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New Beginnings
By Robin Schafer
There was no one thing that ended my marriage. Sometimes it felt like
everything caving in at once, at others, it was one thing after another.
Since I'm the one who likes motion and action when things get difficult,
I was always willing to try something else to make it work. But this was
not something I could fix. Toward the end, I was actually unwilling to
make any further attempts at resuscitation. I embarked on a path for my
life that I did not want, could not change and feared greatly. And like
any ending, it was also a beginning.
It's hard to imagine all the changes that your life will take when you
can't see past tomorrow. I remember feeling profoundly tired. I used to
complain that I was a single parent before I was divorced, but now it
was staring me in the face. Just for the record, I do not recommend "profoundly
tired" as the desirable state of mind for taking on any kind of parenting.
But we can't always choose, can we?
I took on physical loneliness to match my emotional loneliness when my
husband and I separated. I became solely responsible for two children:
Savanna, age 2, and Jessica, age 3. I had my job as a Quality Control
Inspector (making under $18,000 per year) and all the upkeep of our home.
I also had a 30-mile, one-way, commute to work. I made it each day with
the children because their daycare was down the street from my job. About
eight months after my husband walked out the door and the dust began to
settle from the initial mess and chaos, I began looking for a place to
live in the town where I worked.
For five months I looked for places. I spent lunch hours meeting landlords
and apartment managers. I spent evenings checking the newspapers. I asked
co-workers where the best neighborhoods were and I cringed at the cost
of living in those areas. Any way I looked at it, the budget was small.
It was useless to consider the areas I could easily afford because they
were so run down. I began to think there was no place we could move that
would be safe, affordable and nice.
Then, one morning, an ad in the newspaper seemed to jump off the page
at me. When I called, the terms were reasonable, the description was appealing,
and it was located near my work; in fact, I had passed it several times
en route to other apartments. When I saw the unit, I was shocked at how
much I liked it. The area, the rent, the layout, and the amenities were
absolutely perfect for me. I spoke with the managers and agreed to a credit
check so we could start a lease. I had found the place where I wanted
to live.
And so, one year after I separated from my husband, I had found the place
where my two daughters and I would start over. It was a short distance
to move -- thirty miles from my present location -- and only minutes from
my work. It scared me, though, because it meant being even farther from
my family, whom I saw as my safety net when this little experiment failed.
Still, the girls were 3 and 4 now and seasoned commuters. We were willing
to take on the higher cost of living for less road time.
It was a huge undertaking for me. The emotional baggage and the facing
of my fears brought the tender wounds of my separation directly to the
surface. Still a fresh "single parent," I lacked confidence
in the responsibility of impacting three lives in every decision I made.
I could fixate on thoughts like, "Am I adding to the trauma in my
children's lives?" and "What am I not seeing about this decision
that will overwhelm me next month, year, life?", etc.
To add to the burden, the girl's dad had gone "home" to the
East Coast the week after our separation and completely disappeared out
of our lives. In one year, he had called a total of four times, acknowledged
one celebration, and sent no financial support. He wouldn't even give
us a phone number or address because he wanted to stall the divorce. I
couldn't be sure that moving wasn't just my selfish desire to get away
from the things he and I had shared.
So I worried. I worried that the last connection the girls had with their
dad was mystically part of the home we had lived in together. I worried
that the self protecting steps I took in ending my marriage had been an
explosion in the lives of my daughters. I worried that moving was another
one. I braced myself for disaster and prayed that, whatever happened,
maybe my kids would be too young to remember the fallout. With tenuous
courage, I began to pack.
Some things I had in my favor. My job had career potential, friends and
family were extremely helpful, and I had a fierce determination to move
beyond the emotional mess I was in. I knew I would face financial problems
as a result of the divorce. To be honest, I thought financial problems
would be the lightest sentence out there.
I wanted to build a family and a home the girls and I could appreciate
and be proud of. With that in mind, I chose the values I wanted to teach
my children. I decided not to feel sorry for myself. I gave honest and
truth more emphasis than they had gotten before. I nurtured self esteem,
cultivated compassion, and found ways to be generous even when it seemed
impossible. I really wanted us to know wealth and beauty in our lives
that didn't come from material possessions.
It was all hard work. Preparing to move in the midst of my altered life
was asking a lot. At first it seemed like Moving Day would never arrive.
Then it leaped up at light speed. In all the orchestration, I was looking
for a sign that things would be all right. We were tired of change and
felt like it had been months since anything had been normal. When my family
came to help with the hauling, somehow it all just happened. There were
boxes and voices and music and feelings and surprises and exhaustion.
I really can't remember specifically what happened, but it got us moved.
After the family and helpers left, Jessica, Savanna and I were alone.
We all seemed to settle into a resting place to savor our newborn home.
Jessica, my little explorer, began moving from box to box, apparently
verifying familiar objects. Eventually she moved on to the kitchen.
Naturally, she opened the refrigerator door to search for a snack. Just
as naturally, in a brand new place (although she didn't know this) the
shelves in the fridge were empty. She closed the door with a thoughtful
expression and headed back through the obstacles toward me. Her four-year-old
face was absolutely straight when she asked me: "Mom, when we have
nothing in the fridge, does that mean we're poor?"
The intuitive leap her young mind was making really impressed me. Equally
as satisfying to me was the truth of my response and how naturally it
flowed from my heart: "No, Honey, that just means we don't have any
food. We're poor when we don't have anyone that we love or loves us back."
"Oh, yeah. That's right. When we're out of food, we can just ask
the neighbors."
I laughed and hugged her and agreed. Then she said something that shone
a light on the hope I have found so abundant in my experience as a parent:
"Mom, we better go out and make friends with our new neighbors. In
case they are poor and need more love. We'll share ours."
That was my sign. I could tell that we already had a good start.
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