Co-Parenting

Erik and I never fought. In the five years since the issue that finally drove us apart became apparent, we fought four, maybe five times over it, and the same number of times on other issues. There is a gag order in the separation agreement that prevents me from discussing those issues (I think I'm allowed to mention the gag order, though), and skirting around it now is as challenging as it has been since the summer. But we never fought about what broke us up. Instead the Monster set up residence in the living room and we perfected the art of walking around it. (Monster? What Monster? That's a futon.)

And so, as most of you know, I decided to leave, believing that it was better for Frances to have two happy parents who lived apart than two fucked-up parents who lived together--and having accepted that there was no solving the fucked-up-ness. That five years was more than enough time for there to be at least some glimmerings of the beginnings of improvement or change, and there wasn't any, and there never was going to be. But it was still a leap of faith. I suspected that I would be a better mother, I believed Frances would be better off, but I didn't really know and I couldn't know until I had my own place and Frances and I were living there.

And while it's true that studies consistently show that exposure to constant conflict between parents is much worse than divorced parents (thanks to my data source, Liz, for reminding me so frequently), and that the kids of divorced parents do just as well as their nuclear-familied peers when controlled for socioeconomic status and other factors--it's also true that Erik and I never fought. We glared, we simmered, we avoided, we sniped, but we never fought. So I wasn't sure how that would play out for my wee girl, and thus for me.

I believed that it would be easy. I believed I would move out and be again the person I thought I still was, under all the anger, except a lot more tired. But I didn't know, and underneath there were doubts. How sure was I, really? How could it be that easy to dissolve a ten-year-old bond? How easy would it be for Frances--would she regress, would we struggle with new problems to replace the old? Surely I would find, when I moved, that I missed him more than I thought, that it was harder than I thought, that Frances would struggle more and my increased peace of mind could not compensate.

But it was that easy. It shouldn't have been, but it was. Overnight I was no longer angry. I got to be the mother I wanted to be and thought I could be again.

It's a loss for Frances, and I don't want to minimize that. She feels her father's absence keenly, I know. But she has a mother again, and that counts for a lot. And the truth is that Erik and I are much better co-parents than we were spouses (for the last few years anyway); as some of you mentioned on the Worry post--we don't talk about anything but Frances, but when it comes to her we talk exhaustively. Every bit of news is shared, all the documents passed back and forth regarding school and daycare. She can tell me when she misses her Daddy, and then she and I sit down and think of ways to help (maybe calling him, or writing a letter, or making him a picture, or just a snuggle on the couch). We rearrange our lives and schedules to give her what she needs when we have to. Frances is a very well-loved little girl with two devoted parents. She would prefer that we all live together, I know, and it makes me sad to realize that I can't give her two devoted parents in the same house.

But Frances's family has not changed. Her living situation has changed (and significantly) and that makes her sad, but when she draws a picture of her family, it still includes Frances, me, Erik and Roxie the cat.

Posted by Andrea at December 19, 2007 9:18 AM under Decision 2007 , Single Momming

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