Ahoy

At the 3am wake-up call, I crawled into Bug's bed and let him nestle into a big bowl of mommy. The chilly October air made the closeness a particular comfort. Bug promptly crashed. Warmth is apparently fear's kryptonite. I let myself drift, but a cackle from my son startled me to alertness. In his sleep, Bug was snickering. The sound roused him, too, and he pushed closer to me, grinning. "I had a dream, Mommy." He began to tell it just as the words turned to cake batter in his mouth. He was back under. A few minutes later, another dose of his giggles jolted me awake.

I can't know how the anxiety of splitting a life between two homes might be affecting my son. It isn't fair to him, is it? Tee and I know we can't live together, yet I still fantasize about biting the bullet and making a go of it. One bed for Bug? A single set of books, of boots, of parents, of expectations? Why should this little boy carry the bulk of the discomfort? That's a pretty big shot of adaptation to demand of a kid.

Nevertheless, the ship has left port. On the phone prior to the meeting, the lawyer was prepared to take Tee to the mat. "Bring in his 401K records, his pay stubs, your joint tax documents. You may be entitled to child support, and you are entitled to half the marital assets."

I ignored her. The only papers I brought were ones Tee and I created and reviewed together: Separation Agreement, 26-point Parenting Plan, Virginia divorce paperwork. No subterfuge, no secret strategies. She combed through the pages to make sure Bug is protected, Tee and I have a plan for every contingency, and everything is polished up for the judge to stamp it legal.

At the end of the consultation, the lawyer looked up at me and smiled. "You guys really did all this yourselves?" I nodded, trying not to let the wave of relief and pride upend me. "You two have done an excellent job on this. You've covered everything and more." She cut the retainer in half and told me we should be able to move through the remaining steps without a hitch. If Bug never knows how much effort it has taken to keep this vessel steady on relentlessly churning seas, then we can claim victory.

We sail on in this way, the rigging tight in our grasp. Tee and I have been planning Bug's pirate-themed birthday party for over two months. Never once did it occur to me to do this alone, or to leave the organizing to the parent whose weekend is shared with Bug. Half the task list fell to each of us according to our strengths and preferences. A friend is on the payroll, making a treasure chest out of cake. Bug's Grandma and I have assembled the food and helium balloons and favors decorated with skulls. Tee is managing a treasure hunt and limbo, invitations and thank you notes. Occasional check-ins at allow us to make sure details and numbers are in sync. Beyond that, we trust each other to take care of business. We are a professional partnership now.

In four hours, 35 members of Bug’s growing circle will turn the park where Tee and I were married into a Caribbean island peppered with hidden riches. My objective is to have our son never know that his two parents could have behaved in ways that would have made this impossible. Normal = cooperation. Tortuga may be today’s destination, but civility is our true north.

None of us knows how much our children will have to pay for our choices. This question has kept me awake at night for well over a year. All too often, when sleep does come, tsunamis and rising tides have me racing for a shrinking scrap of safe ground. This is why I am grateful when I startle awake and discover the culprit to be Bug’s mirth.

Visitation

I wake twice in the night to find my boy silhouetted in the dim light of the doorway. His voice quivers. "Mommy, I'm scared." The reason does not concern me. I will leave archaeology to the lover who will whisper him open in the next lifetime. I rise. My hand alights between his shoulder blades, fluttering him back towards bed. My body curls around his and I drape a blanket of breath over his head. He slips like a stone down to the bottom of sleep's dark spring. When the ripples left by his fleeting fear finally still, I press my lips once more to the steady pulse at his temple and make my way back to my own unquiet sheets.

Walk On

In the dreams, I am wandering through a strange city. Somewhere, someone who cares about me is waiting for me. A sense of urgency about reaching the destination keeps my feet moving. Always, it is my own momentum propelling me forward.

Around me surges a throng of people. It is alternately summer steam and winter slush. I turn a corner, and my way is suddenly even more obscure. The street grid gives way to a maze of town homes lining looping, inescapable cul-de-sacs. The people disappear. The homes have no numbers, the street signs are blank. I walk on, aiming for vaguely familiar buildings whose facades morph into something foreign once I near them.

In the dreams, I have no map. Someone is still waiting, yet I also know no one is trying to find me. I have to get there on my own.

I keep walking.

- - -

Tomorrow, Tee and  I will sit down to carve out a parenting plan. So far, this document contains 26 points and runs to a dozen single-spaced pages. In it, we outline our plans for sharing custody of our son. How will we organize time and finances? How will we resolve conflicts? What will be our means of communication, and what values will guide our decisions?

When parents split up, they have a choice to make about how to proceed. So far, Tee and I have agreed to keep our differences out of court. Our tight finances should probably take more of the credit than our cool tempers. We continue to talk with relative calm. Somehow, we are managing to hammer out the details of our future while we breathe through the pull to re-visit the past.

As hard as this task is in the short term, allowing our son to have two homes and two equally responsible parents seems to be the best we can offer in these sad circumstances. We aim to proceed without a battle and to show the state (and each other and our little boy) that we really do intend to co-parent. This means we have to draft the blueprint of our new life. Our parenting agreement is the place for us to develop plans of action for every educational and medical decision, every holiday, every move, every new partner, and every catastrophe.

This is only one of many miles to cover in the slog across the convoluted landscape of Divorce City. Once we have written out our parenting agreement, we have to tackle the 70 pages of legal paperwork the Commonwealth of Virginia requires us to file.

Tomorrow, I will proceed with care down another unfamiliar street. I have no map, but I believe a table is set and a door is open across town. Someone and something await my arrival. I may not know the most direct route, but I keep walking. My trusty feet will guide me.

Spa World

When your shoulder is stiff for a week
but you've got no one to ask to rub it
When your dreams are fractured for a night
but you've got no one to wake up to tell
You might ignore the dawn and
decide you're better off going back to sleep.
But the bed will still be empty and the shoulder will not stop whining.

You might have left the window cracked all night
in the hopes that the strong, soft hand of god
would slip in to hold you tight. If you are the praying type,
this just might work for you. But be warned:
Such a tactic might just let in January's serrated chill
to scar your dreams and score your skin.

Chances are, when day bangs against the pane
you will know you must rise and take care of your own damned self.

Make your lists of what you have learned so far.
Resist resistance. Brainstorm:

Hike Old Rag
Brunch with a friend
Elliptical
Bubble bath
Buy shoes
Plant something
Paint something
Punch something
Bake

But it is 19 degrees when the wind blows. Your shoulder groans.
Your dreams left a hole too deep and wide
for chocolate cake or Jimmy Choos.

Once you've loosened the tight seal of your mind,
you may remember talk of a Korean spa out your way.
If you are resourceful and can bark yourself awake,
you may stumble to your feet, find a phone, get dressed and go.

Within two minutes of arriving at the cavernous place,
you are naked and simmering in needle-hot tub.
All around you, slick hides of naked apes dip in and out of view.
Steam rises, oils are applied.
Sleepy eyes and stretching necks, girls with mamas and grandmothers too.
You book shiatsu, you don the uniform and climb the bamboo stairs.
A woman straddles your ass and cracks your spine,
her fingers a marvel.
She is small. She makes you howl. She will not speak.
It does not matter.
Your shoulder hurts far worse than before,
but you know this was how it had to be.

You step into a red clay hut set at 173 degrees,
recline on a sisal mat, and sweat out what is left of your pain.

You may remember to breathe.
You may remember you are simply meat and bone.
You may begin to let go.

Isn't this how it always is?
When you stop pleading
when you stop waiting to be saved
the hand slips in through a crack in the floor.
It carries you where you need to go.
It is the hand of god
and it is your own.