Category: Divorce

Where Can I Find A Little Peace And Is There Room For It In The Budget


black-fridayOnly 17 days until Black Friday, the countdown has begun. There were years when my children were growing up that I had all the gifts purchased, wrapped, and hidden long before this enticing annual event. All it took was a trip to Toys “R” Us filling up back of the old Volvo wagon with the items on their lists, done.

Although it didn’t seem easy at the time, I had the time, energy and budget back then. Time only proved, that while the gifts got physically smaller, the price tags got much bigger. The boys got older, technology got newer, and gift-giving got harder.

vintage-christmasBut no matter our circumstances, my children have wanted for nothing really, despite my incessant frugality. To this very day I still prefer scoring the absolute best bargain on anything from clothing to food to holiday gifts. I’m far from extravagant but always provide a suitable stash for my kids.

This year though, we’re in a bit of a bind. We’ve had to shoulder some hefty unexpected expenses for the boys that required our hard-earned holiday stash. It’s no secret that our lives drastically changed after Mr. Ex revealed his gambling addiction, we ended up nearly homeless with empty bank accounts, retirement and college funds. That was 10 years ago, and he is happily recovered.

But unfortunately the boys and I have been unable to recover from his losses, even to this day. What they say about the lasting domino effect of someone’s addiction is completely true. So when things come up, like college tuition or emergency car repairs, we find ourselves hard-pressed. Sadly Mr. Ex says he can’t assist, so unless I find a way, my boys are on their own.

behaviorNot whining, I totally have their backs. Except, as the most wonderful (and most expensive) time of the year approaches, I am worried about how to manage. Like Charles Dickens writes in A Christmas Carol, it’s not about the gifts. But do kids really buy into that? Will they feel happy waking up on Christmas to a tree with no gifts underneath? Sure it’s about feeling the love – of family, of the season, of life. But how will it really feel this year when our small gift budget went to their emergency expenses instead? Let’s be real, they will be disappointed, and I will feel pretty bad.

Mr. Ex says he is at peace. That’s great, we all could use some peace.

Peace is an interesting concept. It’s easy to imagine, it’s highly desirable and naturally sought-after. We hear about it, read about it, sing about it, talk about it, and we’re even told it’s already there inside, so why, for some of us, is it so hard to really feel?

This is what I want to give my children this year – the feeling of peace – which could possibly be the best gift I could ever give them. First though, I have to believe it’s possible. In order to receive we have to believe, right? Just like in the beautiful story The Polar Express, believing is seeing…and feeling.

It is a special season, full of miracles and magic – and if we believe hard enough – even peace. Beginning of course on Black Friday.




Society’s Concept of Custody Leaves Dads Without A Chance

branjelinaBranjelina is hitting a little close to home for Sir Husband and me. First let me say we are not movie star gazers or Hollywood followers,  but we do perk up when we hear something that resonates with our plight.

Accusations from a mother against a father that perpetuate a societal perception that 1. the accusations are unalterably true, and 2. the mother is the victim and thus the better parent, leave us quite perturbed.

Sir Husband is himself a victim – of this ongoing perception. We learned quickly that lawyers usually stand with mothers in defense of a father regardless of what is truly happening in the parents’ private world. In other words – the mother is supported as always right no matter how wrong she may be.

I’m not saying Angelina Jolie is wrong because I do not know. And that’s the point – no one can know no matter what is brought to the public’s eye. The only people who know the truth are the parents and usually the children. But that doesn’t always stop the inaccurate version from permeating the external world. The question is, who is right? Against our perceived accepted norm, it’s not always the mom.

let-go-copyWhen Sir Husband and I reconnected after more than twenty years, we knew our reunion was meant to be and it totally changed our lives. But our happiness at finally being together – this time as more than friends like we were in our teens and 20s – was naturally not well-received by our spouses at the time. Although our marriages were exceedingly miserable, Sir Husband’s Mrs. refused to accept the parting of their ways.

So we found ourselves on the receiving end of her distorted perception about Sir Husband’s rights and ability to be their children’s father. She decided because she was hurt, she would do whatever she could to try to  destroy us – and said so – proceeding on her mission to take away the kids.

fullsizerender-4With zero regard to their children or mine, let alone the participating adults – our extended families too,  she publicly and violently twisted the truth about both Sir Husband and me so vehemently that it was impossible to fight. Her unyielding insistence that her story was completely accurate when it could not be more wrong, was simply accepted because she so whole-heartedly embraced her self-serving victim-role.

I’m not saying Angelina Jolie is a victim or self-serving, our case may be extreme. But when The Mother has spoken, and affirms her version by trying to take away the kids, why do we always just assume the mother is indefensibly right?

I find it interesting that seemingly by nature, divorcing mothers automatically want to remove fathers from their children’s lives. To me that stems from some deep internal hurt in a mother’s own personal vault. She cannot or will not separate from her misery enough to see by doing that it’s the children who are paying for her hurt. Tragically, the children become the weapons in her personal battle.

Sometimes it’s warranted, such as in cases of abuse. Abuse is a big word. What about when mothers claim something that isn’t true? And worse, why do a mother’s destructive actions against a father go unrecognized as her abuse?

Branjelina’s case is spotlighted now and will either justify or alter the trend. In the meantime, “regular” exceptional dads like Sir Husband are left in the vaporous dust.



Sometimes We Don’t Realize Just How Far We’ve Come

Don’t you love when you stop what you’re doing and notice you’ve accomplished a lot? I can squeeze in a whole day before noon – and let’s cut right to the chase – daily life can be a lot of work so it’s good to knock it down.

Besides my usual routine, yesterday I had to scan nearly 200 pages of my former medical records one slow page at a time, for my new – old – medical team. I’m going back to doctors I saw a long time ago, before I moved away. And sheesh, those 200 pages were only the records from the previous three years.

going-placesIt’s easy to take for granted when we stay settled in one place and our life remains compact. As simple as we want to make it, it’s not easy to move, although I have embraced it over and over as a opportunity to recalibrate, welcoming fresh starts as a vital part of healing from whatever wounds I may have. Clean slates are refreshing.

But this was the first time I moved back to someplace I’ve already been. I didn’t try to or plan it, it just simply worked out. I was thrilled of course and had some expectations which without a doubt were normal. I assumed I would see people who never left, whose lives just went on peacefully while I was participating in my own ongoing drama. I tried not to think about going back in time to a life that used to be, but how could I not?

fought-to-be-meThen it occurred to me. In the years I have been gone I have moved in and out of three states, gotten divorced and remarried, my children have grown up, I have changed my name three times, my hair color a lot, I’ve lost an internal organ, grew and removed a (thankfully) benign breast mass, gotten glasses, become a professional writer, I am not the same.

When I look in the mirror sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. I still feel like me I guess, a little bit, but the image continues to change. Which I just decided should work in my favor. I realized as I was scanning all those records, I have actually reinvented myself. And not just once. Then I started thinking – do we all do that anyway? Is that just part of steadily (or not steadily) advancing through our lives?

processWhen I go see my old doctors they probably won’t recognize me at all. Will I tell them it’s me and throw in a “how have you been all these years?”

I saw a story about past lives online as I was contemplating my old-new self. It said “the question isn’t who are you, but who were you?” This of course was relative to examining lifetimes. I believe in that, but it seems I’ve had plenty of lifetimes in this very one. Then it asked a fundamental question. “Why are you here now?”

fullsizerender-1“It is best not to trudge through the remnants of a distant past, slogging through random moments in order to discover little gems from bygone eras. Rather it is good to know that somewhere buried in your subconsciousness lies the memories of pivotal moments which have shaped your personality and have guided you toward the lessons that you are encountering in this life.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself. It’s about making peace with our past.

Don’t you love when when you stop what you’re doing and notice you’ve accomplished a lot?




Pleasant Days Are Ahead In Spite Of What We’ve Lived


lets be fairiesI’m ready to write about sunny days – this summer we had so many. But when it rains it rains hard. As I drove my youngest to school yesterday in the remnant downpours of the weekend’s hurricane, he sobbed. It’s not comfortable to watch your young-adult teenager cry like a baby. Nor is it the same as when he was a baby because consoling him doesn’t work as well. Or in my case, at all. No matter what I have done (or not done because sometimes we need to back off from our teens,) he has been resistant to our recent move, starting a new school as a junior, and our supporting him through this transition. I get it, I really do.

fineHe’s gone through way too much for his tender young age. It’s heartbreaking on every level. I haven’t done so well myself – sometimes it’s impossible to wrap my brain around our former years of trauma, even as an adult. And my body still reminds me via physical pain every single day.

So I dropped him off then drove home shedding my own tears. This isn’t something I can just “fix,” which is awfully hard. When we can’t fix our child’s upset, what can we do?

hilltopI reached out to his guidance counselors, we are fortunate he actually has two. Both are skilled veterans who know their game, my son is quite lucky to have this built-in support. Because as I tried to cope with his upset, I struggled with nowhere to turn. I can’t go to the guidance office…or keep moaning in my blog…or to friends. After all, I’m grown up, I have to deal with it. I knew that going into this role.

So I scroll through social media, hoping for relief, and instead see all the parents who posted their smiling kids happy on the first day of school. That’s hard – I don’t have that picture to share. I spent most of the day watching the rain out the window, feeling quite a bit of despair.

this too shall pass

But somewhere between dropping him off and afternoon pick up, a miracle must have occurred. He was like a different kid. Oh sure he said school was terrible, but then proceeded to tell me ok things about his day. He wasn’t shut down or miserable, he talked the whole way home. This may be the first time he’s done this in months, or possibly even years.

I noticed the sun had just come out, it was shining through rain clouds. What a difference a day makes, or even a few hours. It’s amazing when there’s a ray of light. He did it…I can too.


The First Day Of The Rest Of Your Life Takes Guts

This past weekend Sir Husband and I found ourselves in a coffee shop in a little village at a high-top table in the center window, where we sipped iced coffee and watched the world stroll by. We also had great seats to watch a wedding at the big antique church across the street.

IMG_3069Guests for this event were dressed quite formally for a Saturday afternoon. We watched the bridal party of eight bridesmaids in their mint-green long dresses laughing and swinging their bouquets around while lining up to parade in, alongside eight groomsmen sporting their mint-green silk ties. We saw the bride get out of her limo and try to get up the old, tall wooden steps in her lacy white gown behind her hefty crew, a couple of gals in long dresses carrying her train.

This was a fun thing to see, but for me with some irony. This was the same church where I married Mr. Ex. I too, hauled myself and my lacy dress up those old wooden steps behind my bridesmaids and their groomsmen many years ago. But somehow it all seemed the same.

Sir Husband and I looked at each other and laughed – we’ve both been down this road before. And unfortunately when we did it, we weren’t marrying each other. We were each the 20-something bride and groom in big, formal church weddings marrying the completely wrong people. We both even semi-subconsciously knew it at the time, but we went through with it just the same. Yea, we were kind-of dumb.

So as we watched the pre-ceremony hoopla in the front of this beautiful church, with all the beautiful people, underneath a gorgeous blue sky on a perfect, sunny, late-summer day, we couldn’t help but be cynical.

This is the first day of the end of their marriage were the words that slipped out of our mouths. It’s all over after this. Sure the honeymoon will be fun, but then life will happen, and eventually it will all fall apart…… said hindsight. We laughed, although we weren’t trying for any bad karma, it just seemed reasonable to say.

IMG_3063When I got married at that very church, if I had only stopped it all right then.

Why do we make decisions when we know deep down they’re wrong? Marrying Mr. Ex wasn’t the first huge mistake, there was a long line of many more. Like staying married to him for years in spite of all the colossal problems.

We can’t really know what lies ahead when we make decisions in life. But we can tune in to our instinctual inner guidance system and let it help show us the way. There’s such a huge amount to navigate, why do we take it all on? If I only knew at the time that I was well-equipped to choose a new path…but I didn’t believe I was, and also refused to pay attention to the signs. I am certain that’s a huge part of the cause of divorce overall, we don’t listen to our guts.

It only took 30 years to finally marry the right man. Better late than never I say – and this time I knew it was right. Nobody can truly predict the future but we may have more control over our destiny than we realize. It all just depends on our view.


Marriage of My Dreams, In-Laws of My Nightmares

Should a mother-in-law be allowed in the delivery room? A roundtable discussion on the Today Show prickled up some spines. The answer is strictly personal, I had a couple of friends eating McDonald’s next to me when I delivered one of my boys. But my mother-in-law? No way. I’ve had two, neither of whom I adored. And the feeling is quite mutual, although the first one has since passed away.

All families have issues, sometimes personality mismatch is status quo. But occasionally it’s so extreme, defying all understanding, that we are left to assume there is some Divine lesson to be learned. Sir Husband and I pay attention to that. A few in our lives do not.

peas in a podEverybody’s got an in-law story, and they usually resonate the same: troublesome tale of two women and a poor man in the middle. But not in our case. We have three peas in a pod – Sir Husband’s mother, his ex and his sister united on a warpath of hatred and anger, against both him and me.

Many wives since the beginning of time use the old cliche, my mother-in-law is a piece of work. But can they say she disowned her son and his family because she loves her ex-daughter-in-law more and admits it? Ours is a wicked story of some unhappy fems who live from deep misery.

It goes something like this. A long time ago, a kind man with a good heart and sensible head lost his senses one day and on the rebound, married a woman he did not love. Shortly after they were married she revealed herself to be a broken soul, and manipulated him to the death to get anything she wanted.

He tried hard to stay with her, but his unhappiness grew. And his mother knew it too. She insisted he work even harder, so that is what he did. He never meandered out of their marriage, but longed for relief from his loveless misery so much that when he looked in the mirror every morning he hoped for cancer to die and get away. That’s pretty sad. Eventually he left. And his mother never forgave him.

That’s my mother-in-law. A not-so-lovely woman who decided that her son was not worth his own happiness. What kind of mother is that?

edgar allen poeBut that is only the beginning. I’ll leave out all the ugly gore – from hurt and harassment to helping alienate Sir Husband’s children from our lives – we now understand the meaning of “shunned.” No matter how hard we’ve tried to both communicate and understand, we are blatantly ignored and years later are still left shaking our heads.

So we’re done. At some point emotional toxicity just becomes too great, even when it’s family. We’ve worked hard to come to peace with it – nobody deserves this kind of treatment, especially from their own mother and in-law. It’s clear she’s got her own issues, that stem from something deep.

There are two great things that rule us. Love and fear. And we will do anything when under their spells. When people are triggered by their deepest fears they lash out, and project those fears onto the people who triggered them. It doesn’t excuse hurtful, hostile, abusive, violent actions, but it helps explain it. The problem is that living from fear comes with a terribly high price. Sir Husband’s father died of cancer at age 62.

I only knew my deceased father-in-law as the father of my high school best boy-friend a long time ago. Sir Husband and I go way back to years of really good times. In fact, we believe in angels, and think his father helped us reunite. We’re sure if he was still alive, he would welcome me now, and have some strong words with his wife.

It’s a shame my mother-in-law is so unhappy. And while we feel like we’ve lost some family, Sir Husband and I choose to live from love and not fear, which is infinitely a better spell.


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The Past Just Sometimes Hangs On

For a week we watched hearty men bundled up in winter work clothes take snow off of our neighbor’s roof and put a new roof on. Who does that in the winter, and amidst a few snow squalls.

The worst things seem to happen at the worst times, even when you know they’re coming. That roof has been disintegrating for two years. Every day more shingles fell off, exposing the 20-year-old worn structure underneath. If that were my roof I would be worried sick, and try to fix it fast.

It’s not a mystery that people hold on to things until the last dying gasp. Sometimes it’s a tattered, old shirt, sometimes it’s an unhealthy relationship, sometimes even a roof. It’s for reasons beyond the known, that we tend to hang on to the death – letting go can be quite hard.

But what about when what we’re hanging onto isn’t tangible, and we can’t just throw it away. What if it’s microcosms of invisible history that’s settled in our cells, altering our chemistry and even DNA. We don’t really want to hang onto them, but short of not being alive, these imprints are always there.

Sir Husband and I were in a favorite lunch spot, where Euro-style bakery meets New England cafe. Happy as a clam, I was enjoying a lovely lobster sandwich on this rare opportunity outing for the two of us. We had just dropped off my boy with his father, so we were celebrating the beginning of an empty-nest few days.

Then I received a text from my child, telling me that his dad had just unrolled a thousand dollars cash at a store where they were shopping. Without words I held the phone up to show Sir Husband the text. Sure, it was the dollar sign that took me back, Mr. Ex secretly gambled the children’s and my former lives away and broke more than just our bank. Being on the receiving end of someone else’s torment doesn’t always leave us, no matter how hard we try to let go.

I excused myself from the table and went to the ladies room. A BeeGees song was piping in, one I didn’t recall but knew. The Bee Gees are a Mr. Ex favorite, it was if the music was cued. I tried to stop the rush of my cells just popping alive. Can I really help this upset I wondered, in spite of his refusal to pay us back, I have moved on. But the rush of painful happenings just sprung right back to life, triggered and unresolved. Time, health and money are mysterious things, and when they’re taken it’s hard to forget.

I looked in the mirror and watched the tears stream down my face. I don’t want to live with this imprint anymore but it’s part of who I am. We can’t just erase our life in the face of who we are because of it – or the people who helped form it.

So I pulled myself together and got on with my day. Some stuff simply hangs on and maybe can’t be fixed at this exact moment in time. When the shingles fall, sometimes there’s nothing we can do except notice, and trust that we are just fine.

cat roof

Some Do Not Soften

I had a whole post going about friendship. I was feeling good about the friends I have, and the ones I had, even though I’m sad that so many were lost in the devastation of the past decade. I miss them, but as Rose Kennedy said, the pain doesn’t go away, it just softens. I’ve softened now and can feel gratitude with a smile for those times with them that were so wonderful. I can also smile about times that are yet to come with the small tribe I have, the besties who have stayed by my side, and some new faces too.

As I was thinking about that, and decorating the house for Halloween, and feeling good about the gorgeous fall day, the color gracing the trees outside our windows, and the warm apple cider donut that I devoured for lunch, I learned something creepy. And it made me feel kind of sick. And shaken.

Last night I had a conversation with my step-son on text. Or so I thought. We rarely hear from Sir Husband’s kids, their mother appears to have them on lockdown. It actually seems like a cult. But turns out it was not him texting me, we learned later it apparently was his mother texting as him. I wondered, he did not sound like himself.

When I found out I felt violated, and rightly so. The question is, what drives someone to live in such hatred and fear, so deep on their inside that they continually try to hurt others?

This is not something I can answer, but it’s the question where Sir Husband and I must live when it comes to the mother of his children.

There was recently a story in the national news about a father who at the moment of walking his daughter down the aisle for her wedding, stopped, went to the front row and took the hand of his daughter’s step-father, and asked him to walk their daughter down the aisle together. He said that anyone who chooses to love someone else’s children as their own deserves unending respect.

Wow, imagine that. Incredible and wonderful, and true. I love Sir Husband’s children, and he loves mine. He is helping raise mine. But he isn’t allowed to raise or even talk to his own, nor am I, nor is my family, according to their mother. How incredibly sad. And wrong.

I’ve worked hard to move beyond all of the horror her own inner torment has caused. The police reinforcement we had, the bullying, the assaults, the psychological mind games, the nanny cam, the phone tapping, the inability to leave the house with ease. I had learned to separate myself from the craziness, so did not need another dose of it.

Now is the time to disengage. I need to harness my strength, my power, my goodness, and rise above the insanity. But sometimes it’s hard. I still wonder about my safety and Sir Husband’s, even from afar. I hoped that we were now free. We’re not. I hoped she was done. Seems not.

Maybe someday I will be able to laugh when I learn I’m not talking to who I think I am, and instead to a ghost from my past. After all, that is how we know when we are healed from old wounds.

But unfortunately this isn’t our past, and I cried. Softness doesn’t always shield hurt. So I’ll write about friendship another time.

His Bravery is Beyond Words

Why don’t you write about me?  Sir Husband asks occasionally.

“I’m not sure I’m ready. What would I say?” I always reply.

I don’t know, I guess you will know when you know.

Although he’s the love and light of my life, it isn’t often that I write about Sir Husband and his path or plight with the characters in his sordid tale. It’s easy for me to say he’s a sweet man, kind-hearted, a gentle soul, of course I say that, I love him, he is a knight to me, in this lifetime, and others.

He is also the most courageous man I know, surviving what many men might not. He has been and still is being judged, persecuted, and burned at the stake for just trying to be happy.

I share his words with hesitancy, because the situation is beyond comprehension. But it’s real and it’s vital. And it’s time.

People I have known all my life, who were close to me, even my own family, were so quick to drop me. I don’t understand how they could immediately, in seemingly one day, align with someone who went from saying how much she loved me to saying things so dreadful and drastic that lifelong friends and family would completely turn on me and literally shun me and outwardly persecute me. It makes no sense. 

And how could anyone – especially my own family – ever support someone taking a good father’s children completely out of his life, and a good father out of the children’s lives? It just makes no sense. What incredible lies has she made up in her own mind and shared with others that they would actually believe and not only support but encourage to this day?  

It’s been nearly seven years now. And it has not let up.

Sir Husband has no access to his children. He has been fully parentally alienated, even from his own family, in the true sense of the words. Not only have we done more than we could ever try to do to combat this dreadful situation, we are also more than done being hung on someone else’s crucifix.

I have written before about Scary Mrs. Ex and her unilateral decision – executed with what appears as her own twisted authority, power, money and blackmail – to completely remove Sir Husband’s children from his life, and mine. It’s hard to understand why someone would punish her children so much, when there is no other crime than a father not loving their mother and choosing a life of happiness and joy (he is entitled to by the laws of life,) that would and should include the kids.

But it goes way beyond that. To be a mother and a person who punishes with such vengeance that Sir Husband and I, and my very own children, would need protection, and to get away with all of it in a biased judicial system – where you can only defend yourself if you can afford it – is unfathomable. No one could possibly understand the difficulty of trying to cope with what feels like someone else’s lunacy, and seemingly being the head-on targets of their deep inner pain.

It’s so very easy to sit on the outside, reading, looking in and saying things like, “Why didn’t he do this, or that…Why doesn’t he just…But it makes no sense, I don’t understand.”

And that is correct. It makes no sense, and we don’t understand.

When we read or hear about other people’s personal tragedies with ex-spouses and with children and custody, we may think we know the answers. Or we may have a sense of detached disregard for their personal truths. All I can say is, we have no idea what is going on in other people’s lives, as much as we think we might know or believe.

That’s what it comes down to, belief. Who do you believe. And we can have our own opinions, but I say it again with conviction. We do not know anything about other people’s lives, until we have not only walked in someone else’s shoes, but been inside of their skin, their minds, their hearts. We have done more than we could ever try to do to combat this dreadful situation.

So enough talking about it. There are no answers but one.

A soul’s journey is not to be understood, but to be travelled. Our connections to other souls are only a part of that path. It is the connection to ourselves at the core, at the source, to our spirit and our true selves, that is to guide us with light, with hope, and with love.

We are that love, we just have to live it. No matter what.

The Little Wooden Box

The great clean out of our house – per The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up – revealed many things that straddled the fence between keep or ditch. The point was to eliminate anything in the house that does not bring joy by owning it. Two marriages and five kids later, there was a lot of stuff that was easily identifiable as joyful, and a lot of stuff that wasn’t.

But it also revealed something else – the items that did not feel like they belonged to us. So in the spirit of returning these less-than-joy-eliciting items to their rightful owner, in this case Mr. Ex, I started a giant bag with his name on it.

As I went through items one by one, surrounded by piles on the floor, his stack grew. Old photographs with his smiling mug, DVDs, music CDs, art projects the kids made, frames, books, and yes, even our old wedding invitation made the cut. While I packed it up, I wondered what he would think of it. But I almost didn’t care, because these were really his items too, ones that made it onto my divorce moving truck at the time. It felt right to give them back.

I thought his Mrs. would get a kick out of the big bag of goodies, and I even put in a few things I thought she might like for her current life with my former husband. Instead, I learned a week later, she was a little miffed by my bag of what she called crap, and wondered why I didn’t just give it away.

I did. To her. And it wasn’t really crap, as she soon found out.

I didn’t know she thought it was crap of course, until she texted me to ask me what the significance was of the small, hinged, wooden and glass decorative box in the bag. There was no significance, other than I went back and forth trying to decide if it brought me joy or not. It was interesting that she texted me about that item, there were many things in the big bag. But this one I had wrestled with. I put it in the bag, then took it out. Then put it in, then took it out – which goes against the KonMari method in the book. I finally realized after several days that it felt to me like it belonged to her.

When I told her there was no significance, other than after much deliberation I just thought it should go to her, she found that interesting.

Turns out his Mrs. has her own blog, that she reluctantly shared with me, and she had blogged about the box.

“Don’t be judgey,” she said when she sent me the link.

I don’t judge, I really don’t.

The post was about the “bag of crap,” and how after a few hours she realized how important all of the things were to her husband. The crap was now memorabilia. Mr. Ex looked at everything and reminisced, and smiled, and laughed, and enjoyed the surprises as he took them out one by one. But he didn’t recognize the little wooden and glass box. His Mrs. said she would take it.

A short time ago she had inherited an old jar of seashells from my former and her now deceased mother-in-law. She took the shells out of the dirty, old jar and put them one by one in the little wooden and glass box, where they fit perfectly.  She loved it and referred to it as “co-mingled memories” on her blog. She even called the bag of crap a treasure bag.

She sent me a picture of the box and its contents on a text, and I loved it. I don’t have room in my life for discord anymore, of any kind. It takes too much energy and life-force.  During that exchange, I thought for one minute about the past, all the trauma and drama, not forgotten but not so important. I actually smiled when I thought about the man so happy with all the memorabilia, it was nothing for me to pack it up and send a little joy their way.

I thought about that little box today when I walked pass my square, clear glass vase of shells and colorful sea glass Sir Husband and I have collected here. It brings me so much joy. Co-mingled memories mean the most.

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