An insight into the first year after my divorce

In the beginning, there was a strange kind of euphoria: we’re broken up, we’re really going to do it. No more annoyances, no more frustration, no more energy-guzzling discussions. We decided to let go of each other and to do that as best we could for the children. But exactly what my new life as a single mother would look like: I had no idea. The divorce itself was such a big step, so drastic, that I had to focus all my attention on the moment itself. Looking ahead is useless anyway if you jump in at the deep end, but a year after the divorce I can look back on all the first times I experienced.

The first time we tell

(And my mother-in-law’s cold look)

We want to share the message that we are getting a divorce to our brothers, sisters and parents. After all, it also impacts their lives and the things we took for granted. We take the children to a babysitter and in one day we drive criss-cross the country for what we later call the Tour de non amour. It is clear that it is not a picnic. Disappointment, surprise, sadness. But also coldness – in the eyes of his mother. I don’t think I’ve ever fallen off my pedestal so quickly as on that sunny summer day in my in-laws’ backyard. I had a good relationship with my mother-in-law. She looked after our children, was warm and attentive. I, in turn, was as exemplary as possible as a daughter-in-law, and not unsuccessful. But everything she boasted about to her old-fashioned chic friends—working full-time, traveling so much, having a creative profession—is now suddenly the Source of All Evil. “Do you know a lot of divorced people?” she asks angrily, as if I’ve caught an exotic virus from crazy friends in the capital. “You shouldn’t have let her go so free,” she tells her son, who thankfully reacts very indignantly to so many Fifties in one tirade. She speaks indelible words: “I have loved you like a daughter, that is now over for good”. Wow. You don’t get divorced alone, it turns out. There is a lot of collateral damage.

The first wave of guilt

(in the gym, of course)

The kids, the kids, the kids. Of course those words keep running through my head, from the first doubt to the final decision. But honestly, I’m very rational. Survival position is a party for the sensible left hemisphere. ‘It will be fine’. ‘We arrange it very nicely for them’. ‘There are so many children with divorced parents who function well’. No need to panic. But even though I’m sorting it out in my head—my motherhood, this situation, their future—below the surface, a reservoir of guilty tear fluid waits for momentum. I can feel that clearly, and yet I can’t quite reach it. It therefore seems sensible to me and shows a balanced and healthy character that I do not ignore my perhaps suppressed feelings about this, but look straight in the eye. The coast seems to me a perfect backdrop for an emotional breakthrough. So I go to sea. I choose a windy day, because I want the whole shebang: foam cups on the waves, hair flowing, my lonely footsteps in the wet sand. I walk against the wind. It’s cold and unpleasant, but my jacket is comfortable. My mind keeps wandering to Not Bad Things. That’s why I think extra hard about neglected kittens and people who are no longer there. Nothing comes. No tear. After an hour I give up on my emotions and flee to a beach club for hot chocolate and a well-thumbed reading folder. However I want to feel my feelings in the weeks that follow, real breakthroughs have their own agenda. One random evening I lie on a mat, staring at the gray desolation of the suspended ceiling of a gym. For a relaxation exercise, the lights are dimmed, the pumping beats replaced by a weak song. It’s about love, I hear. Which passes. I feel my tense muscles relax, and something inside sees its chance: the tears are streaming down my cheeks. My body is shaking with grief. Debt. It overwhelms me. And of all the poetic places and moments, just like that, suddenly, in f*cking SportCity. The kids, the kids, the kids.

The first time in the schoolyard

(and the shameless questions)

Since we decide to split up in the middle of the summer, you can safely say that our answer to the First School Day Evergreen ‘And how was the holiday?’ unexpectedly sensational. The hope that the tom-tam would do its job during the holidays and that the news of the divorce will be old news, turns out to be slightly naive. The first time in the schoolyard turns out to be the starting signal for a weeks-long inquisition. We both suddenly have a lot of new ‘friends’ who like to catch up. Or maybe one of us has another. Or the fights were really bad. Do we still talk to each other? Whether the children are very defeated. No, no, yes, no. Because I don’t want to be ungrateful for the interest shown, I initially answer as transparently as possible. But there is only a thin layer of compassion over the sensationalism. This is also apparent at get-togethers and birthdays: I learn to distinguish between thoughtful and shameless questions and become a master of evasive answers. At a certain point I so desperately want my divorce back where it belongs: in my head, in my heart, in my family. It feels like my life is being held hostage. Before you know it, you’re sitting with the neighbor’s niece or the mother of a boyfriend’s boyfriend outlining the entire family situation. Especially questions about our future – where are you going to live, where is he going to live, how are you going to do with the children, what if he will have another one – I am getting more and more annoyed. No, I have no idea what the future will look like exactly. BUT YOU DON’T HAVE THAT TOO! I want to scream after it manically.

The first children’s birthday

(and a big hug from my ex)

A few months after the break-up, our oldest son will be seven. The fact that he gets a Nintendo as a birthday present and not an expansion set of responsible Kaplahoutjes is entirely due to our stubborn intention that he will have a very nice birthday. The best ever, preferably. I wait to give the present until his father arrives. His “Yoooo, you’re not serious!” when unpacking is therefore like ointment on our worries. We just have to figure out how we’re going to handle this. Celebrating separately felt crazy – with the party at school, the after-school care, the party and two separate parents it would be a disproportionate affair. Moreover, the dust is falling and we as exes get along quite well. So we invite both families and some friends, I emphatically send an extra heartfelt text to a friend with a newborn baby (babies neutralize almost any social discomfort in groups). It’s all a bit too cheerful, too smooth, too much to watch us do this very docke – but when the last guest leaves the door, there’s a high five. We put the kids to bed together. When I grab my bag to leave, there’s a tight hug as a goodbye. That way you don’t have to look at each other.

The first month of December

(and the overdose of other people’s family happiness)

If you like to feel the pain of separation for a while, then December is certainly the most wonderful time of the year. Radio stations, advertising brochures, baby Jesus himself – everything and everyone seems to conspire to convince you that nothing is more natural and desirable than a good time with the whole family. The arrival of Sinterklaas is the warm-up. It falls on my weekend and I just have to go there, I get that. There are times when you have to be bigger than the scratch on your soul, even if that means overdosing on someone else’s family happiness. I look straight past the young parents with buggies and distract the attention of children on their father’s neck – look, pepernoten, look, Piet! I feel alone and I am also very aware of it. God, how happy I am when it turns out that I am positioned extremely strategically, exactly where Sinterklaas enters the square. My kids are about the first to shake hands with him. And we are one of the first to quickly walk back home. We decide to have brunch with the four of us on Christmas Day, before he takes the children to his family. Boxing Day is then for me and my family. At two o’clock I watch from the kitchen window as the children get into the back of his car. They look cute in their smart jackets. They wave and shout ‘bye!’ and later!’. Then it’s quiet. “Come to us,” a friend had said. There were invitations. But the only thing that seemed more uncomfortable to me than Christmas alone was spending that day with another family tree, without my own genetic reproductions. So I’m hosting a Christmas dinner with Captain Iglo and Don Draper, in a long, hot bath. On New Year’s Eve I take them to my small piedàterre in the city. We go to friends who open their doors every year for a good party. All the children – every year there are more – sleep upstairs. Everyone takes a little extra care of us, as casual as possible, but I can see it. My friends are sweet. Everything is going smoothly, it’s great fun, but I decline the invitation to stay there for the night. Under the dark sky that lights up every now and then, a friend helps me lift two sleepy heads into the car. The three of us drive at a snail’s pace to my house. With one child over my shoulder and the other drunk in front of me, I stumble up the three narrow stairs and put them in the bed where I always sleep alone. I crawl in between them. They immediately go back to sleep. Not me, squeezed between two warm, breathable bodies. I grab their hands. My guys. My team. I am suddenly so proud and satisfied.

This story previously appeared on Kekmama.nl.

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