As my regular readers know, I’m big on positive co-parenting to ensure your kids come out the other side of divorce as unscathed as possible.
I miss out on sainthood because I write a daily blog that expresses occasional displeasure with the way my marriage ended.
But, apart from that, I reckon I’ve been pretty bloody reasonable. That’s why it startles me when someone sprays bile about the way I’ve handled things.
It’s fascinating how people decide they know what went down and have their snarky say when they actually have NO idea.
But that’s not what this blog post is about.
Well, not exactly.
It IS about how divorce can bring out the worst in people.
Fortunately, my ex and I realised that while we no longer loved each other we were still crazy about our kids. Preserving their happiness was our primary goal.
So we were very civilised about splitting up our assets.
We didn’t drag it through the courts. We didn’t pull dirty tricks. We chose to be grown-ups and remember who the kids were.
I’ve never thought the world owes me anything for the hit my bank balance took when I became a single mum.
So, when my husband left I found a job and got on with it.
I don’t expect someone to come along and save me. I know – hard as it might be – that I need to save myself.
So I was shocked when I got back from my recent holiday and someone suggested DD was supporting my lifestyle.
My largely dormant feminist heart started beating wildly.
I say largely dormant because I have trouble processing the concept that anyone would think you are a lesser human because of the sex organ between your legs.
That’s just plain STUPID.
Mind you, it’s been a little harder to ignore than usual this week following Donald Trump’s appointment of a white supremacist who wants to remove women’s rights as one of his main advisers, but I intend to forge onwards, undaunted and proud of my gender.
Actually … now I’m on a ranty roll … that’s another reason why women who pull poor, helpless me stunts during divorces piss me off because if you CAN, pull your weight and don’t treat men like ATMs.
[Amendment following a few upset comments: OF COURSE your ex should pay child support and take care of his kids. That’s a given. It isn’t treating him as an ATM, it’s doing the right thing. And if you can’t contribute financially because you’re having trouble finding work or have other issues working against you, then that’s totally understandable too.]
Aaaaand, that brings me back to the concept of DD being my lifestyle supporter. Forget that, he has enough on his plate.
Sure, we’ve had a few holidays, but we generally lead a pretty modest life: swims at the beach, steak on his deck, a glass of wine on the couch.
And we take care of each other. A small example: I bought a bottle of red wine and cooked pasta and meatballs for our dinner on Sunday night, he bought me brekkie on Monday morning on our way to work.
I miss never having to worry about money, but I’m philosophical about the way the world turns. I’m rich emotionally. I feel occasional nostalgia for the days when I could go on shopping sprees, but that’s no longer my reality … something I realised when a friend who lives overseas asked me to recommend a good Aussie shopping site and I had no idea what to suggest because that’s no longer my world.
Travel, paying bills and slooooowly schmicking up my house are my priorities and its up to me to fund them.
The rest is a nice-to-have rather than a must-have.
My kids take packed lunches to school every day, we occasionally go out to a cheap and cheerful restaurant (when we were overseas they were restricted to 12 euros and under meals on the menus) and I’ve developed a healthy appreciation for hand-me-downs.
That’s my reality, well, unless I win the latest yourtown lottery. It’s a CORKER – a gorgeous house beside the beach at Kingscliff. The youngest and I are totally OBSESSED …
Rant over. Anything you’d like to get off your chest?
Song of the day: The Pretenders “I’ll stand by you”
PS I made the stroganoff meatballs, adding in a little chilli and tomato paste. They were YUMMY, if not entirely photogenic (damn you sour cream) …