Divorce sucks.

Seems pretty obvious, right?  Divorce sucks.  

Well, it's supposed to.  That's the point.  Stay married because divorce sucks.

You're weak if you give up on your marriage.  You're a coward if you run away from your commitments, especially the one to give your children an intact home.  There's no problem so insurmountable, no reason so set in stone, no excuse that makes divorce excusable.

Except what if there is?  What if you fought like hell until you were broken beyond repair?  What if the home you were holding onto was nothing you want those children to move into on their own?  What if divorce is the only answer?

Nope.  Even then, divorce sucks.

It's watching their little faces disappear behind an old apartment door.

It's late night pleas to come give them hugs.

It's excited squeals when he promises them the world.

It's their first firsts that happened on his weekend.

It's arguing over things that never mattered before he packed up his truck.

It's lonely Sunday mornings spent crying in a quiet house that never felt so empty.

It's realizing his control didn't walk out the door with him, it's only gotten stronger.

And.  It.  Sucks.

There are good and valid reasons for divorce.  There are situations so desperate that there really is no other answer.  There are people trying really hard to do the right thing for their children, even in the face of a crowd yelling that they're wrong.

And there are people who, despite the monumental effort it takes at each step, still think sometimes it isn't worth the fight.  Who still sometimes wonder if they shouldn't have just stayed.  People who get so worn down in the struggle.  Who just want divorce to not suck for ten minutes.

If you ask me, and some actually have, don't get divorced.  If you're just tired of the way he ignores you or tired of the way she treats you, stay for as long as you can.  Show up and stand in your marriage, even past the point you marked in the sand as "breaking".

Because divorce sucks.  A lot.

If you're hearing applause, it's in your head

I am a parent.  Have been now for 13 years, 3 months, 28 days, 7 hours - if you don't count the 44 weeks I was a mama before Sofia was where the world could see her.

I have been on duty for every minute of that time, but I'm not a mathematician so I cannot calculate that number for you.  What I can tell you, however, is that parenting is hard.  And, very often, it's not even a little fun.  There's a mountain of work required to call yourself a parent.

And not a single bit of it is done for an audience.  Not a drop of it can be shown on a receipt.

It's sweaty soccer socks and dirty kid panties being washed at 4am because you found them thrown behind the dresser.

It's the hours and hours and days and days of doctors office waiting rooms holding a kid whose nose is basically glued to your shirt with more fluid than can be held in a McBiggie cup.

It's standing in the rain/blazing sun/whiteout blizzard with them while they splash in puddles or practice their new dives or speed headfirst down the backyard slopes.

And it's cleaning... Behind ears and under toilet seats, blowout diapers and projectile vomit, mashed peaches and urine soaked carpets.  It's vacuuming suspicious things because you're afraid to touch them.  It's changing sheets at 2am.  It's bringing fresh clothes to the nurse's office.  

It's quiet.  It's listening to the same story again because they still giggle at the end.  It's calming tears from an hour away because there's nothing else to be done.  It's knowing your children, all of them, whether you understand their passions or not.  

Parenting is regardless.

Of your needs.

Of your schedule.

Of your agenda.

Of you.

Parenting is a lot of work. Boring, mundane, no-accolade work.  It's hard and it is, mostly, thankless. It's not done to impress or sway public opinion.  So, if you're only going to put on an act for the audience, step to the left.  Real parenting is done right.

Freedom isn't free

I don't have a 220+ lb weight on my back anymore.

I don't look at 2 am on my clock anymore in disbelief.

I don't go limp at the sound of a door being nudged open when I clearly closed it for a reason anymore.

And I don't quietly sob in the corner every single night anymore.

Nope.  I got freedom.

The freedom to not know how I'm going to do this for one more minute.

The freedom to have to wait for the kindness of others to get my knee-high grass shorn down.

The freedom to choose between cable and soccer. (Soccer wins every time.)

The freedom to walk out into the world to a job that bores me silly.

The freedom of every other weekend and each Tuesday evening without the three reasons I wake up every weekend and every Tuesday.

The freedom to start at the dirty bottom again.

I gave up everything when I chose to marry him.

And I gave up an all new set of everything when it was well-past over.

Today I lost the last little thing I was holding onto by my last thread of hope.

And I can't tell if it was worth it anymore.

Freedom isn't free.  It costs everything that mattered in the belief that what matters now is worth more.

Today it hurts...it breaks.  

Please let tomorrow be worth it.

Sexy

Know what's sexier than a man who unendingly adores his children?

Nothing.

I don't mean the guy who makes a show out of showing up to some of their public events.  Not the every other weekend man who can only cheer for one kid on the team because that's the only one he knows.  I'm not talking about the father who leaves his kids at home unless there's an audience to impress.

I mean the dad.

Who coaches his daughter's team with no regard for his busy schedule.

Who quietly holds his son's hand to cross the street on the way to the library.

Who takes a seat and lets her splash in the puddles.

Who gathers kids in his front yard for a pickup game.

Who knows the difference between the iwantattention cry and the thisreallyhurts cry.

Who is there rain or shine, audience or no one, regardless of what other plans he made, despite anything else the world is offering on a Friday night.

There is nothing hotter than a man who, without fail, chooses his kids first.

I've known some extremely physically attractive men.  Less than 10% body fat doesn't make up for less than 20% parenting time.

And, I know some *ahem* less than model types.  I don't care what your waist size is, if you know what your son's batting average is and the names of the last two girls he had a crush on - you are my kind of idol.

No, there is nothing sexier than a man who puts his children above all else.  Nothing.

Former daughter

I count the days since my last drink like I'm a recovering alcoholic.  One, two, three, seven...  Not because I am an alcoholic; truthfully, I occasionally have a glass after the girls finally close their doors at night, but never more than one unless they're out of the house.  

I subtly tell everyone I meet that I've never done a single drug or smoked a cigarette.  No, not even weed, not even held it in my mouth...  Not because I know drug addicts anymore; thankfully, the last one has been gone for awhile now, and I know there won't be a next.

I do it because of you.  

I've asked a lot of women whom I respect as mothers and almost all of them agree that they too have a glass or two to wind down after a long day of mothering.  Nothing wrong with that, we all say to each other.  Kids are hard.  Nonstop adulthood is hard.  Relentless responsibilities are hard.  It's ok to ease into a break once in awhile.  

It's when the easing bottoms out into cliff diving.

I've thought of you quite a bit these last few weeks.  It all started on my lonely Mother's Day.  I knew that you too were in a quiet room.  A place of your own making, so there was no pity.  Still, you may have known what day it was.  You may have thought of me.  You may have remembered.

You and I were not exactly a team, as I consider my girls and I to be.  More of an unlikely pair, we made do with each other.  And, not all days were bad.  When you did show up, I learned to relish the peaks of sunlight.  Both flawed and scarred, we managed our own paths.  I don't believe you tried to drown me when you lost your footing on that cliff.  I believe you loved me with what you had.

We don't talk anymore, mom.  But you built me.  From the bricks and mortar of trials and more errors than there are numbers for,  you prepared me for everything I've found along this path.  And, in a lot of ways, you made me the mother I am for the grandchildren you don't know.  While I don't look back fondly, I do look back sometimes and see you in a different light.  

I hope you let the sun warm your face sometimes.  In case you don't, the girls and I walked on this beautiful morning and I felt the warmth for us both.

Keep it to yourself.

Hey, you know that guy?  That one guy you used to love but now can't stand?  Yeah...that one guy who makes your blood boil just by drawing breath?  Or that one chick?  That woman you used to care about and who used to put up with all of your bs?  Yeah, you know the one you have absolutely nothing nice to say about.   You know how much you love to rip them apart to everyone?  How funny it is to recount all of the stupid, ugly, nasty, and often times made up things they've ever done?  How you entertain people with tales, both real and fantasy, about that person every chance you get.

You know who doesn't want to hear those stories?

Their children.

Their kids don't want to hear you go on a rant about every horrible thing that man did.  They don't want to hear all the reasons it's better that he's gone.

Those kids don't need to hear what you imagine their mother is doing.  In fact, it actually pisses them off.

Because that woman you imagine is suddenly a drunk whore is actually their mama.  The woman they look to and trust and adore like no other.

That man you have forgotten every redeeming quality in is actually their father.  The man that represents their only example of how a grown man should be.

Nothing you say is going to change how they feel about the other person, but it sure is changing the way they see you.  They see you as the attacker and it only brings them closer to the parent you're trying to alienate.  They see you as an enemy to their family, even when you're on the inside.  And, they see you as someone who will hurt them in order to make yourself feel better.

So, while I do regale friends with stories of the man I chose to have children with, the only thing my girls hear from me is "he loves you." Because while, let's face it, he and I will never be friends - he will always be their father.  And, that relationship is not one I want to damage.

And, they're not stupid.  Kids get it.  They know who loves them.  They know who is present and involved and actively parenting them.  They know who sleeps across the hall every night, who can recite every friend they've ever had, and who has stood in the rain for them.  No made up stories or outright lies can change who they know their parent to be.  And no sane person would want to try.

So, keep it to yourself.  The fiction you write, the horrors you remember, the darkness you should've left behind.  They don't want to hear it.

And really, they know who you are.  They know who he is.  They know who she is.  And they love you both anyway.

Appreciate it

Don't take it for granted.  

The teacher who quietly loves your kid so much that, on her last day of elementary school, she sobs all the way to the car.

The women who volunteer to give your kids a safe ride home when you can't be there and who send pictures of special moments you would have otherwise missed.

The men who cheer your kids on from the sideline as loudly as they do their own.

The friends who kindly smack your head when you have nothing nice to say about yourself.

The strangers who don't ask questions when your tears spill from behind the sunglasses.

The djs who play just the right songs to make your car bounce with giggles and the greatest dancing this side of the double yellow lines.

The boy who asks your shy girl to be his girlfriend...and the daughter who politely responds... "Eww...gross, no!"

The sunshine on a beautiful afternoon spent with the three most important people in the world.

The chocolate smiles of full bellies.

A stolen few minutes in an otherwise full day. 

The extra hugs they come running back for.

Picking your children up on their last day of school and being the first to see the relieved smiles of newly minted 2nd, 5th, and 8th grade students.

Appreciate every moment on days like this.  

These are the ones we can't take for granted.