Peonies are the princesses of the garden. Quite literally. They look like floral ballgowns, usually in varying shades of pink. But. It’s not easy to get peonies to bloom. Usually the first year is a bust with no blooms. And if your peonies are difficult princesses, they will leave you emptyhanded the second year too. But usually by the third year, bingo, the most gorgeous flowers you’ve ever seen.

They also attract ants. Lots of them. The first time I saw mine swarming with tiny black invaders, I panicked. I was this close to blasting the whole flower bed with the garden hose and declaring war. But thankfully, I Googled first.

Turns out… the ants are helping.

They’re drawn to the sugary coating on the buds, and as they crawl around doing whatever it is ants do, they actually assist in the blooming process. So when I make my morning rounds in the garden, watching my peonies covered in ants like it’s a bug rave, I remind myself of an important lesson: not every “nuisance” is actually a problem.

The things bothering you at work? At home? The ideas that seem to have a million wrinkles? The project upset that seemingly sends you back to square one? The carefully planned budget that upended? The cake you baked and followed the directions to the letter and it still fell flat in the middle? They might be your ants.

Sometimes friction is just energy in disguise. It might be the very thing that helps your work/creativity/life/family break open and bloom.

So maybe hold off on the hose.

Let the ants do their thing.

Dear reader, I apologize in advance because today I’ll be discussing grief, ex-husbands, hot potatoes and Beetlejuice all in one strange emotional ADHD soup-post. But it’s really the only way I’ve figure out how to make these concepts make sense inside my own mind, so I’ll see how it does when sloshed across paper. Or the rather, screen.

The hardest lesson I’ve ever had to learn (so far) is holding two very different things/feelings/ideas in both hands. Two emotional hot potatoes, if you will. I’ve had to sit with them and say to myself, “These two things are the opposite of one another. They don’t make sense side by side. But I have to hold onto both of them no matter how much they scald my hands.”

In the 1950’s some important dude named Leon Festinger came up with the idea of “cognitive dissonance.” (Unrelated detail, he was also divorced.) Cognitive dissonance is, according to Google, “the mental discomfort or psychological stress experienced when holding conflicting beliefs, values, or attitudes, or when an action contradicts one’s beliefs.”

Me and my emotional hot potatoes know a little something about this.

My first ex-husband passed away last month. He fought a long, brave battle against glioblastoma. But for anyone who knows anything about that brand of cancer, it always wins in the end. We were together for 15 years, married for 13, and had Jane together. We met in college when we were 19. The first time I laid eyes on him was during Harding chapel, when he and another friend got into a slap/punch fight, a story we all laughed about over the years.

Over the past 11 years I have hesitated to write much about my divorce because, to be frank, there are a lot of people who have hung around for a decade+ trying to find out more “scoop.” And I have two things to say.

First, there’s no scoop in this post. I won’t be dredging up bones or stories. Although, sidenote, Matt did tell a hilarious story the last week he was in the hospital. No one could hold court and tell a story better than Matt, and he did just that, telling a room full of us about a fire at his house and the firemen finding a human femur bone under the rubble. When the firemen asked what he wanted to do (it was found under a historical structure) he told them, “Just put it back.” So. That’s how I feel about the things that transpired in our marriage. We are going to leave them where they lay, under the rubble, undisturbed, as god and Matt intended.

And two, honestly, if you’ve come here to find out some dirt or some gossip, and I say this with love, get a life. I would bet the entire cost of my 2017 car that you are probably running desperately from some hot potatoes of your own. Either way, this won’t be the tell-all story you’re wishing for. It won’t be the juicy scoop that distracts you from the things that really need attention in your life. Call your therapist. Or your mother. Or go fight your mother. But please for the love, move on.

So. Matt died. It was gutting. We tried to get Jane to the hospital as much as we could so she could spend as much time with her dad as possible. And they did have time. And it was special and sweet. And then he was gone. It still doesn’t feel real that someone as strong and charismatic as Matt could ever be gone.

The rest of this story will be from my perspective, because that’s the only perspective I have. I can’t speak about how this was for his family, or Jane. But for me, it brought up a million emotions I never expected. And I didn’t know how to process them. Or how to feel about them. I was on emotional overload, and I didn’t know what to do with it all. And I’m still grappling with that.

When your ex-husband dies, you’re not a widow. You’re not a friend. You’re no longer family. You’re probably a parent of the child you shared with your ex, which inextricably links you to them, even in death, without a quantifiable place for you. You’re just sad, and maybe a little mad, and worried sick for your child, all the while relegated to a weird spot out in no-man’s-land. It’s a weird place, emotionally reminiscent of the desert in Beetlejuice.

When your ex dies, you find yourself in an alternate reality that makes no sense. There’s a seat reserved for you, but it feels like a 1980’s plastic folding chair with a hole in it. There are old photos strewn about that you haven’t seen in years, that both tug at your heart strings and simultaneously bring back conflicting memories. And somewhere out in this weird Beeltejuice-esque purgatory is an emotional sandworm ready to pounce, filled with mental images and hard memories that you’ve probably worked very hard to box up and shove in the attic of your mind palace.

And while you’re sitting in this weird place with a million good and bad memories swirling around in your mind, you’re also talking to people you haven’t seen in years. People you loved deeply. People you missed. You’re reminiscing. You’re hearing stories about how wonderful your ex was, and all the great things they did. And he did do great things. And he was wonderful to a lot of people. But also, you have your own memories, some good, some not good, and all bursting out of those carefully taped up boxes in the back of your mind.

This is a hard topic to write about. I stifled it for a while. But anyone who writes knows that sometimes “The Thing” that wants to be written gets aggressive. Sometimes it lights up a cigarette and kicks the door in and yells, “Write about me OR ELSE. Now go get me another pack of Pall Malls, we’ve got work to do.” So we agreed to write this together. And somehow we came up with a hot potato and Beetlejuice analogy. Matt, btw, was a fan of both the movie and the food group, so I feel like he would have given it a green light.

Anyway, back to Beetlejuice-ex-spouse-purgatory. There’s lightning on the horizon, just above the sand dunes. You’re watching a parade of memories. Happy memories. Sad memories. There are also not-so-great memories swirling around. You eye the landscape worriedly and a sandstorm kicks up and blows grit in your eyes. And you apologize and wipe your eyes and people think, “Oh she’s crying because she did love him, after all.”

And in reality, yes, of course. You were married with the intention of being married forever. You had a child together. But also there’s sadness and anger mixed in those tears. Because there will never be closure on a lot of things. You’re not going to get a “thank you” for all the years of sacrifices, bills paid, laundry done, children born, and public images preserved. You’re crying because the only other person alive who remembered your past, your old dog, your old house, the things your child did as a baby, is gone. And there is no one to remember any of it now, but you. You’re crying because someone you used to love very much is dead, and you’re crying for your child’s loss, but you’re also crying for all the years and youth you can never get back.

And the two things I ended up holding in both hands were this:

1. He was a good person who did a lot of good things and was really wonderful in a lot of ways and I cared a lot about him.

2. He did a lot of things that hurt me, and I hurt him, and we spent years resenting each other.  

Holding those two things at the same time is painful. It makes the cognitive dissonance in my brain scream like a potato wrapped in saran wrap in the microwave. But the only other choice is for me to decide that my ex was a saint and wonderful, and gaslight myself about my own experiences, OR to reject all the positive things about my ex and swerve into the “he was a terrible person” camp. I can choose the black or white versions, or, I can hold those potatoes and accept the gray. Because neither of those potatoes are actually the whole truth. No one is all good, or all bad. And clinging to one over the other would be a terrible choice for myself, as a mom, as an ex-wife, and as a human being.

My only choice is to hold both of these weird potatoes at the same time. My only choice is to sit with them in my weird chair in ex-wife purgatory. My only choice is to gaze at old photos of us together, young with faces full of collagen and think, “That was a good time, at that moment, in that picture.”

Because no experience or person fits into an easily labeled box. There are no Disney heroes and villains in life. We’re all a bunch of onions, with a lot of layers, and a lot of life chapters. This world is full of flawed, struggling, funny, wonderful, giving, selfish, honest, dishonest, secure and insecure people. And we have to learn to accept that holding two very hot potatoes at the same time is a mandatory requirement to facing our past, present and future with honesty.

And instead of fighting these damn potatoes, I’m going to sit right here and hold them. It’s helping me open those boxes, blow back the cobwebs, and deal with reality. And in honestly facing my grief and disappointment, I also find it easier to laugh about the good times and remember the fun moments with him. Like the time he wore an Abominable Snowman suit and raced around the house in the dark and scared the absolute crap out of a bunch of trick-or-treaters. Like the time we hid on a fire escape and squeezed an entire bottle of Jergens lotion on top of a couple who was making out in the alley below. Like the time Jane refused to wake up from a nap and Matt bounced her up and down and yelled “BOB” reminiscent of Dr. Leo Marvin while she giggled.

And when it’s my turn to leave this earth, I hope I leave people behind who can hold both potatoes at the same time for me, as well. I am, myself, a many-layered onion who will probably leave behind some people who wish they had closure. I won’t mean to, but I might. And I hope I leave my children and husband and family and exes with not only good memories, but also with the ability to process the bad ones in a way that moves them forward in life.

In the mean time, I’ll be here, processing Matt’s death, thinking about the good and the bad, and knowing that it can all be true at the same time. May he rest-in-fun in an epic after-life party. If anyone can pull it off, it will be Matt.

This year I went all out with Halloween decorations outside. For me.

Now, I realize that compared to some social media Halloween mavens, this pic is small potatoes. Just yesterday I saw a super popular house person post about how they didn’t “go hard this year” while posting pictures of their house literally turned into a giant Ursula. It was a humble-brag that made me roll my eyes so hard my optician would probably worry about my ocular health. But, I digress.

Any-who. I’m no Martha Stewart, but this year’s outside decor took me three solid weekends to pull off.

First, I had to steal the branches from a neighbor’s trash pile. But since I’ve stopped being in denial about the core similarities of my life to the seminal tv-show Roseanne, these sorts of “stealing neighbor trash” activities don’t phase me as much as they used to. (The early Halloween-loving-liberal-years… not the later-conspiracy-theory-nut-farmer years.)

Then I bought on-sale cheap garlands in spring clearance decor section, thinking, “I already have to spray paint the branches, I can just spray paint these too. How hard can it be?”

Well. Hard.

It required tarps and a sunburn and a considerable amount of time hunched over, which created a situation where my lower back revolted. Then I stepped in dog poop. Also one of the cans of spray paint did a weird explosion thing and coated my right hand in oil-based blackness. It looked sort of like Dumbledore’s’ cursed hand, which would have made an excellent Halloween costume. But I chose life and used nail polish to wipe it off, which took almost an hour. That was Weekend #1.

Then came the “hanging all the things” from a tension rode with zip ties, and arranging the branches and birds in a planter, and poking myself in the ear, and getting up and down off a ladder a kabillion times on the same day that I started taking a new ADHD medication. My heart rate didn’t appreciate any of it, so the project went on pause until Weekend #3 and I laid in bed and watched the latest season of Emily in Paris. So I didn’t hate that.

And finally, on Weekend #4 I finished all of the above and hung giant spiders in the rose bushes and refused to even sweep by the front door, and yelled “GOOOD ENOUGH” while remembering that I had not decorated inside yet. At all.

I am broadcasting all of these grievances because if you’re looking at social media and feeling bad that your decor isn’t measuring up, don’t. Even my outdoor Martha-attempts fell short, and it still almost killed me (especially if that fun tachycardia-ADHD-meds event on my apple watch is to be believed). And the humble-brag folks who are all “I didn’t go all out this year” while sporting giant bubbling cauldrons on their front porches probably have a lot of funds and pay someone to clean their house every week.

In short, I shan’t be spray painting nuthin’ for Halloween next year. I am considering going on a quest for one of those blow-up Snoopy-Holding-a-Pumpkin thingies. Or just those green gourd/pumpkins and some twinkle lights, it’s hard to top that.

End rant.

P.S. If I forget to say it before the end of the month, Happy Halloween.

***You know how writers will have a disclaimer at the beginning of a book and say something like ‘any content resembling actual events or persons, is entirely coincidental’ to appease potentially mad people? Well one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamont, also says, “You own everything that happened to you. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”

The following list is a compilation of things I’ve lived through and things I’ve seen other people live through. Some of it is observational and not my own personal experience.

But some of it is directly connected to me, and to quote Anne, I own all of it.

Recently my daughter introduced me to TikTok. Or rather, she introduced me to clips on YouTube, which eventually led us to TikTok. We found hilarious things there. We found some very interesting things there. But we also found, well, a lot of other things there. Illuminating things. Questionable things. Dumb things.

It led to some good discussions with Jane about how the things you put on the internet are forever, even if you delete them. It led to some good discussions on what social media she does and doesn’t need to be consuming right now.

But the more I flipped through all those clips, the more I heard about peoples’ divorces. Their horror stories. People posting recordings of their exes. Custody fight details. Incredibly personal details.

And I realized that even though I’ve been through two divorces, I’ve never really addressed that part of my life publicly. There are a variety of reasons for that, but mainly because I didn’t want my kids to read personal life details someday that might make them want to scratch their own eyes out. Or cry. Or carry emotional burdens they shouldn’t have to carry.

But after a recent therapy session, I pondered something my therapist told me.

“Always take advice from people who have lived the thing you are going through. Everyone else might have some helpful input, but at the end of the day, get your best advice from people who have experience in the thing you are living through.”

So, I thought I’d throw a few things I’ve learned out into internet-land. Why? Because I’m not angry at anyone. I’m not proving a point. I’m past the crisis-phase of divorce. And while the salacious aspects of divorce and coparenting might be entertaining, they aren’t all that helpful for people down in the trenches. Which leads me to number one.

1. Get your advice from people who have lived the thing you are living… and have healed from it. If you and your girlfriends want to go out and drink and blast your exes and share divorce horror stories, do it. Believe me. There is validation in those types of things. But other people who are in the midst of divorce are just as confused and angry as you. Find someone who is done with their divorce. Who got therapy. Who can talk about their ex without cursing them. Find someone who isn’t mad anymore. They can listen and empathize without being triggered, and offer you some solid advice.
2. If you talk bad about your ex to your child, you make your child feel bad about who THEY are, not just the other parent. This is another life changing lesson my therapist explained to me. She explained that even if a child doesn’t like their other parent, they still identify with them and both parents are part of their sense of self. If you blast the other parent to your child, you just make them feel bad about who they are. So don’t do it. Do your complaining and personal-detail-sharing to your friends, siblings, parents or therapist. But leave your kids out of it. Even if they’re grown. They should not have to carry your baggage.
3. But there’s a caveat to the above topic. Don’t gas light your kids in an effort not to say bad things about their parent. If your child comes to you and is sharing something harmful or hurtful about the other parent, depending on the child’s age, I think it’s important to say, “I’m really sorry this is happening, and yes, your dad/mom can be that way sometimes.” Affirm their experience. Hug them. It’s a tight rope to talk, affirming their experiences, but also not rolling around in the mud about the other parent.
4. If you are divorced from someone who is combative or threatening, only communicate in text. Get it all in writing, and do not get bullied into yelling phone calls or in-person arguments.
5. However, if you are divorced from someone who is putting their best foot forward, who is working hard to coparent with you, don’t argue over text. Tone, intent… it can all get misconstrued over the course of a text disagreement. Just get on the phone and hash it out when you’re both feeling calm.
6. Recently someone commented that our joint holidays and birthday parties are “weird.” Well. Maybe. Sure. But at the end of the day it is not about the adults. If you’re able to coparent civilly, or better yet, if you’re able to reach a state of friendships with your ex, your kids will only benefit. So it doesn’t matter if it’s “weird.” Mature adults should be able to suck it up.
7. Your kids will always be a little bit sad. Even if you remarry and they adore their stepparent. Even if you still have joint holidays and movie nights. All kids want their parents to be together in one house. It’s a core dream. Acknowledge that. Hug them. Prepare yourself for those talks. It doesn’t mean they aren’t happy. It doesn’t mean you haven’t made a good home for them. It’s just a natural thing to be sad about.
8. Some kids don’t get over it. Most people think that adult kids will handle divorce better than little kids. This isn’t always the case. Despite being grown, they may not have accepted the reality of their parent’s divorce. And they may revert to behavior that doesn’t match the maturity of other adults their age. They may rage and scream and curse like much younger teens or children. And there’s nothing you can do about it except try to get them to go to therapy with you (which may not work) and talk it out calmly and respectfully (which may also not work). And, if those things fail, it’s okay to not accept abusive communication.
9. If your stepkids disrespect you, your spouse has to be the one to stand in that gap. If the kids are rude to Charley, it’s my job to step in and shut that down. If the kids need disciplining or a talking-to, that’s my job. A step-parent is in an un-win-able position if they have a partner that tolerates their children being disrespectful, or expects the step-parent to do the heavy lifting on disciplining. Don’t get me wrong, every now and then it’s called for. The other day Gabriel hit Jane, right in front of Charley, and he addressed it immediately because I wasn’t there. But for the most part, the parent has to do the disciplining, and they have to be on the look-out for disrespect toward their partner.
10. So what about if you have a later in life marriage? And family members are unhappy about it? The spouse has to stand in the gap again. If you allow other people to mistreat or talk shit about your spouse, the marriage is dead on arrival. Just because someone is family, it doesn’t give them the right to mistreat the person you love or say nasty things about them. There may be family dynamics that were in place long before your spouse came onto the scene. Dynamics of verbal abuse and enmeshment. Dynamics of anger and bad feelings about your previous divorce. And if you allow it to happen, the person you remarry may become a punching bag for family dynamics they had nothing to do with. You can’t let that happen.

Charley and I were talking about how second and third marriages have such high divorce rates, and of course they do. Getting along and being in love and having good communication is a tiny part of the pie. There are so many stressful things you have to face together above and beyond just making your own marriage work like custody schedules, alimony, child support, coparenting, carving out time together, aging parents, last minute emergencies, work stress and general (usually unnecessary) drama. We talked about all of this, and the absolutely insane things we have faced together. And will continue to face.

But for me, I can confidently say that the third time is the charm. I live in a happy, calm, respectful home, with a happy, calm and supportive husband. I survived two divorces and have learned a lot on what to do, and what not to do. I don’t have animosity or hard feelings toward my exes. There is a friendship there now. And I appreciate all the work we all do to coparent the kids.

And for those of you still out there in the trenches, someday it will get better. And then maybe worse again, and then a little better, and then back to worse, and then even better… you get the idea.

It’s a rollercoaster, but the law of averages indicates that things do even out over time. You learn more. Your ex learns more. It will get better.