The ‘little things’ help you leap through divorce
“Do we think Nanny is at home or at her Frog’s?” I ask my kids, Archer, 7 and Isla, 4 as we turn the corner, approaching my mom’s house. We’ve been staying here for the past several months, since I left my husband and filed for divorce.
Both kids scream, “Her Frog’s!”
We pull into the driveway and I make them wait a beat to up the anticipation. And then, I push the garage door opener that’s hanging from my visor for the big reveal: The garage is empty.
“You guys are goooood,” I say, “Nanny IS at her Frog’s!”
Since we moved in, this has been a running joke: We all refer to my mom’s boyfriend as her ‘Frog.’ Before anyone jumps down my throat, the nickname was not my idea. It was my mom’s. One night, she was reading Archer a bedtime story — some book about frogs — and when I stuck my head in to tell Archer it was time to go to sleep, he earnestly asked, “Mama, did you know Nanny kisses frogs?”
“What?” I ask.
My mom howls. “Oh, I just told him that I’ve kissed a lot of frogs. You know, trying to find a prince,” she explains.
For fuck’s sake, I think. Leave it to my mom to find a way to relate an innocuous children’s book to her lively dating life. And then I think, thank god my mom found a way to relate an innocuous children’s book to her lively dating life. Because as shitty as these last seven months have been, it’s the little things that have kept us going and laughing. It’s so easy to cry. Or scream. Not so much over the end of my marriage — that was inevitable — but more so for my kids and what they’ve been put through.
As an anxiety-prone person, I ruminate about the well-being of my kids. How is this divorce affecting them, I wonder. Do they hate me? Will they hate me? Will one of them hate me and the other hate the one who doesn’t hate me? Or will they live their whole lives with bottled up resentment, only to unleash the furor at the wrong time and place? And Jesus, please let stupid talk shows, like “Dr. Phil,” be nonexistent in 10 years.
Oh, and also, will my kids know how much I love them and that everything I did was to protect them? Will they remember all of the tie-dye, homemade pop-it candy and mochi, unfinished puzzles, my Elsa drawings that Isla screamed looked like Olaf, Friday night ‘dine-in dinner theaters’ on the living room floor, face paintings and impromptu dance parties, playdates and sleepovers, and all of the sunscreen we went through swimming? And every other so-called fun thing I pulled out of the air to take their little minds — and mine — off of the divorce.
“Kids are resilient,” every person to whom I voice my concerns tells me. And, I think they’re probably right. But still, as parents, we worry.
I mean, I haven’t always been able to be fun and put on a brave face for my kids — especially in the beginning. In the early months, I was a mess, hanging on by a thread. I had the kids 70% of the time, in a friend’s small apartment and was working full-time. On bad days, I’d retreat to the bathroom or closet to wail, most times unnoticed.
But then one night, the kids and I were Christmas shopping and a man approached us at the checkout. Isla was flailing on the floor, in the throes of an epic tantrum, while Archer was caressing the gold sequin dress, hanging on the cart, he insisted on buying me for Christmas. The dress was tacky and trashy, but I was not going to say no. I am not the Grinch. Anyway, I was about to insert my debit card when a man came up from behind me, pulled my card away from the machine and inserted his.
“This isn’t anything weird,” he kept telling me as he punched in his pin. “I swear.”
“Are you serious? You don’t have to pay for our stuff,” I told him.
“I want to. I feel like you’ve been struggling. Merry Christmas,” he said and walked away.
All I could think was, thank god he paid for that obnoxious gold dress and not me. And then, through my tears, I scooped up Isla and the three of us loaded ourselves into the car.
“Mama! That man was mean. He made you cry,” Isla was yelling, brow furrowed. “I’m calling the po-po!”
“No,” I tell her. “These are happy tears. They come sometimes when people are kind and do something nice.”
Archer wraps his head around the concept and talks his sister down from calling the police, and she eventually gets it.
We drive back to my friend’s apartment and I wonder what that man saw. Did I really look like I was struggling? Or are there just good people in the world? Or maybe angels do exist? I don’t have the answer, so I tell my kids about Karma. It’s the only thing I believe in at this point, and they buy it.
A few days later, I have a meltdown while running the kids a bath. Archer asks me a question from the other room and I do my best to answer, while gasping for air.
“Mama, why are you crying?” he shouts.
“Archer, I am not crying,” I tell him.
“No defense, Mama,” he says, “but that’s your crying voice.”
I laugh out loud and it snaps me out of my sadness and into the moment. Because just like my mom’s Frog, I will always remember (and hopefully my kids will too) these sweet moments we never would have had, were it not for this situation. Archer’s kindness, Isla’s protectiveness, and my mom’s prowess.
Ribbit.
