with Karli Larson
The transition from stay-at-home mom to divorced-and-working-full-time mom can be challenging, and sometimes very lonely. Throw in a few cats, an ancient dog and one very brave boyfriend, and life gets downright crazy. Join me as I talk through my thoughts and struggles, my miscalculations and my triumphs. We're in this together, you and I.
When I'm not writing here you can find me over at work on the TisBest Philanthropy blog.
I did not know then, nearly 14 years ago, that our collaboration would eventually include two daughters.
It is that time of year, the time of awards and ceremony and graduation and promotion to the next grade.
The girls wanted us to sit together, so they could find us easily. I wish we could have found each other easily.
Would we? Sit together? We warily assessed each other’s faces, came up with a silent I will if you will.
The girls were delighted. His countenance stayed carefully neutral, as has been the case for two years. He seems to just barely recall who I am. I am an acquaintance, now, though he once knew me better than anyone, better than I had ever dreamed of being known.
I know his bulk, his weight, his thick hair, his neck size, every hair on the back of his hands, the scar on one beautiful, strong hand from surgery. It will never be possible for me to sit next to him and pretend he is just another person, just another parent in a necessary crowd. Old habit: I still must remind myself not to rest my head on his shoulder. We are no longer those people.
Our little one bolted back to the parents’ area during yesterday’s awards ceremony. First, she climbed into his broad lap, nuzzling under his neck. Then she squirmed off his lap and into mine. I buried my face in her fine, wispy hair, now scented with the still-familiar spice of his aftershave.
I felt like I was stealing. I was quietly, guiltily grateful for our tiny bumblebee girl, for bringing this unexpected pollen to me.
No one wants to hear this. The world has gone on, and our story is insignificant. Other dramas have replaced ours. This is divorce. This is how it will be. His smell, in our daughter’s hair, never again on my own skin. Her wiggly, petite body, stretched across both of our laps at an annual ceremony—a bridge to nowhere but herself.
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