Breaking

There’s a reason I’ve not posted in a while, namely the breakdown of my marriage.

One of the last things I did post was this commentary on my fortieth birthday. I ended it with this paragraph:

Fifteen years ago, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with my husband. The idea of us turning forty together seemed quaintly romantic. Now it's our reality (we're halfway there... he'll be forty in a few months), and that's perhaps the best thing about today. I know better than to think this means "Happily Ever After," but I still feel that there's a hell of a lot of "Ever After" to come. So far, time remains on our side.

That was December 18^th. On January 24^th, my husband, Rich, sat me down and told me he didn’t love me any more. In fact, he hadn’t loved me for five years. He moved out on February 12^th, days before his own fortieth birthday.

Clearly, I did not see this coming.

In retrospect, I could have done. The signs were there… some of them I misattributed to other things, and some of them I dismissed as my own paranoia. Perhaps uncoincidentally, I’ve also been battling self-esteem issues over the past five years. 

Some of them I did take seriously. I had had my own issues with our relationship and a couple of years earlier, I had found myself wondering if I still loved him. I came to the conclusion that I did; Rich reached the opposite one. Awkward, huh?

However, we had much the same reaction to these conclusions, which was to deal with it ourselves—without saying a word of our doubts to each other. Rich chose to stay for the family’s sake and try to enjoy life if not his marriage; I chose to address what was bothering me about our relationship by myself. Occasionally, we would talk to each other about specific problems, but we didn’t provide the wider context. The general result was that we each felt our own issues outweighed the other person’s apparently petty concerns and the other person wasn’t taking our problems seriously.

There are many things I’d like to change about how we handled the last few years, but the big one would have been for either of us to get marriage counselling as soon as we had doubts. In retrospect, that’s just common sense.

However, it’s a really big deal to tell somebody your love for them has died when you’ve built a life, family and future together. By the time Rich had the nerve to tell me, it was because he was at the end of his rope. He no longer had the emotional reserves to try to save the marriage. We very briefly did try… we got a therapist who did couples counselling, but he gave up before our first session. It had been too long and there was too much negativity attached to the very idea of staying married. Too much attached to me.

Heartbreak

It devastated me. We’d been married for thirteen years, but the number that resonates with me is sixteen. I’d loved him for sixteen years. I don’t open up to people easily; I’d never fallen in love before Rich. When I did fall in love, I loved absolutely. He was my confidante, my support, my best friend—I was closer to him than I’ve ever been to anybody else.

I’m not the first person to go through a heartbreak; they say everybody should experience it once. I don’t personally recommend it. The tears and despair were predictable, but not controllable. I got used to crying in public places and in front of everybody I knew. I got used to hiding in my bedroom or bathroom, so the kids wouldn’t see me breaking down. (My daughter noticed. She started giving my face sharp looks if I acted vague around her. My son remained oblivious, as I discovered last week when he was stunned by his sister’s revelation that I cry.)

Less expected were the psychosomatic symptoms. For two and a half months, I walked around with two burning holes in my collarbone, one on the left and one on the right. I could have pointed to the exact spots, yet they were just representations of a figurative uprooting: we had intertwined our lives and souls, so these were the holes left behind after he ripped himself out of me. Ridiculously sentimental, yet the physical pain was real.

One of the hardest things about this—and something not unique to my experience—was how this person I loved became somebody I didn’t recognise overnight. There’s a reason there are so many horror movies based on a loved one changing and trying to hurt you. It’s a nightmarish scenario. Rich looked and sounded like the person I knew, but it felt as if every time I tried to reach for him, he wasn’t there. The man who tried so hard to please others now rejected me at every turn. My life was crashing down around me, and my confidante, my support system, was deliberately pulling away.

This led to the constant feeling of exclusion, these ongoing micro-rejections: Every time he said he was busy and didn’t elaborate; Every time I saw him tagged on Facebook; Every time he and the kids went out. Discomfitingly, I was jealous of my own children: he was constantly asserting how he still loved them, wanted to be there for them, wanted to spend time with them, and while I knew full well how he intended those statements, I couldn’t help seeing the negative implication: he loved the kids, he just couldn’t bear to be around me. (Thankfully, I resented him for this and not the children, but I wonder how common it is for that bitterness to be channeled towards the kids in these situations.)

From Rich’s point of view, this was agony for him too. We had a memorable parent teacher conference this spring, where the teacher spent five minutes telling us that our daughter was doing great and twenty-five minutes comforting us both as we wept. Rich avoided me in part for fear of hurting me more. He wanted to rip off the band aid and get through this trauma as quickly as possible.

I wanted to take things one step at a time. I knew from friends’ experience that there would come a time when I would stop loving him, when I might even want to have a relationship with somebody else. Yet in the thick of it, knowing that was painful. I didn’t want that to be how our story ended. For us to be just another statistic.

Of course, after a few months, I did get past that initial basketcase stage of the heartbreak. For three weeks in April, I felt normal: I could have a shower or otherwise let my mind wander without randomly bursting into tears and/or hyperventilating. Then Rich filed for divorce, and I plunged back into fear and depression.

Stakes of Divorce

One thing that does distinguish our case from most others is our legal immigration status. I’m in the country as Rich’s dependent. Our visas are tied to his job. If we divorce, I lose my visa and have thirty days to get out of the country. (Same thing if he dies; it’s pretty brutal.) Obviously, I do have children with American citizenship, but the whole anchor baby thing is not nearly as straightforward as the media likes to make out. It’s all a very complicated issue, and I’m not nearly well informed enough to comment here. Suffice to say, my immigration options are in no way guaranteed… nor necessarily desirable.

From the moment Rich told me, back in January, I’ve known my future here was in question and that the most secure path for me was to do what I’ve wanted to do for years and move back to the UK. I never dreamed that I would leave Rich behind when I did so: I would be losing my home and my friends while having to rebuild a life without my partner.

Of course, if Rich and I are on different continents, that means the children will end up separated from one of their parents by an ocean. The stakes are high for us, and this is a situation where there is no ‘right’ decision (be that to divorce or not to divorce or how to divorce.)

Even if there was a right decision, I never had the power to make it. I couldn’t make Rich try to save the marriage, I couldn’t stop him filing for divorce. I have never been so angry with another person as I was when he filed so quickly—and I have never had so much difficulty letting that anger go. (I remain adamant that rushing a divorce within three months of separation is a terrible idea; it requires a great many decisions that will influence the rest of your lives, and you don’t want to make those when the wounds are so raw.) However, fighting a divorce is rarely successful, wastes time, effort and money… and damages the relationship further.

My anger was accompanied by fear, because I was so powerless to stop what was happening, because I was so vulnerable from a legal standpoint, and because I already did not recognise this man whom I had loved for sixteen years and whom my life was still tied to: he had left me with our children, cats and house. While I far prefer my outcome to his, I was dealing with all those responsibilities on top of everything else and reporting to him on what was going on with them (and by extension, me).

Conversely, I never knew very much about what was going on with Rich’s new life. It wasn’t my business to know, most of the time I didn’t want to know, but that imbalance in our new relationship only worsened the feeling that I was trapped and at his mercy.

For weeks, I couldn’t look him in the face when he came over to pick up the kids or drop them off. I wouldn’t let him touch me. I had my first full-fledged panic attack during that time—thankfully it was while the kids were at school, it only lasted fifteen minutes and I managed to get myself out of it by texting friends, but I never want to do that again. (This situation has given me all the sympathy in the world for people who deal with this level and more of depression and anxiety as their norm.) 

I couldn’t fix the situation and I couldn’t escape it, so I lashed out. When I felt provoked, I would snap and scream at him, wanting to hurt him, wanting to see him share some of the pain he had caused me. 

As usual, time took the edges off my emotion, and while there are many things I have been unable to forgive, we fought painfully to work past that and resume some semblance of cordiality, of amicability, and ultimately of functionality. This week, we were finally able to tell the children about the divorce without casting blame on each other. 

There are two reasons Rich and I need to protect what relationship we have left: our son and daughter.

Co-Parenting

From talking to my friends, I’ve realized that there’s a sizeable difference between divorces where there aren’t children (still at home) and ones where there are. My friends who didn’t have kids were much quicker to tell their spouses where they could go, to embrace their new life with an indignant pride. Friends who did have kids were slower, for the simple reason that they were tied to their spouses regardless: they still had to share parenting decisions. Some of my friends have ended up with no relationship with their exes anyway; I know from their experience that it’s incredibly hard to raise children like that, when there’s no trust or respect between the two partners any more. Clearly, it’s not ideal for the children either.

A phrase I have used many times is: “I am prepared to swallow an awful lot of pride for the sake of my children.”

So despite the clashes, despite the conflicting views of how to move forward, Rich and I continue to work on our co-parenting relationship, and we try to protect each other’s relationship with the kids. One of the first pacts we made, back on January 24^th, when he told me, was that we were going to know each other for the rest of our lives, that we were going to be friends for the rest of our lives. It’s not been an easy one to keep… it might yet be broken… but it continues to be our goal.

One of the things we have done right was to continue seeing our therapist even after giving up on the marriage: we had couples’ sessions to manage the break up for a few months, and now we see her individually, with the option to have a dual session if we want. Personally, I find it comforting to know that she gets the full story, not just my slanted view. It makes me trust her advice/opinion more. Without the therapy, I don’t know how either of us would have made it through my anger/fear stage.

Another thing I did right predates all of this: Last year, I had enrolled in a distance learning course to get a British Montessori qualification. This gave me some immediate structure for building a new life: finish the course, find a job at a UK Montessori preschool and move to wherever that school is. (I have no particular ‘base’ in the UK.) This has been a lifeline in an otherwise overwhelming transition. It gave me the series of steps to follow: I still find it difficult to think too far ahead, but for now I can focus on my course, and know that I’m progressing without having to plan the rest of the route—obviously, the details have yet to be filled in, but the idea is that in summer 2019, I will move back to the UK.

For Rich, the transition to the new life has already been made. He has a new home, a new relationship and is integrating that with the same friends, same job. We’re at a completely different place in our process, and that’s something we both struggle with in our expectations of each other.

But we still care enough about each other to make the effort. That’s the thing about a long-term relationship ending. For sixteen years (and lots of marriages terminate after longer), we’ve been in the habit of caring for each other. That doesn’t switch off even if the romantic love goes away. As angry as I get with Rich, it can still be hard for me to hear other people be angry with him, because I still want to protect him. It took me a long time to realise it, but I spent most of this process trying to rescue Old Rich (i.e. the man I loved) from New Rich (i.e. the man I feared), and my therapist had to point out to me that the two Rich’s weren’t totally disparate people.

I don’t just have a relationship with Rich, I have a relationship with his family too. In March, I took the kids to the UK for my cousin’s wedding; I stayed with Rich’s sister, and she and his mother accompanied me to the wedding. This was important to me as a gesture for the kids that both sides of their family could still come together, but these are also women I like and care about and who were unstinting sources of comfort and support to me at that stressful time.

Rich and I will probably always view each other as family on some level. No doubt it will take us both a while to straighten out the boundaries of that—what’s acceptable, what’s essential, and what’s a leftover habit of marriage that would be better dropped—but estrangement isn’t an option either of us are prepared to accept.

Postscript

This is a messy and occasionally paradoxical post, but emotions are messy and paradoxical, and there are a lot of contextual details that I have omitted because they’re not appropriate for this blog. Obviously, I have only touched on Rich’s perspective in all this, and crucially, I haven’t gone into the kids’ reactions at all. Those aren’t my stories to tell. So bear in mind this is a skewed perspective. However, it’s an update on where I am for those who have wanted it, and hopefully, it’s an insight into some of these emotional processes for any who need it.

Last call for snow in Vermont

Tuesday morning, Boxing Day, my brother and sister-in-law left bright and early, and we were bleary-eyed and dopey as we saw them off in the coldest temperatures we'd had yet.

It was our last day, but we were agreed we wanted to take it a little easier. We all got one request for what to do: my husband and son wanted to try skiing. My daughter (who, as we recall, is frequently Done With Snow) voted for the indoor pool. I was interested in another snow-shoe expedition. So after some hasty scheduling, my husband took the kids swimming while I joined a tour on winter survival.

From my limited experience, it seems that all snowshoe guides will take you off trail at the first opportunity, although in this case we were finding a spot to gather wood and build a fire. The kids and I had made little, fifteen-minute, fires over the summer and even bought a flint (we have yet to turn sparks into a fire). This minimal grounding made me the most experienced member of the group, so I helpfully advised the teenage boys with the firestarter tool to "try hitting it really hard."

Peeling papery bark from birch trees for kindling

Digging a hole in the snow for a firepit

Not that it worked as the bark was too cold for sparks to take. Our guide had some char cloth and scraps of frayed rope; a spark got the cloth smouldering and that ignited the rope, but it still took a couple more attempts before we could get anything but the bark to burn. The resultant fire gave off so little heat that we were colder standing around it than we were walking—obviously we only had a few minutes and were just using sticks, but coaxing a fire to burn larger logs would be a long, daunting test of patience in sub-zero temperatures.

The other people in the party were a family from New York (Mom and teenage sons, all prepared for the cold) and a family from Florida—three adults, three kids, all wearing snow boots but, crucially, jeans and leggings rather than snow pants. Ironically, the latter gave us our biggest lesson in winter survival as the loose powdery snow found its way into their boots then packed around their feet. We had to cut the walk short (only by a little) because they were too cold to safely continue. This made me appreciate how well our hastily assembled warm weather gear actually worked. Kitting us all out for the holiday had been a big expense on top of the already costly resort booking, but for the entire trip, we stayed warm and dry.

Meanwhile, the rest of my family had stripped down to swimming costumes to enjoy a warm hour or so in the pool. This was nothing fancy (the resort has a nicer pool with slides and such for the summer... outdoors), but it had a floating basketball hoop. More importantly, it was warm and a welcome change from muffling up for snow-play.

 
After lunch, the boys went off for a skiing lesson—neither had tried it before, and they soon discovered that two hours is a long, painful, introduction to the sport. They were sore and aching long before the end. My daughter decided to get our money's worth out of the fireplace by sitting next to it while playing on her iPad. To be fair, we don't have a fireplace at home, so this was a vacation treat. I decided to pick my battles, and instead of dragging her out into the cold, I used the time for some clearing up and packing. I didn't want to leave it all for the evening, as I had other plans...

Those plans were I Did A Sled, a scheduled activity at the introductory ski slope. The resort provided all comers with cardboard and duct tape, and we had forty minutes to build a sled before putting our creation to the test—with ourselves as guinea pigs. True to stereotype, Dad took over the design, our daughter did the bulk of the painting, I sat back and took pictures and our son mostly got in everybody else's way. We probably spent at least fifteen minutes of the build time just on a cardboard Union Jack.

When time was called, I felt reasonably confident in our creation until we found ourselves looking down from the top of the hill. Our sled could hold three, and my husband volunteered to sit out, which seemed less sacrificial as we sat at the crest of the slope, realising that we had absolutely no idea how fast we were going to go down.

The answer was "very fast", but fortunately not "too fast". (Unfortunately, in terms of the competition, "not fast enough!" For anybody seeking to create a cardboard sled, the biggest tip I can give you is to ride lying down.)

Most surprising of all, the sled survived the run—if not fully intact. We were told that the lights would be on for another hour, so we could slide down as many times as we wanted. My husband promptly ran back to our condo and got our actual sled. We spent a good half hour riding down that hill, long after everybody else had got bored and left. Best sledding conditions we've ever had—even our daughter loved every minute. It proved to be a fantastic high note to end our holiday on.

The next day, the temperatures plummeted, which made it easier to say goodbye and head south. We did take a few minutes to try freezing bubbles again—except the kids weren't interested, so it was just my husband and myself messing around with this little bit of physics.

Frozen to the wood.

I poked a hole in the top. For science!

All that was left was checking out and the long, long drive home. The cold followed us down. Good thing we've got all the gear to protect against it! We're already talking about doing another trip to colder climes since we do have the warm clothes... just don't tell my daughter.

White Christmas for Dog-lovers

Since we were going away for Christmas, which I don't typically like doing (even if it was my idea), I wanted to do something really special and unique on Christmas Day. That ended up being Eden Dogsledding, about thirty miles from our Vermont resort. After a phonecall with Jim Blair, the owner, we booked for Christmas Day with the advice to obtain a four wheel drive vehicle to manage the hill road.

Renting a four wheel drive car in Virginia is not an easy task, but the Toyota dealership said they could do it, so we reserved one. When we went to pick it up on the 22nd, we found ourselves with a vehicle that had a snow mode and big wheels... but was not four wheel drive.

We were a few hours from departing for Vermont, and we had no fallback plan, so we took the car, demanded a discount and hoped for good weather. By the time we reached Smugglers' Notch the following evening, a blizzard was predicted for Christmas Day. My brother and his wife had originally intended to stay with us through Christmas morning, and drive down to her grandmother's for Christmas dinner, but once they saw the weather forecast, they decided to extend their stay with us.

Easy for them. We needed to figure out a fallback plan to get to Eden. My husband spent yesterday evening making phone calls to Jim and various people at Smugglers' Notch to see what our options were. Smugglers' Notch thought they might be able to provide us with transport (at a cost) and we also found there was a taxi service with four wheel drive, but ultimately, Jim kindly offered to meet us at a general store on the main road and give us a lift the rest of the way—this is not normally part of the service, and we appreciated the extra effort he went to so we could make our booking.

The kids woke up this morning to find that Santa had filled their stockings and left a handful of presents (the rest are waiting under the tree at home.) The adults woke up to find that most of the snow had dumped overnight, and while more would blow through in the middle of the day, it wouldn't be as bad as first predicted.

This mean we had a fairly straightforward drive through snowy roads under clear skies to the car park where we'd wait for Jim. When he arrived, he came with a passenger: Rose, a fifteen year old former sled dog, who was horrified to discover that she had to share her backseat with me and the kids. The kids were delighted, but Rose was just a preview. When we got there, there was immediate barking and jumping up from the shelter next to us, and then we went inside to find another dozen dogs scattered through the waiting area.

On the sofa with Leonard and Mufasa.

The dogsledding experience was three hours of time with the dogs: forty-five minutes of it, out on the sled, and the rest was interacting with them. For me and the kids, the dog-lovers of the family, this was paradise, and even my avowed cat person of a husband got a kick out of getting to know the pack.

We spent almost an hour loving and playing with the group, while Jim figured out who would make up the team that day. He brought in a handful of other dogs and showed us how to harness them, before we all bundled up to head outside and hitch them to the sled.

Our seven strong team: Aslan who not only knew his commands but knew to choose the other way when we came back to the same intersection. Mitzy (so little!) who was still learning her gee from her haw, but jumped up at us to give kisses. Jersey who hid in his corner under the television until it was time to go, gazed at us devotedly during the post-ride treats, and then went straight back to his hermit spot once they were done. Princess (she must have had some black lab in her) who shivered when we stroked her but stood boldly on her hind legs for treats. Rambo whose blue eyes gazed lovingly into mine, and who pawed me every time I stopped stroking him. Brima, the only one who could care less about the treats, but adored every scrap of attention we gave her. Leonard, the lone runner, who ignored us from his preferred corner on the sofa, left it reluctantly to be harnessed and reclaimed it the moment we returned. Mufasa, who had the other end of the sofa, but tapped us to get our attention so he could be loved too. Finally, Phyllis, who did not follow us outside once harnessed but sneaked back to get the bed she wanted and had to be retrieved so we could start.

Harnessing Brima while Princess and Rambo wait for their turn.

Besides these guys and Rose, we also met Simba who followed us around, pawed us and leaned into any attention we gave him. (Mufasa, Aslan, Leonard, Simba and another dog called Llewellyn were all part of the same July litter.) Bandit, the skinny one, who was originally going to be on our team, but Jim looked him over, gave him the day off and hauled Leonard on board instead. Grettel, Waffle, Lucky, and Flint, also hanging around and taking caresses where available. Ben and Jerry, the ten month old puppies who were racing around the outdoor pens with another dog, watching for the sled to go by. And a few more of the thirty-six dogs total.

Sympathy strokes for Ben and Jerry who so badly wanted to be in on the action.

After all our concerns that we were going to be sledding through a blizzard, trying not to freeze, the conditions ended up being absolutely perfect. Fresh snow on the ground, no wind to blow it off the trees, and the sun peeking through just a little bit. The trails criss-crossed all through the forest: uphill was sedate going, allowing us to admire the wintry scenery; downhill was a thrill ride, especially on some steeper hills. The sled had a 350lb passenger weight limit, so I did twenty-five minutes with the kids and then swapped out for my husband to enjoy the second half of the ride.

Post-run refueling.

Aslan rolls in the snow to cool off

After the dogs had been taken care of, we had hot chocolate and cookies. The snow had started falling as we fed the dogs, and using Jim our chauffeur became a problem when his afternoon group arrived an hour early in an attempt to avoid the worst of the snow. This decided Jim on never giving lifts again (Sorry, future customers! Our bad) as they had to wait in their car, while he drove us back down the hill—this time Aslan insisted on riding with us. We packed ourselves back into our lesser vehicle, and thanks to Vermont's on point snow-ploughing, we made it safely back to Smugglers' Notch. There, the kids decorated the gingerbread house my sister in law had brought and the grown-ups chilled out on the sofa.

The evening's experience was snowmobiling—in the dark. This was the one I was terrified of. I'd much rather put my life in somebody else's hands but my brother and sister-in-law were not taking responsibility for having one of our kids as a passenger, so I had to drive myself and my daughter. I nearly bailed when the guide sternly told us that they lose one sled a year from somebody accidentally pushing the throttle while trying to steer.

However, this felt like a face-your-fears kind of thing, so I resolutely set off with my daughter riding behind me. It was bumpy and wiggly, I couldn't accelerate or brake without jerking us around, and, terrifyingly, my visor misted up at one point, forcing me to stop and open it. Equally unnerving, I couldn't tell whether or not my daughter was still behind me, so I had to put my faith in the knowledge that she has a really good sense of balance.

Going up the mountain was a nerve-wracking experience, but I didn't die, and I had to admit it was pretty cool when the headlights suddenly illuminated snow-covered boulders as we zigzagged through the switchback trail. On the way back, I started getting into it, going faster over the bumps and having confidence through the curves. I could feel my daughter squeezing me with her knees on occasion and saying something impossible to hear through the wind, but after careful listening, I was pretty sure it was Christmas carols. This was so like her that I cracked a smile: I was proud of myself for facing my fears, and delighted that we had done this as a family.

Yay us!

From my daughter's perspective, things were very different. 

She had handled the climb up pretty well, enjoying the new experience and adventure, but as I sped up on the descent, things became scarier. One of her gloves started coming off, so she was clutching that to her chest and holding on with only one hand. Every bump and jiggle became a jump-scare of "Will I fall off?" while her gloveless hand gradually lost all feeling. What I had thought was singing was actually her shrieking to no avail: "Mummy, please stop! Stop! Stop!"

I finally figured out what was wrong when we paused to gather the line of snowmobiles before getting into the trees. She wanted to be done then and there, but our only option was to continue. I was close to the back of the line anyway, but I waved my brother ahead so there was only a guide behind me and then I slowed right down to a snail's pace. The rest of the group disappeared into the distance almost immediately, and the ride back in the dark with the (incredibly patient) guide seemed interminable, though my husband told me we got back only a few minutes after everybody else.

I am never snowmobiling again.

My daughter was a wreck by the time we got her off the horrormobile. She'd lost her glove somewhere along the way, and the guides had to help us off with our helmets so we could hug each other. I gave her one of my gloves and the guides told her they would look out for her lost one. (They found it on the next trip up and we collected it after dinner.) In the end, the only thing that actually consoled her was the suggestion of breaking out the nail polish set she'd got in her stocking that morning.

So as we got dressed for Christmas dinner, we all (brother and uncle included—Daddy somehow missed our pop up salon) had our fingers done with Claire's finest water-based nail polish. We had packed some relatively smart clothing. My brother and sister-in-law hadn't been planning on still being here but my sister-in-law is always prepared for such occasions, so it was only my brother letting the side down with the casual look.

They had to miss out on the Christmas crackers though, as we had only brought four with us. I've done Christmas dinner at pubs in the UK before, but this was the first time I've done it in an American restaurant, and we drew some odd looks as we pulled our crackers and put on the paper crowns inside. Being British, we were too polite to show our pity at their ignorance, but shout-out to the little boy at the next table who was openly amazed and delighted by this tradition.

Afterwards, we had a shuttle ride back to the condo, where the kids were packed into bed and the adults played the 80s / 90s trivia game from my husband's stocking—all of us completely failing at the (American) sports questions. 

It was a very different sort of Christmas, and one that often didn't feel like Christmas—especially without the proper dinner. I missed roast potatoes and alcoholic gravy. But there was enough snow to make up for the forty green Christmases that came before, and—aside from the Snowmobile Ride of Horror—it was insanely fun.

Christmas Eve at Smugglers Notch

Years ago, I decided that what I want for my 40th birthday was a white Christmas. I've seen snow fall (but not stick) on Christmas Day. I've had a Christmas with three day old snowdrifts on the ground. But I've never had a real, Christmas Card picture perfect, white Christmas.


So we booked a three day stay at Smugglers’ Notch in Vermont, which came recommended as a family friendly ski resort for Christmas. We arrived last night in the rain, but a few hours later that turned to snow, and that's what we walked through to dinner.

My brother and his wife joined us, (mostly because we wanted somebody to make us pancakes for breakfast) and today was a case of "Let us do all the Snow Things!" Because we've had to buy an awful lot of thermal and/or waterproof clothing for this trip, and we're bloody well going to get our money's worth.

Naturally, the kids were ready to get outside long before we were, but I had put a bottle of bubble mix in the fridge overnight, and I sent them out on the balcony with the instruction to try and freeze bubbles. That worked surprisingly well on all counts. Next time, I'm making them wait until I'm dressed, so I can play with them too. Frozen bubbles are a little crazy.

By the time we grownups were ready, the kids had been sledding, made snow angels and had a snowball fight around the condos. My daughter was pretty much done with snow already, but we made her go tubing with us anyway.

After lunch, we booked a snowshoe tour, but my daughter put her foot down at this. We dithered between dragging her around the walk or letting her stay at the condo with her aunt and uncle. In the end we decided that yelling: "We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves!" isn't as good as actually enjoying ourselves (and would make us much less popular on the walk) so we left her behind.

Our son was brought along to be our photographer

The snowshoe trek was supposed be a special family one for children as young as four. In fact, our guide decided to take us off-trail on a short cut that repeatedly had us scrambling down steep banks and across small but icy streams. Our family was totally up for this. The elderly couple who thought they would be getting a gentle stroll were less enthused, and one small child gave up a third of the way round, so her father struggled gamely through the rest of the expedition with her on his shoulders.

We met up with Daughter, Uncle and Aunt for the evening bonfire and hot chocolate. There was a special Santa and Fireworks event that evening, so we had dinner and stayed out, because quite honestly, we were afraid that if we went back to our condo, we'd never get our daughter out again.

So, after some night-time tubing (faster slope; longer lines), we spent an hour securing a good spot to see everything, only for everybody to come crowding in front of us at the 7pm start time. Luckily, I'd had the foresight to clip some little torches (flashlights) onto the kids' coats, because they got lost in the crowd immediately, and we could only tell where they were by their lights.

We were hoping this was going to be worth it, and honestly, we weren't disappointed. Snowboarders holding red flares came weaving down the mountain, lining up briefly in front of us before making way for a massive snowplow bearing Santa (who got out of there pretty quickly while the fireworks went off.) After the firework display, we could go and meet Santa inside, although we really only went in for the cookie and hot chocolate, because our family has priorities.

Torchlight Parade

So now the kids are tucked up in bed, and the stockings are by the fire, along with a handful of presents. (Most of them are waiting under the tree at home.) Tomorrow, I'm getting the White Christmas I've always wanted, but it's a case of "Be careful what you wish for," as a blizzard is coming through and threatening all our plans...

From 25 to 40: 15 years of adulting

Today I turned forty. I'm not having a midlife crisis at the moment, so it's been fun to have a 'big' birthday—especially as I really wasn't in the mood to turn thirty, so the last time I actually celebrated a milestone birthday was when I turned twenty-five.

As it happens, a friend of mine turned twenty-five four days ago, and his commentary reminded me that this had been (for me at least) the birthday where I really had to admit I was an adult now, no matter how I immature I still felt... So what have I done in my fifteen years of determined adulting?

I got engaged, married—I fell in love with my husband before turning twenty-five, and that was possibly the most miraculous accomplishment of my earlier adulting. (I don't fall in love easily, and it took having a nervous breakdown to achieve it. Long story.) We had two children, after a lot of fertility treatment and an incredible amount of privilege when we discovered our health insurance covered IVF. Long before the children, we've had the two cats who've been an integral part of our adult lives. Last year we killed four fish. I don't want to talk about it.

We bought two houses which came with two mortgages—at the time it seemed horrifically depressing to think these would not be paid off until we were in our forties. Now we're giddy at the thought that we're just a few years away from being debt-free. (Touch wood!) We've moved several times, twice it was barely a mile, once it was across the Atlantic Ocean. We moved back in with my parents for a long three months. Four years later, they moved in with us for one month. Can confirm it's easier that way round—for me at least. They may tell a different story!

First House

At twenty-eight years old, I finally figured out what I wanted to do for the rest of my life: Teach Montessori pre-school. I then proceeded to have babies and gradually transitioned to stay-at-home Mum. I am not as good as caring for my own children as I am at caring for other people's, and I am utter rubbish at housekeeping, so for all the conveniences stay-at-home parenting brings, it's come at a substantial cost to my self-esteem. Going back to work became so daunting that I procrastinated. This year, I reminded myself how much I used to enjoy it and started a Montessori qualification that I should finish next summer. Let's see if I can get my career on track before I'm fifty?

I'm lighter than at twenty-five, in part because I weigh myself daily now and attempt to maintain a healthy lifestyle—and in part, because I'm no longer on the pill and my screwed up hormones are at least kind to me in the weight department. This year, my knees started clicking as I go up stairs, which I am inordinately annoyed by, but physically, I'm still active and can do anything I ever used to—in most cases more, because I've been making a conscious effort that I never did before—with the weird exception of swinging: I now get vertigo at the zenith. (Yet roller coasters are fine.)

 Selfies for Today

I've been finding grey hairs for most of the fifteen years, but as yet there are no grey streaks and I've not been tempted to dye, though this is going to be one of the hardest transitions for me. I'm vain about my hair. After thirty, I noticed a dramatic increase in "bad" photographs... my face was becoming weathered, looking more tired, the crow's feet had appeared... But ten years on, I'm not 'wrinkly' yet—except for my belly button, which hasn't been the same since pregnancy. Otherwise, the things I don't like about my body are the same as fifteen years ago—admittedly, these have got worse rather than improving.

One of my friends (no children) commented on my facebook today that at forty-two she still doesn't feel old enough to have kids. I hadn't thought about it that way, but I immediately knew what she meant. I struggle with what are surely basic adult tasks like cleaning kitchen appliances or anything to do with the car; I run to and from the mailbox because I'm too impatient to walk; I have the attention span of a goldfish and the sense of humour of a twelve year old. On different occasions, I've successfully dealt with the clean up of excessive amounts of bodily fluids—urine, vomit, faeces and/or blood—but I'm honestly a little baffled as to how.

Parenting sometimes feels natural

Yet I've learned a lot about myself. Faced a few fears; discovered more. I've had a couple of medical conditions diagnosed and treated; I wonder about some neurological ones—though that's about understanding my own idiosyncrasies, their limitations and how to work around them. It's an ongoing project. I've invested more heavily into my relationship with my husband and children than I would have believed possible—or maybe it's harder than I believed... I do know I'm grateful for the payoff.

Fifteen years ago, I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life with my husband. The idea of us turning forty together seemed quaintly romantic. Now it's our reality (we're halfway there... he'll be forty in a few months), and that's perhaps the best thing about today. I know better than to think this means "Happily Ever After," but I still feel that there's a hell of a lot of "Ever After" to come. So far, time remains on our side.

"I'm Glad I'm Not Black." - Parenting Race Issues when White and Ineffectual

Yesterday, my six year old daughter started talking to me about Rosa Parks. I'm not sure if this was something that had come up at school or if she had been reading the picture book we have about Rosa Parks, but she embarked on this conversation about how unfair it was to black people to be treated like that and how she would be like Rosa Parks and not give up her seat. And I went along with it, making agreeing noises and throwing in comments about being aware of injustices and standing up for those who need help... all very standard and a little trite.

And then my daughter said: "I'm glad I'm not black."

Obviously, in the context, I get what she meant. But it was such an awful thing to hear on so many levels, that I had no suitable reaction. It's a depressing acknowledgment that her life is easier because she's not black. It's horrible because it completely negates everything worth celebrating about black heritage and culture. And it's uncomfortable, embarrassing, because that's the kind of thing we're not supposed to say out loud. It's the kind of thing we're not supposed to feel.

As always when the children go off my parenting script, I rambled helplessly for a few minutes trying to tag off the key politically correct points. I talked about white privilege and how it was good to recognise that we had advantages because we're white but that doesn't make it bad to be black. I talked in very vague terms about how black people have a lot to be proud of, but of course I couldn't give any examples because I am a well-intentioned but ultimately insular white person who doesn't think well on her feet.

I remember what I talked about, but—crucially—I dont remember what I said, and I'm not convinced that my daughter understood any of it. I need to prepare, find a time to bring this topic up again and talk through it a bit with both children. In the meantime, it's another reminder of just how ineffectual we actually are when it comes to supporting equal rights.

PS In another fantastically uncomfortable parenting moment, my daughter started reading this blog over my shoulder as I typed, so we got to revisit this topic sooner than I expected. For the record, she's OK with me publishing the blog. I'm still not sure she understands what I mean about white privilege, but I'm a little happier about how I said it this time.