I continue to be amazed when I meet and know parents who’ve divorced, with how many variations there are of the experience and how commonly held the fears about the kids experiencing the process.
mine is one of a super privileged type: i was able to keep my house, and live in it. i have the kids all week, he has them three weekends a month, and dinner on tuesdays. during the summer tuesdays become a sleepover!
i’ve seen parents who can’t afford to house their children after the divorce and so have family take them in, while the former spouse refuses to pay child support.
i’ve seen parents move in with new boyfriends just to provide that ‘stable’ thing they’ve always dreamed of for their kids. fingers crossed on that particular one.
I’ve seen parents stay living in the same house, but different rooms, in a state of near constant rage and hurt and despair because the money is so complicated and the kids aren’t even told. (imagine what that is like to live in?)
i’ve seen women get full time jobs and have their moms move in to help.
i’ve seen dads fighting for full custody against social norms and expectations. but, man, do they have to fight.
i know so many divorced people who have such great nostalgia for the ‘time before’ the divorce, not because they love that person anymore, but because they ‘loved’ that person once upon a time, and the sadness of that loss is still with them, compounded by the sadness and pain of the divorce process and the acquisition of worry for the kids.
i’m one of them. i find it very difficult during these end of the year school things to not have the person i created these kids with by my side. and when i do have him literally there? to realize that the man i was married to is gone, again, replaced by an irritating stranger who hurts my feelings by looking so much like someone i miss.
hmm. this is really quite a grabbag post about divorced parents. how’d you like that ramble? sheesh. Anyhow. Not divorced? Go hug someone who is, because man, this is a doozy.
and it just keeps going on. . .
