At the local Christmas Parade with family recently, there were a few ambulances and several fire trucks going by. I noticed the same name on all of them. Surely, there were still enough vehicles at the base to cover an emergency, I speculated with my son’s favorite uncle, who replied, “remember as kids we accepted that amongst the adults there was at least one who knew what they were doing and took charge?”
“Sure,” I replied, “but how does that relate?” he just grinned, raised his eyebrows, and shrugged his shoulders.
Then I got it, now we are the adults, and it’s almost comical how often there is no one taking responsibility for what’s going on. We laughed, rationalizing that of course there must be enough coverage.
I returned to the thought later, how often when navigating the tough stuff, nobody really knows what they are doing or if they are doing it right.
Cohabitating and co-parenting with my ex-husband 3 days a week is one of these things. I’m grateful our rental has enough room to not be under each other’s feet, but there is only one ridiculously undersized kitchen.
I had always presumed there was a basic formula that builders and developers follow, requiring the kitchen area to be proportionate to the size of the home.
Apparently, there is not.
Our kitchen is perfect for a 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom house. That is not our house. We live in a large 3 bedroomed, + bonus room, 2.5 bathroom, 2 living + dining room house. And it is the part of cohabitating I find the most trying.
I have to remind myself to keep perspective and be grateful. Remembering that we had only just separated before COVID struck, and we both lost our jobs, so it made sense to stick together (not in a “reunion” kind of way, more of a “we need to help each other out” way), to provide a sense of stability for our son. I am grateful for our amicable separation, which was the culmination of the previous few years of trying and failing at every attempt to rekindle the relationship. Eventually, you just have to let all the hurt go and honor the fact that you have so much shared history with someone who once was as important to you as breathing.
I remind myself daily there’s no need to take his actions personally, we are divorced. When our lease is up here, I am free to live where and how I want.
When I’m feeling extra irritated with my “roommate”, I also have to remind myself that I really believe people are doing the best they can with what they have.
Even when I want to be judgemental and self-righteous, it feels so good sometimes, to know I am the “rightest” right.
Earlier in our relationship, he would make an effort to be helpful around the house, but as the years wore on, we fell into the crappy gender roles that couples who lose sight of each other often do. My purpose was to keep our family unit running smoothly, while his was to not miss any lunches, football games, or after-work parties with coworkers. But, with my blindfold firmly in place, I kept trying, because he was my person, we had history, a solid amazing sixteen years together, so this was just a “for worse” phase, wasn’t it?
It was not. Loyalty can be a curse sometimes.
I yearn for my own space, where my meatless diet is respected and the house isn’t being filled with cooking meat smells that linger disproportionately. Where I don’t have to spend a day wiping the grease splatters off everything or emptying the fridge of half-eaten meat meals and open soda cans.
I cannot speak with my ex about it, he is firmly in the same thinking place he has been for years. And besides, what would I say that I have not said before? There is nothing new that will come out of my mouth which will have the power to alter the way he hears and perceives me.
I am aware of him trying to pull me back into the person I was 5 years ago because that is when we stopped being able to communicate effectively, but I am not her anymore. She was doing the best she could with what she had too, but after thanking her for her diligence, I let her go.
It took a while, but I found the words to tell him I’m not interested in communicating that way anymore. Which was very empowering.
It’s interesting to be on the other side of previous communication toxicity and choose not to engage anymore. It’s not up to me to sell him on learning new ways to communicate. He is seldom wrong, the only apology I ever hear is a sarcastic SORRY, spat like a curse. I’d rather not hear it, because an apology is supposed to be a soothing balm, not a splash of acid.
It is hard work, especially when you are the only one interested in the work, the only one that desires change, dissatisfied by the current level of communication and honesty, and constantly reaching for more depth and authenticity. But as I’ve discovered over the last few years, people can only be as honest with you as they are with themselves. And there are not many people who are very honest with themselves.
I don’t know what will happen or when, and I don’t know where I will end up or how I am going to pay for any of it. Although, I feel slightly less terrified than I have felt previously. Sure, I never imagined myself living on the other side of the world as a solo mother but things could always be worse.
Life is often like trying to roll a giant marshmallow* up a hill, Sometimes I’m winning, sometimes gravity is winning and the soft shapeless bulk threatens to suffocate me from every angle, but occasionally I look back and see just how far I’ve come.
Which feels pretty good.
- *An analogy from Jen Sincero in Your Are A Badass.
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