It’s never been easy for me to make a decision. I live in in a constant state of the middle, teetering back and forth between this nail polish color or that one, Sprouts or Safeway, Paul Simon or U2, A Star is Born or Sixteen Candles, etc.. I promised myself, though, when I had kids that I would make every decision based upon their best interest. No more wibble-wobble. Being a parent somehow makes us place rules on our lives, albeit invented or purely imagined. After years of toxicity and hell in my last relationship, I was losing. My value, my trust, my hope, myself. Yeah, I know. I was pretty amazing at keeping it all together on the outside. Years of being an introvert as a child had prepared me for placating the cracks that eagerly rammed their way to the surface. Eventually, the life that I had worked so fucking hard to keep together started to decay, rot. It was like breaking a plate of china, all the pieces scattered around, jagged edges, cutting feet, hiding under nooks. Around July of last year, I made the best and most difficult decision of my life. I filed for divorce. My ex had moved out, slithered around, texting he was leaving the country and that maybe he would come back, maybe he wouldn’t. He came back. One week on, one week off was our parenting schedule. It is like Karate Kid but without wax. By January, we were divorced. Finances, parenting time, holidays, decision making, property were all sliced with an Exacto knife of a decree.
OneRadMama 