Reasonable Question

“Mommy, you know how you don’t love Daddy anymore…I mean, not that you don’t love him or not that you don’t like him, but you know how he makes you sad when he yells at you? Well, do we have to have two camp sites when we go camping?”

blink blink blink


“Well, honey, some day we probably will have two camp sites. And that might be fun because Daddy will cook on his campfire and I will cook on my campfire, and you can choose which campfire dinner to eat. And you can even choose to eat both!”


“For now, we still share a campsite. And we’re a family, even if we live in two houses or have two campsites.”

“And even if we have two marshmallow fires, right?”

“Yeah, Butterbean. Even then. It sounds pretty good to me to have two marshmallow fires.”

“Me, too.”


But it doesn’t sound good to me. It sounds like what we have to do, to be civil and keep the best of what we have to offer the kids, but I’m lying to my son when I say it sounds good to have two marshmallow fires. It sounds like a waste of wood and excessive pollution and too much work. Two campfires sounds to me like the acrid smell that won’t wash out of my hair for two days isn’t even my smell; it belongs, in part, to someone else and it follows me around for the better part of the week, surprising me with an acid taste in my mouth each time I move my head quickly.

Everyone all together was my hope for their childhoods and for my marriage. I don’t want to offer them two homes instead of one, and I don’t want to pay two rents  instead of one. But that’s our reality. Together, Spouse and I fight. Apart we are much kinder. And I’m not going to rehash here the time honored “but they’re happier now and you’re happier now and sometimes marriages just don’t work but you’re doing a great job of making them feel loved even though clearly you made bad choices and probably shouldn’t even be allowed to have children because you’re so bad at decision making” cycle of self loathing some divorced parents go through. Okay, that I go through.

I will say that it’s uncomfortably hard to tell my kids they can’t have the comfort of having everyone who loves them sleep in one house. Or that we can’t split the team and play man-to-man at book-reading time. Instead, there are really only groups of three, and they have to learn to get a lot less solo attention. They’re the center of a Venn diagram, and one of the adults is generally shut out.

What killed me about the campsite question is that he knows there aren’t easy words to put to the situation: it’s not a lack of love or a lack of like…it’s a dynamic between two people who bring out each other’s worst. And they saw it. We were two people treating each other like adversaries instead of partners. And my children felt it. They treat each other like adversaries, too. I feel the guilt of that hourly.

But now they see that two adults can choose to stop being a bad pair and become better people alone. That people can choose to examine their problems and find a solution. A kind solution. A gentle solution. An unwanted but necessary solution.

Later this month I’m giving a talk on finding your blog voice. And staying true to my own writing voice has meant being honest. I don’t blog so I can put on a mask and pretend. For that I have theater. But a blog voice also means permanence and not writing something I’ll regret and want to delete years later. A blog voice means addressing the pain but knowing that just beyond the empathetic friends and sympathetic readers is a future employer who might read this as part of a decision-making process. So being honest and being forever is challenging in transitions like a divorce. I have to talk about solutions but not really explain the problem. I’m not here to air my marriage and its failings. I’m not going to degrade my co-parent in a public forum. And I can’t be here in full therapy mode. That’s not me hiding the truth. But it’s not me being completely frank, either. I’m not comfortable here, right in between a rock and a brick wall.

This blog is where I tell my stories, and aching for my kids that their family seems incomplete, no matter how we configure it, is my story right now. I want to tell that story. Carefully.

Thankfully, my sons’ version of this story is a delightful revisionist world in which they get double marshmallows.

Maybe they’ll share with you.


photo credit: John Morgan via creative commons

photo credit: John Morgan via creative commons


8 thoughts on “Reasonable Question

  1. This is the work. And I can’t imagine how much restraint you practice, but you do. What I can tell you, is I respect, tremendously, how you have not taken your blog or your twitter or your FB page or any other platform to wish you bad on your husband or air the details. These are things that may make the writer feel good for that moment, but the permanency of those words, it’s so sad how people don’t realize the poison and permanency of those words. You’re taking one for the team, a trite expression, and yet, it fits. You keep it inside, you process it, you realize it’s between you and him, and the kids and the world, don’t have to know the minute details behind it. Why, right? xo

    • Many bloggers much wiser than I am have said something to the tune of, “when you can’t or don’t want to share the details, take the feeling of those details, and tell the truth of those feelings.” We’re not readers or writers for the details. We’re here for the universal. The “I wasn’t enough so where do I go from here?” Evergreen content, right?

      I don’t get anything for telling people I was a bad wife. The choices I made, the actions I took, the words I used are as interesting as what choices I’m going to make now, how I will struggle to take different actions, and why I will choose different words. We all screw up. What’s interesting lies in what comes next, not who did what and when.

  2. You do a beautiful job of telling your stories in an honest but careful way. Good luck with your talk! Sounds like a good one.

    No one can argue with double marshmallows.

  3. This is very painful for me to read. I was surprised because my own divorce is now two years behind me and we have all “adjusted”. So.Freakin’.Hard…

    • It feels harder to do the right thing than to muddle through in the wrong. That’s a life lesson. The road less traveled is about growth and persistence and kindness, and the easy way is gross. But easy.

Comments are closed.