is related. However, all this standard and half and step stuff adds up to one thing:  family.  Family is what you make of it.  You can choose only to accept as relations those who fit the old-fashioned mold. Or you can choose to accept life’s challenges – including two people realizing that they perhaps should no longer be married – and can adapt the notion of family as things change. I… hm… what’s the saying?  Ah, yes.  I choose love.
2. The word “family” may be fluid in its make-up, but love and security remain paramount in every definition, and it’s possible to maintain that love and security during and after a divorce. Not once do I ever recall feeling lost or alone or unloved or abandoned by either of my parents, because of the divorce or otherwise. As a parent, your child will follow your lead on how he or she should feel. If you want your kids to feel loved and secure, project that. You may go through moments of hurt or doubt during or after a divorce, but that’s your issue, not your child’s. Be the grown-up. Be the parent. Whether you are the live-in parent or the parent who now lives apart, shower the kid(s) with love and let them know you’re 100% there for them. Forever.
3. When it comes to parents and children, physical distance does not have to equal emotional distance or lack of parental involvement. Not only did my parents divorce when I was little, but not long after they split, my mother and I moved a thousand miles away from my dad. Then my father moved to Panama for a year or so, and a few years after he came back to the States, my mother and I moved another 300 miles further from him. I don’t know what it’s like to live near my father. However, I would challenge anyone on the planet to show me a more involved dad. He knew everything I was doing. He knew at least as much about my grades and activities and friends and everything else as any live-in dad would, more so than many live-in dads I’ve known. How about that connection between my dad and me, that emotional bond?  My daddy and I are tight. We always have been close. We went through the typical ups and downs during my teen years, but I’ve never felt anything but 100% loved and valued and adored and cherished by my father (I’m getting choked up typing this), even though we've lived so far apart for so long and even though he remarried and had three more children. So no, divorce and distance will not doom your child to feeling lost and less loved and less in touch with the parent who no longer is in the home. It’s not only possible but vital to keep that connection going, no matter how far away a parent lives from their child or where life takes them. It takes effort, but it’s so worth it. 
4. It’s important to be gracious about the people in your life, even those who have hurt you or gone through painful times with you. My mother never once, in all the years I was growing up, bad-mouthed my father. When he remarried, she never once bad-mouthed my stepmother. In fact, my mom never was anything but interested in how they were and excited for them in their happy moments and concerned for them during sad times. While my mom sincerely has one of the kindest hearts ever, she’s also human. I’m sure there were moments when she would have loved to have said something snarky about them or had a harmless laugh with me at their expense. But she never did. And I can say the same thing about my dad regarding my mom and stepdad. No matter how much you want to confide in your child or giggle about the other parent’s shortcomings, don’t. They’re not your friend or confidante, they’re your kid.  If there’s an opportunity to teach them grace and kindness, this is it.
5. You can remain close to a person, and even love them dearly, after a break-up. My parents have remained excellent friends for all of these years. Even my stepparents are in on this love-fest. Everyone gets along. They not only tolerate each other, they enjoy each other’s company and look out for each other. It’s fun. It freaks out my friends. The key to all of this is that they didn’t let their relationship deteriorate into disdain or hatred before ending the marriage. They tried their best, but when it became clear that, in their words, they “love each other but shouldn’t be married,” they made the tough call to divorce. Rather than despise each other for not being enough or doing enough or changing enough, they recognized that they were two human beings who simply couldn’t make a marriage work with one another. How did this impact me? Well, I never felt that I was losing a parent through the divorce. I never felt caught in a web of animosity or indifference between my parents.  I was easily able to help integrate my stepparents and siblings and extended stepfamilies into my notion of family. And in my own adult relationships, while I’ve always been ready to learn and grow and adapt as part of a couple, I also have been sure to maintain a sense of self and to recognize openly when a relationship wasn’t meant to be. Thanks to my parents and how they handled their split, I also learned to recognize that a relationship’s failure doesn’t have to equate to failure on the part of either person in the relationship… and because of that, I’ve been fortunate enough to remain friends with all of my serious exes, even my ex-husband.

There are so many additional things that my parents have taught me over the years, things that I would have learned if they’d remained married and things that I learned because they divorced. The cool thing is that although they were divorced, my mom and dad were able to teach me so much together, just as any married couple would. Not only that, but they had the added support of my stepparents.  I don’t really think of myself as having two parents and two stepparents as much as I think of myself as having four parents. And with a headstrong kid like I was, four probably were necessary to keep me in line!

All this being said, I hope that this little post might be helpful in some way for any of my friends – or anyone for that matter – who is going through or has gone through a divorce and worries about the kids. What’s that phrase that was turned into a movie title?  “The kids are alright.”  And they really can be.  How alright… well, that’s up to you.  And you’ll do beautifully. Trust me.

Heartless Murder of an Imaginary Friend

I’m a big softy and a sucker for a cause, especially any cause that promises to improve the lives of children in some way – preventing bullying, providing wigs for kids, curing childhood cancer...  

Still, “caring” and “compassionate” weren’t always adjectives that could describe me.  My nature from birth was more inclined toward strict pragmatism, even bordering - for much of my youth - on coldly calculating practicality.  It took many years for me to develop even what I’d consider a “normal” level of empathy and kindness, much less the overflowing blob of emotion that I now can harbor when I’m confronted with the injustices of the world.

Case in point:  My imaginary friend.  According to my mother, when I was 2 or 3 I had an imaginary friend.  It’s something that I forget about most of the time, but the other day I was reminded of this when I found myself answering a slew of questions – asked by my little daughter – about the untimely demise of a child’s imaginary friend in the movie “Parental Guidance.” (If you have not seen this flick, give it a shot. It’s very cute.)

According to my mother, my imaginary friend was named Dansindoor.  I can only speculate about the actual spelling of his name, as I didn’t know how to spell back when my imaginary friend told me his name, so just go with me on this.  And to answer your next question, no, I have no memory of him whatsoever.  See?  Callous.  But it gets worse.  Far worse.

Apparently, Dansindoor was very small and lived in my pocket.  Once in a while, I would take him out and hold him up in the palm of my hand, and we would sing songs to people.  When we were finished singing, I would return Dansindoor to the cozy confines of my pocket.  (I have no idea where I kept him when I didn’t have a pocket in my clothing, though perhaps he lived in an imaginary pocket in that case.  See how that whole imaginary thing works?)

Anyway, as the story goes, one day I apparently no longer needed Dansindoor. Did I wish him a fond, tearful farewell? No. Did I have a long talk with my parents about the fact that I was ready to confront the world on my own terms? Nope. This is what I did:  I took Dansindoor out of my pocket and sang to someone – my mother, I assume, as she’s the one who tells me this sordid story. When we were done with our final little ditty, I looked at the invisible little being standing on my palm and said, “Good-bye, Dansindoor.” Then, with my other hand, I swiftly and unceremoniously clapped down, squashing my imaginary friend into oblivion.

That’s right. I murdered my imaginary friend. In cold blood. With no remorse.

Pretty bad, right?  Yeah, I thought so, too. 

But that’s not exactly the end of the story. Not anymore. Because the other day, as I recounted this to my children during their ride home from school, this was their response:

Bear (6):  “That is the most terrible thing you’ve ever told me. You should never kill your friends, even imaginary ones. Never tell me about that again.”

Ballerina (5):  “Mommy! That story was awesome! My favorite part was when you said, ‘Good-bye, Dasindoor,’ and then you squashed him! Can you tell it again?”

Being Everything.

A few weeks ago, my little Ballerina’s preschool teacher asked that we parents bring in baby photos of our kids. We were curious why, of course, but we are typical preschool parents; we don’t question random requests of this nature, we just comply.

As it turns out, the baby pictures were used for a sort of look-backward-look-forward project. The teacher taped the baby photos up on the wall next to the kids’ statements of what they want to do or be when they grow up.  Here’s Ballerina’s photo and statement:

I WANT TO DO EVERYTHING!

 I wish I could tell you that this came as a surprise. Nope. I just nodded. So did one of her teachers.

Here is a list of the various things Ballerina has stated, or otherwise indicated during her brief-thus-far but very noticeable life, that she wants to do or be: 

• Olympic swimmer (I have explained to her that it would be helpful to learn how to swim without floaties first, something we’ve been trying to get her to do for years)

• Olympic diver (Her practice involves jumping off the couch in various ways or standing on the floor, spinning and falling down)
• Singer
• Chef

• Teacher
• Farmer

• Storyteller
• Archeologist

• Dancer (Although given the choice between dance class and karate class, she chose karate class)
• Artist
• Jedi knight

• Pole dancer (My response, to my husband: “Honey! We won’t have to pay for college!”)
• Counselor
• Soccer Goalie

• Daycare provider/babysitter
• Lawyer
• Karate champ

• Cheerleader (She is convinced that yelling “U-S-A! U-S-A!” at the television is helping our Olympic athletes win.)
• Comedienne

Interestingly, even though she gravitates toward younger children like blonde dog hair to a dark suit – to the point where other daycare moms constantly tell me how sweetly Ballerina cares for their small kids, holding their hands, reading to them, generally being overbearing – the one thing that Ballerina does not want to be… is a Mom.

This surprises me. A lot. But it's the truth. Ballerina often asks me if she will be required to bear children someday. When I tell her that she can choose to have children or not to have children, it’s entirely up to her, she unerringly says, “Mommy, I don’t want to have my own children. I love kids a lot, but I don’t want to be a Mom. Is that okay?”  Of course, I tell her that it is just fine.

And you know what? It is just fine.  Sure, if this is the path she takes when she grows up, part of me will ache that I won’t get to see the amazing little people she would create and nurture. She has such a way with children already, and such a clear love for them.  But I also know that if she doesn’t want children of her own, then she shouldn’t have them to make someone else happy, even if that someone is her long-suffering Mama. She needs to live the life she envisions. 

It’s her life, after all, and she wants “to do everything.” And I couldn’t be more proud. She has this giant life in front of her. It’s still the beginning of the beginning for my Ballerina. She isn’t trying to find some niche to fill yet, some place to fit in. My bright, perceptive girl already has a sense of her true self, and I hope she clings to it fiercely. She so clearly recognizes the enormity of the world and all of its potential, and she wants to grab hold of it and make it her own. She wants to experience… everything.

That’s my girl.

The Non-Traditional Family... a.k.a. For Papi

This post is dedicated to Papi.

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while, but every time I started, some friend or other of mine would end up in a relationship circumstance that would make this post seem like a response to their situation. Like, “oh, this is happening to her, so I’ll write this post to let her know what I think she should do.” There is a new wrinkle now, however, that is forcing pen to paper – or fingers to the keyboard – in an effort to beat the clock. So to any of my friends reading this who may be going through relationship strife… this is not about you. As far as you know.

Now that that’s out of the way…

I’ve been involved in several conversations over the last couple of years where a friend or other of mine will declare, directly or indirectly, that the core family unit is not to be messed with, no matter what. The underlying – or sometimes out loud in your face oh my gosh couldn’t be more blatant – message is that retaining the core family – the two original parents plus child(ren) – is critical to the wellbeing of the child(ren) and outweighs all else. Don’t get me wrong with what I’m about to say, because I value that this family unit can provide a great foundation for the children, a trusting, stable place of growth and love. Absolutely. But to the idea that this outweighs all other considerations, I have one word: bollocks.

This is not the point where I go on a philosophical rant about my views on relationships or on the resilience of children. Rather, I want to share with you something precious and special about my family that hopefully will simply highlight my perspective on the matter.

When I was two years old, my parents divorced. By the time I turned four, I had a stepmom. And before I turned nine, I also had a stepfather. In the mix, I ended up with a stepsister, three half-sisters and a huge extended family. Oh, and my cousin moved in with us when she and I were fourteen, so she’s also like another sister. My family tree is more like a family mobile. My sister – the stepsister, if you’re trying to keep track – and I used to joke that we’d know we’d met our eventual husbands when we found men willing to learn the complex relationships within our family… or simply willing to learn who is who.

Sidebar about the few brave men who dated my sister and me seriously: Back when we were single gals, my stepfather had an interesting method of sorting out whether a new boyfriend of ours was worthy enough to stick around. Upon meeting a young man she or I brought home to meet “the parents,” my stepfather would ask, “So, you’re the young man sleeping with my daughter?” And then he would sit back and gauge the reply. A reply was required. No escaping it. Poor boys. I think my favorite to this day came from my now-ex-husband: “Better me than you.”

When I look back at my childhood and the years since, one thing is glaringly missing from my youth: animosity between or from my parents. And by “my parents” I mean all four of the adults who dedicated their energy and time and love and support to raising my sisters and me. Think about that for a moment. So often we hear about the struggles and trials of divorce and remarriage, how it’s so painful for everyone, especially the children. And in many cases, it is tremendously difficult. But I am not exaggerating when I say that I cannot remember a moment in time when I truly felt any envy or jealousy or bitterness pass between my parents.

Of course it couldn’t have been easy at first. Any divorce is difficult, even the ones that “need” to happen. Throw a child into the mix, and it’s a thousand times harder. But from what I understand – and yes, I did ask a ton of questions one evening at the ripe old age of twenty-two – my parents agreed pretty much from the get-go that they weren’t going to make this a pissing match, to argue over a marriage that truly needed to end for the sake of salvaging their friendship, but rather would focus on what was important. And to them, what was important was me.

It’s funny, I can’t imagine my parents as a married couple because they are so different from one another in so many ways. But they do have their similarities, and one of those is that they have always told me the same thing about one another, as long as I can recall, whether they know it or not. They tell me that they love each other very much but just couldn’t be married to each other. And knowing them as I do – I am their daughter, after all – I believe they are able to be the good friends they are now because they didn’t force the issue and try to stay together for my sake.

It’s one thing for an intelligent, caring couple to keep things civil, or even tender, during a divorce, but often the second marriage brings its own dynamic.  I have a few very vague memories of the apartment where I lived with my mom and dad, but in all honesty I don’t remember a time when my stepmom was not my stepmom. I don’t remember awkwardly sorting out what our relationship would be. I don’t remember being made to feel like I was invading her space. And I definitely don’t remember ever feeling anything but loved by her. She eventually had her own three little girls, my baby sisters, and while I didn’t get to grow up with them, I never felt like an outsider or second-class daughter, thanks to my dad and stepmom.

Now when my stepfather came into the picture, I was much older, being the ripe old age of eight, and quite settled into the idea that the living arrangement would include my mom and me until I left for college. Along came this man and his bratty daughter, and we were supposed to make room for them in our house and give them towels to use in the bathroom and let them help decide what we ate. Not only that, but this man wanted to enforce rules, rules I already generally followed of course, being the rule follower that I was, but still, he felt it was okay to help keep me in line. And at first, I resisted. A lot.

But then, well… it took a while for me to get it, but I realized that he wasn’t being a jerk, he was being a dad. And he really cared. A lot. He referred to my sister and me as his daughters, with an “s” at the end, and he and my mom worked hard to ensure everything was fair between us. They kind of went overboard about it the first couple of years. For instance, they were so “fair” with our Christmas gifts during those first years that we figured out the parents were Santa when my mom forgot to put out one of my presents. When my sister received one gift more than I, and the rest of our gifts were sitting side by side under the tree like they’d just come off some Noah’s Ark for presents, the look of panic on my mom’s face told the whole story. Well, that and she ran to get the gift and made a joke about how we were figuring out the whole Santa thing already.

Anyway, I digress. The point is that my four parents and four sisters always felt just like that – four parents and four sisters. The “step” and “half” of all of it didn’t seem to matter much.

And that held for the extended families as well. Grandparents. Aunts and uncles. Cousins. Everyone treated me as family. Right from the start. I have so many memories of my aunt playing with me at the beach in Key Biscayne, or following Papi around thinking he was the most awe-inspiring and funny man the world had ever invented. Not only did they play with me and take care of me, they made me feel special and safe and loved. I could bore you for hours, but I will be kind.  The point is that looking back, I cannot be more grateful for how quickly and completely they embraced me. I honestly have to think about it if I’m asked whether a particular family member is a blood relation or someone I’m tied to due to my parents’ second marriages. I don’t think about them as “stepfamily” members. They’re simply my family.

You see, it can happen that the traditional core family can be an incredible factor in a child’s life, if you’re lucky enough to have a family like that. But to say that this core family is the end all be all and that nothing else can match its impact is so narrow and doesn’t allow for the complexity of families and people and children and love. Sometimes love works in a different way, and sometimes a different family format is not what you expect but what is best. And sometimes, if you’re really lucky – and I am so lucky it hurts sometimes – love and people are more accepting and embracing and immense than you can imagine. I know from first-hand experience.

And with that, I want to send out gratitude and adoration and love to my extended, very non-traditional, very enviable family. I am so glad that my parents took the step they did, because only then could you become part of the foundation of my life. I am blessed.

Why Must X = A?

I’m going to apologize ahead of time that this post may be a little rambly and brief, but it’s late, I just watched a really bizarre movie and I’m brownie-drunk (it’s possible, believe me). Still, I’ve had this thought running around in my head all day, and I have an irresistable need to share it with you. You’re like my collective therapist, only I don’t pay you. Sorry. I’m cheap like that.

The thing is, I have several friends who are in various states of de-marriage-ation. That’s just the technical term, of course. The common term is divorce. Oh, you’ve heard of it? Yes, sadly common. For those few of you who have followed my rants for a while, you’re aware that I am divorced. So this is somewhat familiar territory for me.

So that being said, here is my question: Why is it that when people get divorced, so many feel compelled to become enemies? In other words, why must Ex = A(nimosity)? Seriously, people, what is that all about?

Of my friends who have gone through divorces within the past five years, some have been cheated on, while others have been the unfaithful ones. Some ended long marriages where the connection just wasn’t there any longer, and others ended brief, passionate-but-unsustainable marriages. In some cases kids were involved – from very young children to adults with their own families. Some divorces were one-sided and others were mutual. But no matter the scenario, no matter the guilt or innocence of the individual, about 95% of them have one thing in common: extreme bitterness and vitriol.

Now, if you don’t have kids (of any age… adults are still kids where their parents are concerned), be as angry and snitty as you want. Have at it. Snipe and wine and flail and entirely destroy your dignity for all anyone cares. But when kids are in the mix, honestly, unless abuse of some kind was going on, I just don’t get allowing or even encouraging the situation to degenerate so horribly! Why do people do this?

And I’m not even talking about the awfulness where people use their kids as weapons against each other. Like talking negatively about your ex in front of the kids. Or fighting for custody when you didn’t even really help co-parent when you were married. Or sending a kitten “home” with your kid to the other parent’s house… the parent who is allergic to cats.

No, I’m just talking about maintaining a basic level of civility and respect, even if you can’t feel any vague level of friendship toward your ex. Even if you look at your ex and think, “I know I dug you enough at some point to say I DO and even to bear your child, but for the life of me I can’t fathom what I was thinking. I must have been on drugs.”

Not possible, you say? You wager there’s too much pain in divorce, particularly when you throw kids into the mix? Okay, I take your bet and raise you three sets of parents. What do I mean? Well… my Mom and Dad divorced when I was 2 years old. By the time I was 8, I had a Stepdad and a Stepmom as well. And you know what? All four of these parental types get along. And I don’t mean that they tolerate each other’s presence. I mean that they check in on each other. I mean that they really enjoy spending time together. I mean that at both of my weddings, my Mom and Stepmom spent time chatting like long-time girlfriends while my Dad and Stepdad went off to smoke cigars. It seriously freaks out my friends whose divorced parents can’t stand to be in the same building as one another.

My Dad, me, my Stepdad and my Mom

My husband, my Stepmom and one of my 4 (yes 4) sisters.

But that’s only two sets of parents. The third set is my in-laws. They divorced a couple of years ago after a very long marriage. It doesn’t matter for the sake of this ramble why. What matters is that they remain very close. My Father-in-law visits my Mother-in-law often (they live in different states now). They look after each other, even though they are no longer bound to each other by law.

As for me, my Ex and I spent some time not talking after we split up, but we never descended into cruelty during that raw new period during and right after the divorce.  These days we’re Facebook friends. Yes, like, OMG, I know how totally juvenile that sounds, but we live on opposite coasts so IMHO being regular coffee buddies would be a bit challenging. SMH. Are you LOL'ing? Me neither. The point is that we check in on each other here and there to make sure all is well. We can still be not only civil but caring. It’s possible, people. Ex can = F(riend).

So anyway, I guess I’m just saying that I wish more people could realize that divorces don’t have to include spite and fury or trying anything to win or to maim the other person. I mean, it’s a tough situation that’s still going to hurt like hell even if you get the house and the dog and the bank account and custody. Your heart’s still going to feel broken. And if you did bad stuff that led to the divorce, you’re still going to have to figure out how to look yourself in the eye while you’re brushing your teeth.

Am I crazy? Should I petition to rename myself Pollyanna? It doesn’t matter, I guess. I’m going to go have some more brownies and milk, then it's off to bed. Have a fab weekend! Thanks for listening. Don't send me a bill.